Nivara’s fingers, trembling from the deep, burning ache in her chest, tightened around the Moon-Brier. Myco’s faint whimpers reached her, a fragile sound from the small pouch at her side. The little spore-fox, a cluster of shimmering teal and violet light, was fading. Its glow had dimmed to a dull pulse, its usual playful flickers replaced by a sluggish throb. Her own body felt like a crucible. Each shallow inhalation was a grating scrape, the black ash hardening within her, pressing against her ribs as if trying to splinter them. Yet, the image of Myco, vibrant and alive, surged through her mind. The creature had been her only constant, her reason for every reckless gamble. With a ragged gasp, Nivara tore a fragment from the glowing root. Her hand shook so violently she almost dropped it, but she forced it towards the small opening of the pouch. “Myco,” she rasped, her voice thick with ash and pain. “Here.” The spore-fox, sensing the proximity of the potent cure, stirred. Its tiny head, usually crowned with a shimmering aura, lifted weakly. Nivara gently nudged the root fragment between its delicate jaws. The bioluminescent light within Myco pulsed erratically for a moment, then, with startling speed, began to brighten. The dull throb transformed into a vibrant, energetic shimmer. A soft, clear chirp escaped Myco, a sound of renewed life that echoed in the silent, fog-choked mire. Relief, sharp and sudden, pierced through Nivara’s agony. Myco was saved. She felt it, a profound sense of completion, even as her own body began to fail her. The crystallizing pressure in her lungs intensified, a suffocating vice. Her knees buckled. The Moon-Brier, still clutched in her hand, slipped from her weakening grasp, falling with a soft plash into the ash-mud. Her vision swam. The world tilted violently. A searing cough ripped through her, a guttural, wet sound that wrenched her entire frame. Black ash, thick and viscous, spewed from her lips, splattering onto the damp earth like obsidian rain. It coated her tongue, bitter and acrid, as another spasm shook her, more ash following, a torrent of rot and decay. Tavrok, a hulking shadow, was instantly beside her. A low, desperate whine rumbled in his chest. His massive paws nudged her, frantic, confused. He dipped his head, sniffing at the black ichor pooling around her, his ears flattened in distress. His usually piercing gaze, though still feral, was filled with a raw, agonizing fear. “Valda!” A voice, sharp and laced with disdain, cut through the mist. The watchman. His boots squelched through the muck, his outline growing clearer, his thin face twisted with a mixture of revulsion and triumph. He stopped a few paces away, his gaze sweeping from the dying physician to the distressed beast. “So the High-Physician’s grand excursion ends in a swampy demise. I expected nothing less, Valda.” He bared yellowed teeth, sneering into the fog. But the sneer died on his lips. Tavrok’s whine intensified, morphing into a guttural snarl that shook the very air. His body began to contort. A shriek of tearing muscle, a wet crack of bone, exploded from his form. His fur bristled, then receded, patches of raw, red skin emerging. His limbs elongated, joints popping with sickening reports. The monstrous head drew inward, features shifting, becoming grotesquely human-like, yet still feral, still twisted by the curse. He was growing, shedding his beastly hide with agonizing slowness, his monstrous essence fighting against the shift. It was a transformation of raw agony, each snap of bone echoing against the dead boughs as terror drove the change. The watchman stumbled back, his skin graying, a choke rattling in his throat. “By the Fane…” Tavrok, now a towering, grotesque parody of a man, stood over Nivara. His skin was mottled, still covered in remnants of coarse, dark fur, his limbs disproportionately long and powerful. His eyes, though human-shaped, glowed with an unnerving, amber light, pupils narrowed to predatory slits. He was a creature of nightmare, caught between forms. He emitted a low, throaty growl, a sound of desperate warning, his gaze fixed on the watchman. The watchman swallowed, his bravado gone. He raised his palms. “Alpha… wait. You don’t understand. If she dies…” He gestured at Nivara, who lay convulsing, a thin stream of black ash still trickling from her mouth. “If the Anchor dies, the tether breaks. You’ll be lost. Completely. No turning back. Every beast in the Manse, every Vorga in the Mournvel, will follow your madness. The continent… it will be nothing but a bloody charnel house. You will slaughter everyone.” The words, though delivered with a trembling fear, pierced through Nivara’s hazy consciousness. Not just Myco. Not just her. Tavrok. The Alpha. If she died, he would be unleashed, a mindless engine of destruction, laying waste to Olturya. This wasn’t about survival anymore. This was about more than just her life or her stolen identity. The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow, even as her body failed. She couldn’t run. She couldn’t just save Myco and vanish. She had to break this curse. For Tavrok. For the world. Tavrok, his colossal hand trembling, reached for her. His rough, calloused fingers, still half-clawed, gently brushed her cheek. His glowing eyes, now filled with an ancient, unbearable sorrow, locked onto hers. He lowered his head, pressing his forehead against her ash-streaked brow, and a rasping whisper, thick with centuries of silence and pain, escaped him: “The heart of the rot… the first drop of blood.”

Ash in the Lungs