The Under-Root shifted.
Not forward.
Not downward.
Sideways.
Like the world decided to peel open along a memory she didn't choose.
Zoya stumbled mid-run as the ground beneath her flickered—shadow-water rippling into white, then dark, then white again, frames of two worlds glitching over each other.
"Not now—" she hissed, trying to force her Silence outward.
But the Under-Root wanted this.
It wanted her distracted.
It wanted her remembering.
And the memory it chose—
Was one she had buried deepest.
The floor dissolved beneath her for a moment, and she wasn't standing on pulsing root-flesh anymore.
She was somewhere else.
Someone else's darkness.
Azhar's.
---
FLASHBACK — YEARS BEFORE MANRAJ
The hall was narrow, lit by a single lantern swinging unevenly from a cracked beam. The old training compound always smelled of smoke and cold metal.
Zoya was younger.
Quieter.
Still learning how to shape Silence without letting it burn her fingers.
She stood in front of Azhar—who leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed, shadows pooling behind him like they were listening to him breathe.
He wasn't smiling.
He rarely did.
"What did you see?" he asked.
His voice was low, patient, but sharper than the blade he carried. He never wasted words.
Zoya stared at her hands. Silence flickered between her fingers—unstable, trembling.
"A… person," she said softly. "Someone I've never met."
Azhar studied her carefully.
"You are a reader," he said. "You sometimes catch impressions of people tied to the Root."
"That's not what this was."
Azhar's jaw tightened.
"Describe it."
Zoya took a breath.
"I saw a boy," she whispered. "Standing in water. Chest glowing. Like something was… waking inside him."
Azhar didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
Zoya continued, unaware.
"And I heard something calling him a vessel. A blank. A—"
"A replacement," Azhar finished, the word sharp enough to cut the air.
Zoya looked up, startled.
"You know him?"
Azhar stared at the flickering lantern. Shadows shifted around him as if reacting to his heartbeat.
"No," he said.
Then, after a pause:
"But I will."
Silence stretched between them.
He stepped closer until she could see the tiredness buried deep behind his eyes.
"Listen to me, Zoya."
She nodded.
"There will come a boy," he said quietly. "Someone the Root didn't finish. Someone the Under-Root will try to claim. Someone the Silence-Bearers will fear."
He placed two fingers lightly against her forehead—something he had never done before.
"When you meet him… you protect him."
Zoya blinked.
"But, Azhar—why me?"
He didn't hesitate.
"Because you're the only one who won't look at him and see what he was meant to be."
Her voice cracked.
"What will I see?"
Azhar looked away, shadows trembling around him.
"…someone who deserves to choose."
Zoya swallowed.
"And you? What will you choose?"
Azhar's shadow thickened.
Then, softly:
"I will choose him."
She didn't understand then.
Not fully.
Not until much later.
---
BACK TO THE UNDER-ROOT
The memory snapped like a rope being cut.
Zoya gasped as the Under-Root slammed back into place around her—dripping roots, pulsing floors, whispering shadows.
Her knees hit the ground hard, breath ripped from her lungs.
The voices circled her again:
"…shield who carries his memory… …shield who carries his name…"
She wiped the blood from her lip, forcing her Silence to flare steady.
"Azhar saw him coming," she whispered. "Azhar prepared me."
The roots above shuddered — irritated at her clarity.
Zoya stood, shoulders squared, fury powering her legs.
"And Azhar trusted me to choose the same thing he did."
She faced the direction where that thin line of Root-light had bled through earlier.
Toward Manraj.
Toward the rift he had fallen into.
Toward the choice Azhar warned her of.
Zoya exhaled sharply, Silence burning along her palms like white fire.
"Hold on, Manraj," she whispered.
"I'm coming."
The Under-Root howled—
—and Chase continued with Zoya running straight into the jaws of the dark, carrying Azhar's last promise like a blade.