Bee hurried across the bridge, leaving behind the fiery chaos of Ymmngorad below and the watchful gaze of the titan above. Her heart pounded in her chest. The shattered gateway into the spire loomed before her, its once-majestic doors reduced to twisted metal and shattered glass. The edges were warped and bent inward as if some unimaginable force had bludgeoned its way through without hesitation.


    The gods-borne child realised something was wrong here. Indeed, this entire spire seemed different to the nature of Ymmngorad below. Its outside surface was dark and glassy, suspended above Cruiros by those great stems and the pulsing, veinous growth of the tower supporting it.


    Hesitating momentarily at the threshold, Bee stepped cautiously over the debris in its entryway, her senses alert for any sign of the Eidolon. The air inside was cooler, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from the burning tower below. A faint fragrance reached her, earthy and fresh, carrying a hint of blossoms.


    Taking a deep breath, Bee pressed forward, her plated feet echoing softly against the stone floor. Inside, the atmosphere shifted dramatically. The air was cooler, tinged with the earthy scent of foliage. Passing quickly through the reception chamber, she found herself in a vast hall reminiscent of the Mother Temple’s nave before its destruction. The architecture soared overhead, arches and columns entwined with lush greenery. Vines snaked along the walls and ceiling, their leaves forming intricate patterns against the ancient stone. Soft beams of light filtered through gaps in the overgrowth, casting dappled shadows that danced with her movements.


    Lush greenery covered every surface: leafy stems climbed the walls, and crawling vines wove intricate patterns along the archways. Delicate flowers of unknown heritage bloomed in clusters, their red petals shimmering softly in the dim light.


    A profound silence enveloped the chamber, broken only by the distant echoes of the tower’s turmoil. Bee felt a strange serenity here, as if she had entered a sanctuary untouched by the chaos outside. The thorns that had menaced her earlier were absent, the space surrounding her like a calming embrace.


    “Wow,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.


    A brilliant column of light descended from above at the centre of the chamber, bathing the area in a warm, golden glow. Drawn to it, Bee walked forward, her footsteps muffled by the soft undergrowth that carpeted the floor. She stepped into the light, feeling its warmth seep into her skin, invigorating her weary limbs.


    She tilted her head back, gazing upward. The light seemed to originate from an impossible height, piercing through the darkness of the spire. High above, she glimpsed the source: a series of stained glass windows set into the distant ceiling. The glass was crafted in vibrant hues, each window depicting a figure—a human woman, unclothed yet rendered with such artistry that the images conveyed purity and grace rather than vulnerability. The women were portrayed in various poses: one cradling a child, another reaching toward the stars, and yet another surrounded by creatures of all shapes.


    Bee gazed in awe. The stained glass infused the light with rich hues of blues, reds, and golds, casting ethereal patterns around her. The figures seemed alive, their eyes gentle and knowing. She closed her eyes, allowing the warmth of the light to wash over her for a moment longer. The weight of her journey lessened. The whispers of the worm in her mind quieted, and she simply existed—breathing, feeling, being.


    Yet such a time could never last. It could have been seconds or minutes when Bee finally opened her eyes again. Time seemed to blur. Reluctantly stepping out of the light, she scanned the chamber, a renewed sense of purpose settling within her.


    That’s when she noticed it. Lying just beyond the circle of light was a figure—a guardian of some kind. He was old, his body a fusion of flesh and machinery, now rendered inert. Bee approached cautiously, her footsteps silent on the mix of undergrowth and the smooth, shell-like floor beneath.


    The guardian had been murdered; that much was clear. A deep stab wound marred his chest, and the metal plating pierced and torn apart. His mechanical components were exposed, wires and circuits spilling out like entrails. Blood and oil mingled, pooling beneath him and seeping into the grooves of the floor.


    If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Bee knelt beside him, a surge of sorrow washing over her. The guardian had been brutally attacked—stabbed and then torn apart with a ferocity that spoke of sheer violence. His eyes, or what remained of them, stared blankly upward, reflecting the soft glow of the stained glass above. With a pause, her fingers brushed lightly against the guardian’s hand. It was still warm, the grey skin soft to the touch. She felt a pang of guilt—had she arrived sooner, could she have prevented this?


    She reached out further, her fingers hovering over a shattered piece of his armour. A symbol was etched into the metal—a delicate tree-like pattern that seemed familiar. The City of Axiamat.


    Bee frowned. “I can’t believe the Eidolon would do this.”


    A faint sound echoed through the chamber—the distant clank of metal on bone. Bee tensed, her senses sharpening. She scanned the shadows, but the overgrowth cast deceptive shapes that shifted with the subtle movements of the leaves.


    “Is someone there?” she called out, her voice steady.


    Silence.


    She considered her options. Venturing further into the spire would lead her to the Rose of Thorns alone. The worm rolled over with a jolt inside her head. Turning back was not an option.


    Drawing a deep breath, she allowed her wings to unfurl slightly, ready to take flight if necessary. She moved forward, careful to avoid the patches of oil and blood that slicked the floor.


    Stepping between long-abandoned pews and the remnants of worship from another age, Bee blinked her eyes as she looked back into the light, trying to peer into the chamber ahead. At the focal point of the nave, a smaller structure stood, erected of worn stone and bearing intricate decoration worn down by the acidic conditions of the city over untold ages; still, it remained at the centre of a column of light, reaching these depths from the window high above.


    It was a mausoleum, both ceilings and foundations cracked, great trunks and roots spilling from the confines of its depths and seeding the growth that had seized the realm entire.


    And its entrance darkly beckoned her in.


    Inside this sepulchral space, damp and claustrophobic, Bee crept down the narrow passage, an entryway fortified to be impregnable once upon a time before the entire structure was transplanted here.


    And, all too quickly, Bee found herself standing before a throne.


    A woman was seated on that throne. She shared the shape of the holy Mother, yet her verdant growth was fecund and all-encompassing. From her flesh spilt gnarled and knotted growths, mindless and entangling herself as much as the chamber she had been planted within.


    And kneeling at her feet, illuminated by a crack in the old stone vault above, awaited the Eidolon. She remained there, a hand delicately outstretched, clasping a hand of who could only be the Rose of Thorns so gently and reverently.


    The Eidolon looked back, meeting Bee’s gaze with her twelve, burning eyes. They shared a silent regard for a long moment before returning their witness to the woman sealed upon her throne.


    Oh, how she struggled against her bonds. A whimper escaped her mouth—gagged as she was by the relentless growth that ensnared her, wrapping around her throat and between her jaws with mindless disregard.


    She had a face. She had a face like hers. Bee gasped as she witnessed it. Their eyes met. However, unlike Bee, the lower half of her face had been torn away, exposing her teeth and the bone and muscle of her jaw to the open air.


    In an instant, Bee could guess what this was. A cruel mockery. A tale sweeping back to antiquity. Rose of Thorns, whatever she had done, had been maimed and sealed here by a greater power. Bee’s own mother? Or another Vat-Mother? She was some wicked parody or imitation thereof.


    Was that where the Vat-Mother of Acetyn took her mask from? The mask Bee had witnessed into her delve into ghostspace? Some grim trophy taken from a defeated rival long ago.


    Looking around, Bee saw fruits swell on the vine, ripening and bursting as they had been approached, reacting to her presence. The Rose of Thorns groaned as her body reacted against her will. As her body fulfilled its newly programmed biological imperative and brought into the world the fruit of her flesh, it forced her to bear children to fight in a war beyond her control. And with each syrupy eruption from the bud emerged a lance—a bioweapon much like Bee had held in her own hands once—that hung from the stem and eventually shed to fall to the ground with a limp clatter.


    The Rose of Thorns whimpered again in pain and humiliation.


    Witnessing this damned and eternal torment, Bee found herself breathless with fury. The Eidolon slowly stood, turning to face her. Their gazes met once again with understanding, and as Bee stepped closer, she only by pleading for answers could channel her anger, contempt, and will to undo this vile act.


    “... Tell me what I have to do. Tell me how to put a stop to this…”