Lifeweaver: The Mage Without Flame

Eryndor let his shoulders sag, breath constricted as he gazed at the young man across the clearing. Moonlight barely filtered through the twisting roots above, but even in that gloom, the stranger's eyes glowed like spiral-sealed lanterns. He did not move, moss-cloak wrapped back a fraction to expose a sigil incised into his wrist—a duplicate of the mark Eryndor had on his own arm. But the spiral was torn apart inwards, rent.

Sylrae's voice was a whisper. "That mark means he is bound too."

Eryndor's mind spun. Chosen too? He looked at Sylrae and Fayra. Sylven snarled, low and menacing.

The youth raised one hand. Vines uncoiled from the ground, curling to life. They crept forward—deliberate, open. And then he spoke:

"The Spiral chose me. Why not me?" The words fell flat, innocent.

Eryndor took a half-step back. "You don't understand what it is."

The young man shook his head. **"I sense it. Hunger. Weight. But they sent me to heal."

Fayra questioned, weak voice: "Who sent you?"

"Not them," he said. "It was the Seedgrove. The Spiral called."

Eryndor clenched his teeth. If the Spiral alone decided… then Lysira's warnings had more than rumor to them.

Sylrae sheathed her blades. "Why did it not choose you?" she asked softly.

The youth shrugged his shoulders. "I gave light. But they compelled me to grow from corruption."

His eyes flashed toward Fayra, but then locked on Eryndor. "You did not heed. You had the temerity to shape life with choice."

Eryndor gasped. He watched the youth's tensed position, root-vines trembling under him. Then he turned aside.

"Come on," he said. "We have to go east. Seedgrove is on the other side of Emberfall Ridge."

Sylrae moved into step, Fayra behind her. But he heard coming behind him—

"Wait."

He halted. The boy did not move from where he stood as vines curled over the mossy ground. Branches breathed static. Stars above shone dimly.

"If you leave," the boy said, "you take me with you."

Sylrae glanced at Eryndor. "We can't—support all burdened with Spiral."

Fayra shook her head. "But he is bound. This is not a choice for him alone."

Eryndor groaned. He whirled around. "My path is not one you may walk."

The youth's spiral-eye flame flickered low. "Then… you may have more power than I."

Eryndor's hands were sore. His own sigil burned hot. He swallowed.

"You can join us," he said finally. "Or you can turn aside."

The youth observed him. Their eyes met. A pulse thrummed in the earth, live.

Then the youth's lips came into a mournful smile. "I choose."

Before Eryndor could have said a word, the boy flashed up his hand—and vines unwound from root-shards at his feet—then burst up in tendrils of black-thorn and rose-gold leaves. The vines encircled Fayra. She tried to step back, but the thorned branches snagged the robe and hoisted her into the air.

Sylrae charged, but vines encircled her sword, thick enough to drag her back as well. Eryndor charged forward. Sylven leapt to intercept but found only dead root-motes.

The boy crept carefully to the ground to catch Fayra. "Sorry," he whispered, tears streaming down his face. Vines disappeared, leaving Fayra suspended in mid-air, unharmed.

Sylrae shunted the vines aside and released Fayra. "What was that?"

The boy looked at Eryndor. "Test."

Eryndor rubbed a hand over his heart. "A test? To bind… or betray?"

The youth's spiral flame eyes blazed—not with contempt, but something lost. "To show I'm not Ruin."

Eryndor exhaled. "Then you'll travel with us, or alone."

The youth bent in knotted earth silence. Roots that lay beneath them throbbed weakly. Above, the sky shook.

Fayra braced herself tense. "**If we travel east, we go through the Fenrit Marsh.

Sylrae breathed at night. "And through the Valley of Whispers.

Eryndor nodded and helped Fayra to steady herself. "Fenrit first. Then we must cross past dead wood—but remain near roots."

The youth moved forward, vines streaming away from his wrists. His spiral wrist-sigil glowed. "I'm…"

Eryndor watched dawn stars spin in movement above. The Spiral pulsed within him. Destiny awaited.

Then the youth started to move forward. The forest let out its breath.

"I'll walk with you."

West along the ridge, the vine-roots trembled under them, and before, through thorns in splintered bark, something stirred: fierce beat of violet fire upon a shape not beast nor man.

It stopped—momentarily slit open empty eyes carved from shadow—and breathed softly:

"You carry the Spiral's root—but I carry its death."

Dawn's silver light filtered through the root-shard canopy as Eryndor, Sylrae, Fayra, and the young one with them pressed into the devastated forest. The air ached with moisture and tension, vines spreading overhead like silent witnesses at twilight.

Eryndor watched each step: to Fenrit Marsh, then the Valley of Whispers, and the Emberfall Ridge, reaching the Seedgrove before the Spiral's decline could gain its hold deeper.

Sylrae led the way. Fayra limped quietly, recovering from the trial of the youth. The youth—named Caelen by Sylrae—strode beside Eryndor, subdued but watchful.

They traversed a meadow where roots glimmered like veins beneath glassy moss. When they stepped in harmony, the veins pulsed in concert, as though embracing each of them.

"Can you feel it?" Eryndor leaned over and whispered to Caelen.

Caelen's spiral-mark blistered. "Yes. But my roots. They still shake. I fear they'll shatter me."

Sylrae glanced back over her shoulder with a relieved look. "Fear moors—don't run from it."

Fayra went on: "We all shook once. But we stood."

They found themselves at the edge of Fenrit Marsh a bit later. Fog crawled around wet reeds, glowing spores drifting like firedew. A ruined boardwalk led into foggy, grey-green.

Sylrae glanced along the path. "Remain close to roots. But the marsh distorts light. It moves—will trap us between thought and drown."

Caelen stopped at the boardwalk path. "I've been here. In a dream. I saw brutish shapes under cloudy water—watching."

Eryndor put a hand on Caelen's shoulder. "Then your wound is not yet open. You'll not walk blind."

They walked on.

Creaked, cracked boards. Below, something—roots copying their path—moved in the darkness. Fayra slowed her respiration. Hummed on Sylrae's hips, blades.

Halfway across, the boardwalk sagged. Caelen slipped, and the boards slicked under his boots.

A monster erupted: a vine-thin thing of rotting vines smeared with creamy fungus and milky eyes. It struck Caelen.

Sylven snarled and leapt. The creature jumped back, jumped again-but lashed Fayra's ankle with a root-talon, cutting through cloth.

She cried out.

Eryndor dove, yanking Fayra away as vines thrashed up towards Caelen. Sylrae spun around, blades glinting-but each strike through root-blight broke into fungal spores.

Then Caelen spoke-so quietly, quivering: "Forgive me."

He reached out to the boardwalk under the creature. The spiral-mark flared hot, gold and green shoots coiling out of it. The earth erupted living root, holding the creature soft as ivy, and then tugging down into the earth.

The marsh was silent.

Fayra gasped for air. "You. You did that."

Caelen's head nodded, breathing harshly. "I had to"—suffering and relief blending together.

Eryndor's eyes were stern. "You showed it. You're here by choice, not by destruction."

Sylrae exhaled. "But we need to hurry."

They continued through the pools of darkness where spires of Willow dripped with sparkling spores. The air grew colder with each step, as if a lung was draining itself.

Night descended into darkness along with the Valley of Whispers. Dead wood creaked overhead. Vines curled like silent tongues. The valley walls seemed to pulse with sound, whispering voices just beyond reach.

When Fayra paused, she heard: distant cries and pleas, inhuman sounds indistinct. Each voice echoed twisted memory: "You belong…" "Feed me…" "Don't leave…"

Sylrae spat: "Don't hear. Root only demands true path."

Eryndor grasped Fayra's hand tightly. "The whispers thrive on fear. Focus on what you know is real."

They pressed deeper.

At the center of the valley lay a root-ringed pool. Its face black as night water—two reflected lights dancing below: one gold-green, one violet-black.

Caelen swallowed. "That's. The eye of the Spiral."

Eryndor fell to his knees, hand skimming the water. He sensed two strands: one living, hopeful; one wounded, starved.

Sylrae stood watch over them. Sylven paced, snarling low.

Fayra swallowed. "We're close."

Behind them, a faint crackle—rootwood shifting. The violet eye pulsed upward like an answering heartbeat.

And then—

A voice broke clearly.

"Who carries Spiral's root? Who stands in judgement of ruin?"

Roots shattered from the caves above. A cyclone of dust and thorn-ribbon descended with force.

They scrambled back as a figure emerged—a woman wrought of violet fire and root-shadow. Her eyes were the purple-hued spiral eyes. Her skin glimmered with ash and viridian veins.

Eryndor shielded Fayra with both arms.

She lifted her arms skyward. The violet eye framed her face.

"I am Morrhain, child borne of ruin's hunger."

Sylrae bristled. "You're one of them."

Morrhain laughed—like shatter of splinters in black rain. "Yes. And worse—you wear root, but you judge its hunger as weakness."

Eryndor stepped nearer, voice firm: "You make a mistake. Root heals. It does not devour the living."

Morrhain's smile increased. "Then let me devour."

She slammed both hands down into the eye-pool.

Water erupted.

Roots shuddered beneath them—sparks of rootglass flashing. Whispers in the valley thundered.

And Morrhain's arms came out, spilling violet flame-root as she pressed forward.

Chaos whipped the Valley of Whispers. Trees writhed, branches shattered. Fayra screamed. Sylven barked as vines snapped like whips. And Eryndor braced himself—with Caelen leading on, spiral-mark afire. 

Morrhain's form pulsed in violet rage—and she hissed:

 "If the root chooses mercy. Then I'll drown it in ruin."

The ground convulsed as Morrhain surged forward, tearing through soil and flame. Her tendrils, forged of spiral energy and corrupted root, snaked toward the group with terrifying precision. Eryndor stepped in front of Caelen and Fayra, his pulse hammering like war drums beneath his ribs.

He spread his hands out before him, feeling the energy of life surge through the earth—not demanding, not compelling, but seeking. The roots at his feet responded, moving up in slow curls to meet Morrhain's initial blow.

Sylrae's blades were in motion. She sidestepped a whip vine, plunged one into the center of the tendril, and twisted it. It howled like a dying beast and retreated—long enough for Fayra to find her footing and launch a beam of raw rootlight at the corrupted woman.

It struck Morrhain on the shoulder. She tottered a bit, but smiled.

Do you think that the Spiral granted you mercy to be saviors?" she growled. "No… it gave you a choice. And I made a choice for destruction."

Her hands planted into the ground. With a shriek, dozens of thorny roots shot up like spears, breaking the glade.

Eryndor leaped clear, falling to the ground beside Sylven, who snarled and bit down upon one of the writhing limbs. Caelen stood immobilized beside the eye-pool, arms outstretched.

"I can feel her—she's connected," Caelen breathed. "But she's bleeding everything into the Spiral. She's trying to drain it."

"Can you cut her?" Eryndor roared above the crashes.

Caelen winced, sweat erupting. "If I make a mistake… I could tear everything apart."

Sylrae dropped beside him, blood running down her temple. "Do it."

"But—"

"You were chosen. The Spiral does not lie."

Caelen drew breath, shut his eyes, and plunged both hands into the mirror-pool.

The reaction was immediate. Violet and green tendrils curled outwards, lashing into the tainted roots Morrhain contained. She cried out—not in pain, but in outraged anger.

"No!" she bellowed. "You have the audacity to put hands upon my claim?"

There was a deafening cracking sound that rang through the valley. A crack ran along the ground beneath Morrhain, consuming the rim of the glade.

Caelen's spiral tattoo began to sear.

"Eryndor," he struggled, "hold my hand."

Without a moment's thought, Eryndor took his wrist.

And then—Eryndor saw it.

Not with his eyes, but by the Spiral vision bound Caelen released. For a moment, he stood within an emptiness full of gnarled light and root, where thousands of branching paths hung suspended like suspended fates. Some were consumed by black rot. Others glowed with dim luminescence. A great heart—the Root Source—pulsed at the core, and alongside it, a wound that oozed purple.

Morrhain was not so much caressing it.

She was infecting it.

And Eryndor realized.

"This isn't corruption," he breathed. "It's seizing the Spiral."

In the real world, light became too much to bear. Caelen's form rose inches off the ground, shining gold and white as his connection deepened.

Morrhain, now half-devoured by her own power, shrieked and launched a final attack—

Only to be struck by Fayra's rootlight bolt through her middle.

The force exploded her form into root-shards and violet embers.

Silence.

Then—collapse.

The glade trembled, then stabilized. Caelen dropped to his knees. Sylrae supported him.

Eryndor staggered toward Fayra, staring.

She looked pale, shallow-breathed, but she smiled faintly. "Did… we do it?"

Sylven nudged her shoulder gently.

It took a moment.

The Spiral pool receded from seething purple to a calm, golden-green radiance. Throughout, the twisted vegetation uncurled. Leaves brightened, roots eased.

Caelen slowly stood. "I didn't hurt her. I reclaimed what she tried to steal."

Eryndor looked up. "She talked of the Spiral providing us with choice…"

Sylrae seethed. "And she erred."

The group froze in silence.

As they emerged from the valley, the Spiral pool glowed once more, and a soft hum resonated.

Caelen halted. "There is something more. Something she was concealing."

Eryndor turned back. "What is it?"

Caelen set foot on the edge of the pool and slowly lowered himself. The waters enveloped him. He disappeared.

Seconds passed, and then a burst of golden light exploded.

Then silence.

And Caelen did not come back.

Eryndor remained standing at the pool's edge, looking into the now-calm Spiral eye. Fayra put a hand on his arm, but remained silent. Sylrae's hand rested on her blade—instinctively.

For deep below the glade, something changed.

And from afar outside the valley, a whisper responded to Morrhain's dying words:

 "The Spiral is not yours alone…"