Chapter 46 — Roots That Remember

The room spasmed violently. The walls of bark twisted, fibers of light jerking as if Yusuf's words had poisoned it. The orb in the center fractured, a jagged fissure spreading across its surface.

The boy with no face stepped back. "You shouldn't have spoken. It listens."

The denser air. Roots torn from the walls, writhing like snakes. They lashed at Yusuf, searing with the memories they contained—faces flickering on their surfaces, voices screaming as though clawing to be released.

Yusuf raised the Codex, its pages opening of their own accord. Words burned on the parchment: ERASURE PROTOCOL.

He didn't know what it was, but when he held up the Codex, a burst of fiery white light cleaved the nearest root in two. It shrieked—not wood, not flesh, but a sound like a thousand names being forgotten at once.

The boy seized on him, voice urgent. "You're burning memories! You can't fight it like this!"

"I don't care!" Yusuf roared, slashing through another lashing tendril. Burnt ash scented the air in the room, but every strike depleted him further, left him emptier, as if the light was slicing pieces out of him too.

The orb pulsed once more, fissures branching. Yusuf glimpsed through the cracks, not just light, but shards—instants of his father.

A hand scribbling with desperate industriousness.

A shadow pacing a ravaged archive.

A single man, whispering names out into the darkness.

"Father!" Yusuf screamed, reaching toward the cracks.

The roots burst forth in fury, writhing into a gigantic shape. A giant made of memories, faces twisting on its chest, arms like trees that writhed. Its voice was the room itself:

"YOU CANNOT HAVE HIM."

The child pulled Yusuf back, eyes wide though still faceless. “That’s the Tree’s sentinel—the Harvester of Roots. If it breaks you, you’ll be woven into it forever.”

Yusuf’s breath heaved. His arms ached from holding the Codex aloft, but fire burned behind his eyes. “Then I’ll break it first.”

The sentinel struck, roots diving down like spears. Yusuf simply rolled aside, earth exploding where he'd been. The Codex glowed again, but weakly, its light guttering like a candle in the wind.

Time was running out.

The child's voice cut through the chaos. "Yusuf—you don't need to burn it all. You need to choose what memory to burn through. Choose wrong, and you'll lose something you can never recover."

The sentinel bellowed, striking. The orb pulsed, fissures blazing brighter. His father's shadow trembled once more.

Yusuf gritted his teeth, bracing himself. He had one chance—one strike.

He raised the Codex, and the room was filled with light.