Dawn broke reluctantly. The sky was a dull smear of shifting clouds, streaked with a sickly green that didn't belong to any season Nyxia recognized. Birds stayed silent. Even the wind held itself still, caught in that eerie pause the world took before something went wrong. Nyxia tightened the straps of her satchel and drew her hood low, trying to ignore the way her ribs still ached under the weight. Loque padded beside her, his glow muted, as if the morning light itself had turned wary of touching him. Behind them the Sanctuary's marble steps faded into the mist, leaving them exposed beneath the dark canopy that marked the path toward the Rotfang Thickets.
Perseus trailed a few steps behind, staff in hand. The sigils etched along the wood glimmered faintly, catching every shift in the air. "Haven't seen skies like this since the Blightwinds," he murmured, almost to himself. "Rot in the clouds. You feel it too?" Nyxia didn't slow. "Feels like it's crawling under my skin." The forest changed around them as they walked: gnarled trees bending inward, their trunks leaking dark sap; leaves sagging, heavy with decay; fungal clusters pulsing faintly, like they were breathing. It felt less like entering a forest and more like stepping into the ribs of something old and hungry.
Hours passed before Perseus muttered about "corpse-mushrooms" and their unholy stench. Nyxia almost smiled. But then the thicket ahead rustled—a deep, wrong sound. Her bow was drawn before thought caught up. Loque vanished into the brush in a shimmer. What stumbled out was… not an enemy. A tall, wiry man clutching a massive plant with spiny blue bulbs hugged against his chest like a beloved child. He blinked up at them, bewildered. "Oh! You're not a corpse-flower," he announced. Nyxia's expression flattened immediately. "Depends who's asking."
Perseus exhaled a reluctant laugh. "Nyx, meet Gleam. Botanist. Forest exile. Fungal hoarder." Gleam lifted a finger. "Symbiote host. Thank you." He brushed leaf-mold from his beard and rambled about spores and groves and the indignity of being ignored by every druidic circle in existence. Then his gaze fell on Loque, who had just reappeared in the shadows. Gleam squeaked. "Light save me—is that THE Loque'nahak?" Loque bared his teeth gently, and Gleam froze mid-reach. "Right. Admire from afar." Nyxia lowered her bow. "You're the guide?" Gleam puffed his chest. "I am the guide. And we're not taking the main path." Perseus groaned softly. Gleam pointed toward a sloping glade of steaming bog water and bones. "We're taking the wet one." Nyxia looked at Perseus. "You owe me for this." He sighed. "I know."
The bog sucked at their boots, each step pulled down by warm, foul water. Sunken ruins sank deeper into the marsh with every ripple. Vines slithered along broken stone, twitching when touched. Rot clung to the air thickly, a sticky metallic tang that made Nyxia's throat tighten. Gleam stopped abruptly, his goggles fogged over. "This wasn't here before," he whispered. Nyxia followed his gaze to a half-buried structure, its ribs curving like a spine breaching the swamp. Fungus bloomed around it in sickly petals—flesh-colored, nearly human. Loque stiffened, a low rumble deep in his chest.
Then… a song drifted through the trees. Soft. Childlike. Not carried by any throat Nyxia could imagine. We grow where they fed… we feed where they bled… Gleam backed up so fast he tripped. "No, no, no—this is where they died." The petals cracked open like jaws. Dryads crawled out—or things that used to be dryads. Their bark-flesh sagged in strips, their slender limbs twisted into hooked branches. Antlers crawled with vines and maggots. Their eyes were gone, replaced by dark hollows oozing spores. They moved with a slow coordination that felt rehearsed. Predatory.
One lunged first. Perseus braced and took the hit head-on, shield locking with a boom that cracked the earth. Radiance flared, burning the creature's bark, but it kept pushing. Nyxia slipped aside, already firing—an arrow tore one's face open, splitting it clean. It kept coming anyway, leaking black ichor that hissed when it hit the ground. Loque burst into motion, slamming two together and ripping through rot-flesh with savage precision. The sound was wet, tearing, obscene.
Another dryad unfolded its belly like a cloak. Inside were mouths—dozens—tiny and writhing. It lunged at Nyxia. She barely had time to raise her dagger before Perseus intercepted, shoving it aside and driving his blade in hard. It spasmed, shrieking, but still writhed long after the skull cracked open. More came. So many more.
Loque grew darker with every kill, soaked in rot and ichor. Perseus fought like a storm in human form—his armor cracking under the dryads' blows, yet his light blazing fiercer each time they struck. The creatures didn't fall until Nyxia shot through their spines, snapping the strange pulsing cord that animated them. But then the ground shook. The largest dryad stepped from the ruined structure.
She towered above them, built from fused bodies—druids, elves, something human. Her eyes were sewn shut with shining thread. Her hair wriggled—organs mixed with wilted black flowers. When she opened her arms, the forest screamed. Roots erupted upward, impaling Gleam before he finished his breath. He tore in half, quietly, like cloth. Nyxia's scream caught in her throat.
Perseus charged, and she knew instantly it was too soon. Too dangerous. She fired three arrows—each sank into the creature's flesh, swallowed whole. His shield collided with her chest, light flaring. Bark cracked. She howled. Then she hit him. Perseus flew backward through a stone arch and vanished beneath the swamp water. Something in Nyxia broke. She spun toward the monstrosity. Loque flickered beside her, form dimming, injured, fading. She clutched her bone knife tight enough her hand shook. Her heart hammered so loud she could barely hear her own breath. She wasn't making it out of this. But she wasn't going to die alone. The creature lunged. Everything went black.