Dawn found us gathered in the storage room, the list spread across a crate, its names burning in the lamplight.
Vance's face was pale. "This is... this is half the senior proctors. A council member. The head of admissions." He looked up at me. "If this is real, the conspiracy isn't just inside the Academy. It is the Academy."
Mira hadn't spoken since I told her about her aunt. She stood apart, her back to us, staring at nothing.
Elara touched my arm. "Roy... how do we know this isn't a trap? The woman could be lying."
"She knew about the Sylvan Circuit. About Kaelan. About the seed." I shook my head. "No one else knows those things. No one."
Dorn grunted. "So we trust her?"
"We trust the information. Verify it." I pointed to three names. "These are on patrol tonight. If we watch them, see who they meet, where they go..."
"And if they catch us?" Vance asked. "We're candidates. They're proctors. We have no authority—"
"We have Thalion's badge." I touched the silver dragon at my belt. "And we have the truth. Eventually."
Mira turned. Her eyes were red-rimmed but steady. "My aunt gave you a key. To the oldest chambers."
"Yes."
"Then that's where we start." She walked to the table, her voice flat. "The conspiracy is a hydra. Cut off one head, others grow. But the heart—the source—is Malachar. Stop him, and the rest scatter."
"You want to go after him directly?" Vance's voice rose. "He's centuries old. He's the Necromancer's son. He nearly killed us in the Grove—"
"He was playing in the Grove. Testing us. Toying with us." Mira's eyes met mine. "Roy faced him alone and made him run. With all of us, we can do more than run."
"He didn't run from me," I said quietly. "He ran from the corruption turning against him. From the trapped spirits. From the Grove itself."
"Then we give him more of that." Mira looked at the seed in my palm. "You plant that thing where he's strongest, and let it do what it does. We keep him busy until it's done."
Silence.
Dorn broke it. "I like this plan."
"You like any plan that involves hitting things," Vance muttered.
"Hitting things is good."
Elara surprised us all by speaking. "I'll come. I'm tired of being scared. I'm tired of watching others fight while I hide." She looked at me, and there was steel in her eyes. "If we're going to die, I'd rather die standing with my party than hiding alone."
Vance stared at her for a long moment. Then he laughed—a short, surprised sound.
"Well. When the cleric starts talking like a warrior, you know things are serious." He drew his sword, checked its edge. "Fine. Let's go kill an immortal acolyte. What's the worst that could happen?"
Dorn grinned. "We die?"
"Details."
---
The oldest chambers lay beneath the main hall, behind doors that hadn't been opened in centuries.
The key fit perfectly. The lock turned with a groan that echoed like a dying beast. Beyond, stairs descended into darkness so complete it seemed to drink the light.
I touched the seed in my pocket. It pulsed warm, eager, alive.
"Together," Mira said.
We descended.
---
The corruption hit us at the bottom of the stairs.
It wasn't like the Grove—diffuse, ambient, oppressive. This was concentrated. Focused. A living darkness that pressed against my Sylvan Circuit like a physical weight, searching for cracks, for weaknesses.
Vance gasped. Elara stumbled. Even Dorn's steady presence flickered.
Only Mira seemed unaffected, her flat fury a shield against the dark.
"He's close," she whispered.
The corridor opened into a vast chamber—older than the Academy, older than the mountain. Pillars of black stone rose into shadows. Runes carved into the floor pulsed with sickly green light. And at the center, seated on a throne of fused bone and corruption, waited Malachar.
He smiled as we entered.
"Party 147. I was wondering when you'd find your way here." He stood, stretching languidly. "I must admit, I'm impressed. Most candidates would have run. Would have hidden. Would have prayed for someone else to deal with me."
Vance's sword came up. "We're not most candidates."
"No. You're not." Malachar's eyes found me. "You, especially. Roy White. The gardener. The heretic. The one who speaks to ancient things." He stepped forward, and the darkness surged with him. "I've been waiting for you for a very long time."
"Then you've waited too long."
I pulled out the seed.
Malachar's eyes widened. "What—that's—no—"
I threw it.
The seed arced through the corrupted air, and where it passed, the darkness recoiled. It landed at the base of Malachar's throne, and for a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the chamber screamed.
The seed exploded with light—not the sickly green of corruption, but the warm gold of ancient life. Roots erupted from it, thick as pythons, reaching for the throne, for the runes, for the darkness itself. Where they touched, corruption died. Runes crumbled. Shadows fled.
Malachar howled.
"KILL THEM! KILL THEM NOW!"
The darkness answered.
Shapes formed from the shadows—twisted creatures of corruption and spite, born from centuries of accumulated evil. They surged toward us, claws extended, maws gaping.
Dorn met them first, his shield a wall, his axe a thunderbolt. Vance moved beside him, blade flashing. Elara's prayers pushed back the darkness, giving them room to fight.
Mira went for Malachar.
I followed.
---
The battle was chaos.
Mira's blade found Malachar's guard again and again, but he was faster, stronger, centuries of experience in every motion. He laughed as he fought, taunting, mocking.
"You think you can match me? A child playing at vengeance? Your father died screaming, girl. I made sure of it."
Mira's face didn't change, but her attacks grew wilder.
"He begged, you know. Begged for mercy. Begged to see his daughter one last time." Malachar sidestepped her lunge, his own blade slicing across her arm. "I told him you'd join him soon."
She stumbled. He pressed forward—
I stepped between them.
The seed's roots had reached the throne now, climbing it, wrapping it, feeding on the corruption that had sustained it for centuries. Malachar's power flickered, dimmed, died.
"Your strength came from this place," I said quietly. "From the corruption you fed on. From the darkness you cultivated." I looked at him, and for the first time, I wasn't afraid. "It's gone now."
He swung at me.
I didn't dodge.
I caught his blade.
Not with my hand—with the roots. They surged from the ground, wrapping around his arm, his wrist, his blade. He struggled, cursed, but they held.
Mira rose behind him, her sword steady.
"For my father," she whispered.
The blade took him through the heart.
Malachar stared at her, shock in his ancient eyes. Then, slowly, he crumbled—not to dust, but to soil. Rich, dark, fertile soil that sank into the roots and was gone.
The chamber fell silent.
The darkness was gone.
And at the center, where the throne had been, a single tree grew—young, strong, its leaves glowing with soft golden light.
The Heartwood had found its home.
---