Chapter 29:
Caged
Glory of Ash
He woke screaming.
Not loud. A strangled sound, trapped in his throat. Bren's eyes were open—brown again, not grey—and he was staring at his hands.
The bark was gone. The roots were still. But the stain remained. Dark lines crawled up his wrists like fractures in stone.
"Bren."
He didn't look at Harkin. He looked at the bruises on Harkin's throat. The finger-shaped welts. The blood under the skin.
"Did I—"
"You weren't yourself."
"That's not an answer."
Harkin didn't have one.
---
Bren saw Silla's arm.
The purple-black bruise where the root had squeezed. She tried to hide it. Pulled her sleeve down. Too late.
"Your arm."
"It's nothing."
"It's not nothing."
She didn't argue.
He turned. Dorn's shoulder. The bloody bandage. The way he held his axe with one hand now, the other pressed against his side.
"Your shoulder—"
"I'll live."
"You're lying."
"Yes."
---
Bren's breath came faster. His hands were shaking. The stain didn't pulse—it just sat there. Heavy. Permanent.
"I hurt you."
"You weren't in control."
"That doesn't make it better."
Harkin stepped toward him. "Bren—"
"Don't."
He pressed his back against the stone. The rope around his wrists creaked.
"I felt it. Inside me. It was calm. I wasn't scared. I was—" He stopped. His voice cracked. "I wasn't there."
"You're here now."
"Am I?"
---
The roots had stopped moving. But Luke could feel them beneath the soil. Waiting.
Not for Bren. For all of them.
He walked to where Bren sat. Knelt. His black hands hung at his sides.
"You fought it."
"I don't remember fighting."
"You stopped."
"I passed out."
"That's not the same."
Bren looked at him. His eyes were wet. His face was grey.
"I could feel you. When you touched me. The pressure behind my eyes. It hurt. But it was—" He swallowed. "It was the first thing I'd felt in hours that wasn't them."
"Them?"
"The roots. The forest. The thing inside me."
---
Dorn shifted. His wounded arm hung at his side.
"We need to keep moving."
"We need to rest."
"We need to keep moving."
"We need to tie him tighter."
Varra's voice was flat. "No one's tying him tighter."
"He attacked us."
"He wasn't himself."
"That doesn't change what he did."
Bren's head dropped. His forehead touched his knees.
"She's right."
"Bren—"
"She's right."
---
The rope creaked.
Bren pulled against it. Not hard—testing. The fibers stretched. He stopped.
"I can break this."
No one spoke.
"If I wanted to. I could break it."
"Do you want to?" Luke asked.
Bren looked at his hands. At the stain. At the way his fingers didn't bend right anymore.
"I don't know."
---
The silence stretched.
Luke could hear the forest breathing. Not wind. Not roots. Something deeper. The ground itself, rising and falling like a chest.
"I can feel it," Bren said.
"Feel what?"
"The trees. The roots. The things in the dark." He looked up. His eyes were brown. But there was something behind them now. A different kind of watching. "They're not attacking. They're waiting."
"For what?"
"For me to choose."
---
Harkin stepped forward.
"Choose what?"
Bren didn't answer. He looked at the bruises on Harkin's throat. At Silla's arm. At Dorn's shoulder.
"I can't stay here."
"You're not going anywhere."
"I can't stay here."
"You're tied to a stone."
Bren pulled.
The rope snapped.
Not broke—shredded. The fibers tore like paper. He stood up. His legs were steady. His hands hung at his sides.
"Bren."
He walked toward the trees.
---
"STOP HIM!"
Dorn lunged. His good arm grabbed Bren's shoulder. Bren didn't turn. Didn't flinch.
"Let go."
"I'm not letting you walk into the—"
Bren's hand closed around Dorn's wrist. Not tight. Just there. His fingers were warm. The stain on his palm pulsed once.
Dorn let go.
His face was pale. "Your hand—"
"Let me go."
---
Luke stepped in front of him.
Bren stopped. His eyes met Luke's. Brown. Wet. Afraid.
"You can't go out there."
"I can't stay here."
"We'll figure it out."
"You can't fix this."
"Maybe not. But you don't have to run."
Bren's voice cracked. "I almost killed them."
"You almost killed us."
"That's worse."
---
The ground shifted.
Not roots. Not movement. A settling. The soil beneath Bren's feet softened. He sank an inch. Didn't look down.
"It's calling me."
"The forest."
"It's not the forest. It's the thing inside me."
Luke raised his hand. The black stain covered his palm.
"I can feel it too."
Bren looked at Luke's hand. At the stain. At the way the air shimmered around his fingers.
"You're like me."
"I don't know what I am."
"Neither do I."
---
The roots parted behind Bren.
A path. Narrow. Dark. Leading into the fog.
Bren looked back at the group. At Harkin's throat. At Silla's arm. At Dorn's shoulder.
"I'm sorry."
"Bren—"
He stepped backward. Toward the path.
"Don't follow me."
"Bren!"
"I don't want to hurt anyone else."
---
Luke grabbed his arm.
Bren's skin was warm. Too warm. The stain on Luke's palm met the stain on Bren's wrist. They pulsed together. Once. Twice.
"Stay."
"I can't."
"You can."
"You don't know that."
"I know you're still in there."
Bren looked at him. His eyes were brown. But something flickered behind them—grey, patient, watching.
"For now."
---
He pulled away.
Luke's hand fell to his side. The stain on his palm was darker now. The warmth lingered.
Bren walked into the path.
The roots closed behind him.
The fog swallowed his shape.
---
Silence.
Varra counted. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.
Seven was gone.
"He walked into the forest alone," Silla said.
"He walked into the forest."
"We have to go after him."
"We have to survive."
---
Dorn pressed his hand against his wounded shoulder. The blood had soaked through the bandage.
"He's not coming back."
"You don't know that."
"I know what I saw."
---
Harkin stood at the edge of the path.
The roots were still. The soil was hard. The fog was thin where Bren had walked.
"He chose to leave."
"He made a choice."
"That doesn't make it right."
"No. But it makes it his."
---
Luke sat on the stone where Bren had been tied.
The rope fragments were scattered on the ground. He picked one up. The fibers were warm.
Leon sat beside him.
"You tried to stop him."
"I wasn't fast enough."
"You were the only one who tried."
Luke looked at his hands. The stain had reached his knuckles.
"He's still alive."
"How do you know?"
Luke pressed his palm to the stone. The warmth spread up his arm.
"I can feel him. Moving. Still there."
"For now."
"For now."
---
The forest was quiet.
Not the silence of peace. The silence of waiting.
Luke looked at the path where Bren had disappeared. The roots had sealed it shut. The fog had thickened.
He thought about what Bren had said.
*I can feel it. It's not attacking. It's waiting.*
Waiting for what?
He looked at his hands. At the stain. At the way the warmth never faded.
He was afraid he already knew.
---
They didn't sleep.
Varra watched the treeline. Dorn leaned against the fallen bridge, his wounded arm pressed to his chest. Silla sat with her back to the group, facing the path.
Harkin held the broken lantern frame. His hands were empty. His feet were black.
No one spoke.
The forest breathed.
Somewhere in the dark, Bren walked.
Luke could feel him. Fading. Changing.
He didn't tell anyone.
He didn't know how.
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