One stride—a blur of bark-shrouded limbs and trailing fungal cloth—faster than its body should have allowed. Elias barely registered the motion before the air turned vicious with weight.
The ground bloomed.
A ring of fungal sacs burst out from beneath the Pariah’s feet—a rolling wall of spores kicking outward like ash.
Elias flung his forearm across his mouth and nose, instinct dragging him sideways. His boots skidded in soil made slick with fluids. The sword’s weight suddenly felt wrong in his grip, the angle off—a medic’s reflex misfitting a warrior’s stance.
Spores hit him anyway.
A taste like rotten mint coated his tongue. Mucus thickened in his throat. His vision pulsed. Shapes multiplied. The Pariah seemed to split—three silhouettes, five, then just one again—all of them too close.
Sweat ran down his face. He blinked hard—no good. Eyes watering made the haze smear and crawl like ants over glass. Fennroot’s leaves flared wide, trembling.
"Yeah," Elias croaked. "I noticed."
Another burst hit—this one directional. The Pariah flung an arm wide—a whip of mycelial strands sweeping just above the ground.
He threw himself low, folding to one knee. The impact jarred his leg, a flash of pain he shoved aside. The swing hissed over him, trailing a spray of spores that peppered his back like icy grit.
His lungs protested with every breath now. Too much humidity, too much contamination. He needed space.
He pushed up, boot slipping again, leaning into the sword to balance. It thrummed under his palm—a soundless push saying: strikestrikestrike.
"No," he gasped—his voice swallowed by the fog. Not yet.
The Pariah sucked in air. Elias felt that breath across the circle, a low, sorrow-heavy pull that made spores gather like dust swept under a door. Forcefully, it blew them out: a lance of spores shot forward from the Pariah’s mouth—fast, straight—hitting Elias’s cuirass with a dull pattering sound.
He coughed as they entered his lungs, burning as they contacted flesh. Fennroot’s little body pressed tighter, filtering spores around his face with its leaves. A tiny, determined shield.
He muttered hoarsely, "Thanks, bud," and stumbled right, and exited out of the densest cloud.
The Pariah turned with him—not advancing or retreating—simply adjusting its orientation, like a sentinel recalibrating its watch. The Grove murmured—a vibration through the earth that made Elias’s teeth hurt, as if the place was judging each misstep.
A root shifted. A cord of vine—hidden until too late—whipped up from below.
It wrapped his ankle—flesh-tight, like a restraint strap snapping shut in a medevac cabin.
Elias lurched. His wounded leg screamed as pressure cinched right on the gash. The sudden lock made pain flash white behind his eyes—for a moment he wasn’t in a fungal grave—he was in a field hospital, holding a kid’s leg together while rotor wash blew grit into the wound.
He slammed his palm down, hacking at the vine with the sword. The blade sliced clean-no purple resistance-just severed root twitching like an exposed vein. He sucked a sharp breath through teeth.
Vision blurred again. The air just wouldn’t go into his lungs properly—it felt like trying to breathe through cotton soaked in paraffin. The Pariah’s silhouette blurred again—then doubled—then became a spaced-out trail of afterimages.
"Hallucinating. Great," Elias rasped.
He shoved himself upright, his leg trembling. His boot sank again, the mud clutching his heel with a wet, stubborn tug that set his nerves on edge.
The Pariah tilted its head.
The sword jerked, a reflex he nearly didn’t catch, the hilt biting into the heel of his hand. It wanted the opening. It saw weakness and moved to exploit, like muscle memory inherently designed to spill blood.
Elias clenched harder, knuckles cracking, his sweat mixing with the cloying paste of dirt and humidity.
"Not how we’re doing this," he spat—his voice thick with phlegm he had to swallow or choke on.
His heart hammered fast, too fast, irregular beats skipping like someone tapping the wrong key. He took one more step back, his weight all wrong. His calf gave out, his leg buckling—his knee hitting the earth hard enough to jar his teeth.
The Pariah didn’t charge. It simply watched him, its head tilting slowly, regarding him neither as prey nor enemy. It was waiting to see if he would stand again.
That was worse than malice.
Elias swallowed, a dry effort despite the humid air. He dragged his foot free of the soil and pushed himself upright, arms heavy, lungs struggling. Fennroot braced against him, roots tightening beneath his collar, warming and steadying him.
He wiped his stinging eyes with his sleeve, smearing grit into sweat. It didn’t help much, but it was something to do.
"Round one," he muttered, breathless. "Still here."
The Pariah inhaled again, a slow, sorrowful breath. The Grove answered in kind with a low rumble. Above them, threads of biolight ignited like constellations of waking memory.
The Pariah’s ribs cracked wider as its chest swelled. Round two was about to begin.
Elias rolled his shoulder, forcing stiff muscles to prepare. His pulse thudded in his ears. He raised the sword higher, not to dominate, but to declare: I’m not leaving until you do.
The Pariah stepped closer. The spores thickened. The Grove held its breath.
The Pariah’s next movement wasn’t about speed, but precision.
It lifted one arm, slow and deliberate, as if adjusting a tapestry thread only it could see. A thin line of pale fungus tore open along its wrist. Light spilled out, a green-white glow brighter than anything in the Grove so far.
The light gathered in its palm, and then split.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
First into two, then four, then eight.
A cluster of floating motes, each one pulsing with the same rhythm as Elias’s heartbeat – off-kilter, skipping beats.
They drifted outward. No sound. No overt threat. But every hair on Elias’s arms prickled. Fennroot pressed flat against his chest, leaf-edges quivering like a frightened animal choosing silence over flight.
One mote touched his
boot and copied him.
A spectral duplicate of Elias flickered into being, same stance, same messy haircut, same exhausted panic behind the eyes, but wrong in subtle ways. Its face didn’t quite align, pupils too large, as if it had been left in the dark too long.
It lifted a phantom sword, thinner, more needle than blade, and mirrored his guard perfectly.
He breathed in. It breathed in.
"Not great," Elias muttered.
The Pariah stepped sideways, letting the copy stand between them. He shifted left. It shifted left. He feinted right. It feinted right, but slightly faster.
Elias lowered his sword and stepped back. The copy did the same, without hesitation.
"Okay… so you’re me, but more obedient," he said, his voice strained by the effort of breathing in the spore-thick air.
The Pariah extended its other arm. A second tear. A second cluster of motes. Another double. This one looked more afraid, and more desperate. He was looking at himself panicking.
His chest tightened, not just from the spores. Sweat stung his eyes again. He blinked too hard, his vision rolling.
The first copy lunged, not slashing, but grabbing. Its grip felt like cold sap, sticky, clinging, digging into his joints. Elias yanked free, stumbling back.
The second copy closed in from the right, sword-hilt swinging. It struck his armour—but the strike carried more than physical force. Memory hit him.
Laughter, then screaming. A boy’s leg torn open under metal and dirt. Blood trying to escape faster than he could hold it in. He gasped—lost half a second to that old battlefield, the weight of a tourniquet miss-tied, still fresh in his palms.
The Grove whispered during that moment, spores vibrating now like a tuning fork to his pulse: You know how to save people. But how many didn’t because of you?
He shoved the memory away, physically pushing the doppelganger back. The Pariah observed without expression, or maybe the very lack of one, meant more than at first glance.
He wasn’t fighting a monster. He was fighting his own thread in someone else’s tragedy.
The third double formed.
This one bore no sword, just held its hands up—like he did in the Loom, telling the blade: Not like this. Not again.
The three images moved now—a triangle closing around him. He didn’t have enough space to run. His calf screamed every time he shifted weight—blood now soaking unevenly through the re-wrapped bandage. He grounded one foot, repositioning his stance—old muscle memory from physical therapy training sessions where he’d been the one teaching someone else to redistribute load.
The nearest double swung. He blocked—barely. Their swords collided, but the phantom blade slid through his steel like a ghost carved from memory. Searing pain shot up his arm—right to the scar across his pectorals—the one that wasn’t from this world. Ribs and chest contracting—too sharp—eyes burning, lungs thick.
The second double’s strike was coming in low—towards his ribs. He twisted—awkward, not pretty—and the motion made his calf buckle. He hit dirt again—hands sinking into rot-soft earth.
The third copy leaned close.
Its face—his face—rippled with grief. Not fear. Grief. Because that version of him had never left the forge-depth clearing. Had never stopped kneeling in front of a dying seer. Had never been allowed the chance to try doing better.
That Elias—that blade-bearer—was still there. He wasn’t sure if the sword mourned them or resented them, but he felt the loss in the grip, in the way the steel suddenly went cold.
He coughed hard—a wet bark that shook his ribs—and forced words out around the phlegm:
"I am Elias Ward." A cough. Harder. "Nothing else gets to decide that."
The copies froze, just for a heartbeat.
Elias grabbed that heartbeat and shoved.
He drove the sword point-down into the ground—roots screamed in protest—but that scream rippled through the copies. The Pariah shuddered—like something in it recognised the line he just drew. The doubles shattered—in a cloud of frenzied spores dispersing—pieces dissipating into drifting green motes.
The sword hummed—not as a command this time, but as a question.
Are you sure?
His grip remained firm. "Yeah," he whispered through clenched teeth.
The Pariah’s chest expanded again—ribs cracking outwards like a flower forced to bloom. Light swelled behind its spine, halo-bright, blinding. The Grove dimmed, all except for the Pariah.
The air folded inward – sound muffled – light tunnelling around the Pariah as if the world were narrowing to a single truth. Time slowed, not magically, but as if his body had finally decided to admit how exhausted it was. Elias swayed on his feet, shoulders sagging. Fennroot braced him, roots gripping harder until it nearly hurt.
He blinked once and saw memories bloom across the grove:
The Pariah as a young seer, chanting beneath the roots. The Order, marching, burning, tearing the world apart. The Rootsinger, fallen, bound, trusting the blade because it had no other choice. The moment the Grove lost its name, when death was denied, not revered.
The Pariah lifted its head. It stepped through one of those memories, like crossing a river of ghosts, toward the man who carried the blade that started it all. Its hand rose, not to strike, but to offer.
As if saying: Show me you deserve to carry what I failed to protect.
Elias tightened his grip. His lungs burned. His vision blurred. His soul shook.
But...
He did not look away.
The Pariah’s hand hovered inches from Elias’s chest, palm open, fingers trembling. There was no menace left in the gesture, just expectation.
Elias’s breath dragged through his throat as if he were pulling wire. His calf throbbed to its own miserable rhythm. Spore-haze crawled at the edges of his vision
turning green into gold and gold into shadows.
He didn’t need to tighten his grip on the sword
His knuckles loosened. His stance shifted from braced to steady. Fennroot adjusted with him, roots flexing as if nervous on his behalf.
He raised the blade slowly. Not high. Not with flourish. Just enoughto ensure that his intent was clear: 'I’m not fighting you. I’m answering you.'
The Pariah’s body pulsed with another surge of bloomlight, no longer an attack, but memory erupting from old wounds. Images flashed across the grove walls:
Leshei dancing around a sapling fire. A seer teaching children to tie their hair with moss thread. A circle of elders chanting for a soul to pass into peace.
Then.....
The Order. Red. Iron. Faith as a weapon.
The memories buckled under their weight. The Pariah stumbled forward a half-step, its frame collapsing under memories too heavy for bone. Elias caught the motion on instinct, reaching out as he would to anyone falling in front of him. But his hand stopped just shy of touching.
Corruption writhed beneath the Pariah’s fungus-skin, breathing like something trying to escape. He swallowed.
Comprehension bloomed in Elias's mind "This isn’t what you wanted to become."
It wasn’t eloquent. It wasn’t holy. But the Pariah heard it.
Its head dropped, antlers scraping the air. The sword warmed, a gentle warning: Do this right.
Elias lifted it just enough that the flat of the blade touched the Pariah’s sternum.
A faint crackle, like frost forming on glass. Then Saproot Cleansing ignited.
Not violently. Not theatrically. Green-gold threadlight seeped from the sword, following lines of old veins, mapping the places where corruption had taken root.
The Pariah didn’t scream, but exhaled. A long, shuddering release like someone finally letting go of a breath held for years. Its knees folded, slow and careful, as if not wanting to damage the ground beneath it.
Elias guided the descent, blade still touching, roots drawing out rot thread by thread.
The Grove held still, anticipating.
The spore-haze stilled. The memory projections dimmed. Not a single creature in the underbrush dared move. Fennroot slid off Elias’s shoulder—rolled down his arm—and rooted itself gently against the Pariah’s forearm. Its leaves closed, pulse fading to a soft glow. Not healing, just... bearing witness.
Light bled from the fissures in the Pariah’s bark-like skin lifting upwards like drifting fireflies.
As the light dimmed in the Pariah’s eyes, a figure coalesced in its stead—faint, translucent, cloaked in delicate fronds and moonlight. A younger Pariah. A seer. Eyes clear. Head high. Voice silent.
They looked to Elias, then to the sword, then past both—to a memory Elias couldn’t see.
The figure reached out, touching the Pariah’s shoulder, and the corrupted form stilled. Its horned head bowed fully now, pressing into the dirt.
Elias whispered, barely audible: "I’ll try to put it right."
The seer-echo’s face softened... a hint of relief, or gratitude, or maybe simply permission. They dissolved first, becoming amber dust.
The Pariah followed—shell breaking down into gentle mulch, leaving only one object where its heart had been:
A thorned core, dark as obsidian and pulsing with faint echo-light.
[PARIAH’S THORNHEART]
He stood very still. Sweat cooled under his armour. He finally remembered to breathe. Fennroot unrooted and curled back around him, adding comfort, its glow tempered but steady.
Above, through the gaps in the fungal canopy, drums began. Not battle. Not celebration. Recognition. A low, even rhythm carried through the trees—Leshei hearts syncing with the moment.
Elias sheathed the sword carefully, as if afraid it might shatter from exhaustion. His own legs didn’t want to cooperate when he tried to walk. He rested a hand on a stone pillar, waited until the shaking subsided.
"Come on," he murmured to Fennroot. "Let’s go see if they’ll actually talk to us now."
The path back to the village revealed itself—roots curling aside like a curtain lifting. Not welcoming, but open.
He took one last look at the place where the Pariah had knelt. There was no grave, just peace. A peace someone had earned the right to rest in again.
He stepped forward—toward judgment, toward expectation, toward something like the first real chance since arriving here:
To do better.
uncomfortable. Exhausting, frustrating, and a little unfair because Elias doesn’t get through this by being stronger, only by refusing to let something else decide who he is.
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- Did splitting this scene over 2 chapters distract from the story?