A faint sound stirred in the silence—the slow, creeping stretch of roots winding deep which woke Julius.
His breath hitched, shallow and fragile. With great effort, he forced his heavy eyelids open, vision swimming in a haze of light and shadows. A vague figure stood below him—unmoving.
Before he could make out who it was, his eyes shut again, too heavy to fight.
"Julius."
A voice—soft, familiar, and painfully distant—called out to him.
He knew that voice.
He gritted his teeth, willing his body to respond. He tried again to lift his eyelids, but before he could, a sudden surge of pain exploded from his chest, sharp and deep, spreading like fire through his core.
The sound returned—roots crawling, twisting inside him, burrowing deeper.
He clenched his jaw, trembling as he lifted a trembling arm to his chest. His skin was pale, almost translucent. There was no sign of blood, only the emptiness of a body drained of life. Slowly, pitifully, his hand inched toward the pain.
