She pulled a knife from her belt. The blade was curved. Obsidian. The edge caught the glow from the floor and reflected it back in pulses. She cut her palm without flinching. The blood welled up and dripped onto the stone. Where it fell, the mycelium flared. Bright white. Like lightning caught in the rock.
Kaelen knelt and pressed his hands to the floor. He pushed his will into the roots. The network thrummed beneath him. It was awake now. Not fully, but stirring. The threads uncurled. They reached for him. For Aresa. For the blood she had offered.
"Speak the words," she said. "The ones from the crypt. Speak them and push."
Kaelen opened his mouth. The language came out rough. The syllables were old. Older than the city. Older than the sea. The words were like stones grinding together. They had weight. They had shape. They carved themselves into the air and hung there.
