Blackouts hit the western camps without warning. Lights flickered once, twice, then died across the rows of shelters. People stumbled out into the dim glow of crystal veins that pulsed under the ground.
The hybrid roots had grown stronger overnight. They fed on more than resources now. They fed on focus, on order, on the need to make everything perfect.
Kael felt it in his chest, a low pull that made his hands itch to straighten the crooked tent flap nearby. He ignored it and kept moving toward the central gathering point. Shouts already echoed from the edges of the district.
A group of residents had gathered around an old man named Thorne. He stood tall despite his age, voice carrying clear over the murmurs.
"We fed the beast and it turned on us," Thorne said. "The crystal roots promised balance. Instead they eat our minds. Burn them before they take our souls."
