Kaelen stood on the palisade. Wind whipped at his worn jerkin. Below, Oakhaven huddled against the encroaching wild. Smoke plumed from hearths, a fragile sign of life. Grey light bled across the Sundered Marches. His awareness hummed. A low thrum, like a distant, frantic heartbeat. Not the usual ambient static of time. This was focused. Intense. It pulsed from the west, beyond the old watchtower, towards the abandoned stone quarry. The quarry. Source of Oakhaven’s meager stone. It had been mostly picked clean. Only a few hardy souls ventured there now for stubborn veins of slate. A dangerous place, even before the blight. Now, the hum sharpened. Not a whisper of a past event. No echo of a future choice. It was a *speed*. An impossible acceleration. A decay speeding up, devouring itself. Kaelen clenched his jaw. He knew this feeling. The creeping blight. But this felt different. More predatory. More active. He descended the rough-hewn stairs. His boots scraped stone. The common hall buzzed with morning activity. The smell of stale hearth smoke and brewing herbal tea hung heavy. “Steward,” Roric, Captain of the Watch, nodded. His face was a roadmap of scars. “Supplies are low on dried meat. The last hunting party returned with little. The elk are scarce, pushed further north.” Kaelen felt a dull ache behind his eyes. Another problem. Always another problem. “Roric,” Kaelen began, his voice quiet. “The quarry.” Roric’s brow furrowed. “Aye? What of it? Joris hasn’t taken a crew there in a fortnight. Too risky for too little gain. The blight-growths are thick on the paths.” “It’s not the growths,” Kaelen corrected. “It’s what they’re doing. Or *how* they’re doing it. The speed.” Roric grunted. “Speed? It’s a blight, Steward. It spreads. Slow, steady. Gnaws at the edges of the wild.” He picked at a loose thread on his tunic. “We know its pace.” “This isn’t the pace you know.” Kaelen moved closer to the worn map table. Oakhaven was a smudge in the center. The quarry a rough circle a mile west. “The usual surveys are weeks old. My… instinct tells me something’s changed. Dramatically.” Instinct. Kaelen hated using the word. It sounded vague, unproven. But Roric had learned to trust it. Kaelen’s ‘hunches’ had found hidden water sources, predicted bandit movements, even unearthed a cache of ancient tools once. Roric studied Kaelen’s face. “Dramatically, you say?” He tapped the map. “That quarry isn’t just stone, Steward. It’s a natural choke point. If something serious brews there…” His voice trailed off. “It’s more than brewing,” Kaelen stated. “It’s boiling over. I need a small party. Now. To scout. See what the blight is truly doing.” Roric hesitated. “The men are stretched thin. And the west path is dangerous. But…” He sighed. “Very well. Four guards. Strong arms. And myself.” “No, Roric. Just you. And Joris, if he’s available. Fewer eyes, less disturbance. We need to be quick, quiet.” Kaelen knew his time-sense was often fragile. Too many variables could cloud it. Joris, the Quarrymaster, was a man of few words and calloused hands. He agreed reluctantly. “Stone’s good for building, Steward, not for fighting phantoms.” “Let’s hope they’re phantoms,” Kaelen replied. He gathered his own gear. A sturdy hatchet, a short sword, a waterskin. His usual attire offered little protection, but he preferred mobility. He felt exposed, always. He hated the sword’s weight. --- The path to the quarry was overgrown. Twisted vines, dark and brittle, snaked across the ground. The forest here seemed dimmer. Fewer birdsong. An oppressive stillness. The air grew heavier, thick with a damp, earthy odor. “Doesn’t feel right,” Joris grumbled. He walked with a heavy gait, his quarryman’s pickaxe slung over his shoulder. “Too quiet. Even the insects aren’t buzzing.” Roric, ever watchful, drew his own short sword. He moved silently, eyes scanning the skeletal trees. “The blight usually leaves some life behind. Twisted, but still moving.” Kaelen focused on the hum. It grew louder here. A frantic, desperate pulse. The speed of decay, the acceleration, it vibrated through the very soles of his feet. This wasn't just a sick patch of land. This was a festering wound. They reached the ridge overlooking the quarry. The sight stole Kaelen’s breath. It wasn’t just blight-growths. The entire quarry floor was alive. A churning, sickly green mass. Like a monstrous, unnatural bloom. It pulsed with a bioluminescent glow, faint but undeniable. From the green mass, forms struggled to rise. Crude, shambling shapes. They were made of rock, but not just rock. Corrupted stone. Veins of the glowing green energy laced through their bodies. They moved with a jerky, uncertain motion, like newborns learning to walk. “What in the Marches is that?” Joris whispered, his usual stoicism replaced by a raw horror. He gripped his pickaxe white-knuckled. Roric's face was grim. “Blight-constructs. I’ve heard rumors. Never seen them. Thought they were just tales to scare initiates.” The hum in Kaelen’s mind became a deafening roar. The speed. This was it. The blight wasn't just consuming. It was *birthing*. A new, more aggressive form. One of the constructs, larger than the others, turned its head. It had no eyes, but Kaelen felt its gaze. A sensation of pure, blind hunger. It let out a grinding, scraping sound. A battle cry of stone and decay. “Back!” Kaelen yelled. “We need to fall back. This is no scouting mission.” Too late. The creatures moved faster than their clumsy appearance suggested. The largest one charged the ridge. Its massive, rock-hard limbs thudded against the ground. “Run, Steward!” Roric pushed Kaelen back, drawing his sword fully. “I’ll slow them!” Kaelen knew this was folly. These weren’t animals. They were unthinking constructs, born of pure blight. They felt no pain, knew no fear. He drew his own short sword. The blade felt feather-light, useless against rock. Joris, with a roar of fury, swung his pickaxe. It connected with a construct’s shoulder. Sparks flew. A chunk of corrupted rock splintered off. The creature paused, then continued its relentless advance, ignoring the damage. “Their core!” Kaelen shouted, an idea flashing through his mind. His ripple had shown him *speed*, *decay*. Not resilience. There had to be a weakness. “The glowing veins! Aim for the light!” Roric plunged his sword into the glowing green line that ran down a construct’s chest. The construct shuddered. Its movements slowed. A faint wail, like grinding stone, emanated from it. Then, with a sickening crack, it crumbled to dust. “That’s it!” Roric yelled. “The heart of it!” But more were coming. They swarmed the ridge. Kaelen swung his hatchet, embedding it into a smaller construct's leg. He pulled it free, a faint green dust clinging to the blade. It felt…wrong. Infectious. A large construct slammed into Joris. The quarryman cried out. His pickaxe flew from his grasp. The creature’s rough 'hand' caught Joris’s arm. The skin blistered and blackened instantly. “Joris!” Roric roared, slicing at the construct’s core. It dissolved, but not before its touch had done its damage. “We must go!” Kaelen grabbed Joris’s good arm. The quarryman was pale, his teeth gritted in agony. The blackened patch on his arm was spreading. Roric covered their retreat. He fought with brutal efficiency, targeting the glowing cores. But for every construct he felled, two more seemed to rise from the pulsing green mass below. They scrambled back up the path, leaving the quarry behind. The grinding sounds of the constructs followed them. Kaelen could still feel the hum, now laced with an unbearable pressure. The blight was no longer merely creeping. It was marching. --- They burst into Oakhaven, ragged and panting. Joris collapsed near the gate, clutching his arm. The wound was horrific. The skin was dead, turning to a dry, papery substance. Panic rippled through the small outpost. Settlers stopped their tasks, eyes wide with fear. The guards rushed forward, weapons drawn. “What happened?” A young woman, Elara, the outpost’s healer, knelt beside Joris. Her eyes widened at the sight of his arm. “The blight,” Kaelen gasped, still catching his breath. “It’s… changed. Evolved. It’s creating constructs. Stone creatures. And their touch spreads it immediately.” Roric nodded grimly. “The quarry is lost, Steward. It’s a breeding pit. And they’re fast. They won’t stay contained.” The hum in Kaelen’s mind had subsided slightly, replaced by a cold, calculating clarity. The acceleration he’d sensed wasn't just the blight's spread. It was its *mutation*. Its capability to spawn. A self-replicating plague. He looked at the map again. The quarry. A single mile. A matter of hours, perhaps even less, before those creatures reached Oakhaven’s palisade. They weren't just a threat to the outpost. They were a threat to everything in the Marches. “Elara, can you stop it?” Kaelen asked, his voice low. He watched the blight consume Joris’s arm. Elara shook her head, tears in her eyes. “I… I don’t know this. It’s too fast. Too virulent.” She began applying poultices, but her movements were desperate, uncertain. Kaelen felt a surge of cold dread. The outpost couldn't withstand an assault of blight-constructs. Their defenses were designed for raiding parties, wild animals, not tireless, unfeeling rock monsters. Evacuation? Where? Oakhaven was a distant dot. The next nearest settlement was days away, through perilous lands. They wouldn't make it. Most wouldn't survive the journey, let alone the attacking blight creatures. His mind raced. The ripple had given him the *what* and the *how fast*. But not the *why*. Not the *source*. He needed to understand. He needed a solution. A faint, forgotten memory surfaced. Another ripple, from long ago, almost an un-thought. A fleeting image of crumbling ancient runes, deep underground. A hidden network beneath the quarry. A sealed path. He looked at the palisade, then at Joris’s dying arm, then back at the crude map of Oakhaven. His time-sense, quiet for a moment, now presented a stark, terrifying choice: fight an unwinnable battle here, or confront the very heart of the blight within the ruined depths of the quarry. He knew which one held the only chance for Oakhaven, however slim. He knew what he had to do. He had to go back. To the pit. Alone.

A Sickly Bloom