VISION ✔️ || The Keepers of Astraela #1

41.0 || Of Syringes and Tentacle Tongues

MYSTIA

"FUCKING CHIMNEYS."

No matter how hard Mystia had attempted to scrub her body, streaks of soot still marred her ivy skin. She'd even had time for a lengthy shower while her experimental tonic brewed, allowing her to thoroughly coat herself in soap layers, but it didn't matter.

As she glanced down at the syringe in her hand, she noticed yet another black mark on her wrist. She rubbed it against her shorts and muttered another string of foul language under her breath.

Mystia made her way through the Elysian Lily's bare back entrance, careful to avoid the door's larger splinters littering her path. She cast a leery glance at the shimmering white vial secured within her syringe. While she tried to assure herself that the trials had gone well thus far, she shook the contents nervously despite being fully mixed long before she ascended the Sanctum stairs.

If the tonic didn't work...

She shook the thought away. It would work. It had to.

Wet grass slid under her feet as she approached Sylvan. The Nethertree's branches swayed and creaked in a playful greeting.

"Well, old girl," said Mystia. "It's the moment of truth—"

She snapped her mouth shut when feral rattling, scratching, and banging noises erupted from within the tree. Bobbi's unintelligible screeches echoed into the night.

Mystia flinched. Even without the looming threat of her friend's eternal Corruption, she had to work quickly before the Guild noticed the racket. Though her tavern rested on the outskirts of town, and every local patrol had likely swarmed Faeran's home, it was still too close for comfort.

Taking a deep breath, she nodded to Sylvan.

Light flared from hair-thin cracks within its trunk and cast eerie shadows across the woods. Bobbi howled from the radiant magic's burn, only adding to a display that would result in their heads on a platter if the wrong person stumbled into the area.

The radiant blast settled, and the woods fell still. Mystia's breath hitched in her chest as she approached the Nethertree. Placing her ear to its trunk, she listened intently for any sign of life.

Nothing.

As she pulled the satchel from her shoulder, she couldn't remove her eyes from the trunk. A lump swelled in her throat. Had Sylvan given too big of a dose? Were the blasts too frequent? The Nethertrees were made for killing their prey, not keeping them alive, but she'd held onto the hope that her favorite child had the ability to adapt.

Mystia placed her satchel on the ground and stared at the syringe between her fingers. With a heaving sigh, she motioned for Sylvan to open her trunk.

The air filled with the cracking of sealed bark as Sylvan's compartment opened to reveal a darkened interior. Its overhead hellfire lamp had been shattered in Bobbi's rage, leaving nothing but the chain dangling from the top of the chamber. Claw marks dug into the bark in trenches so large that Mystia didn't want to think about how long it would take to fix. In the faint light, she could barely make out the Dark matter splattered across the cage.

Within the shadows, a limp figure sprawled against the back of Sylvan's trunk. Mystia let out a breath held for so long that it burned on the way out. She recalled Emrys' guilt over what had already happened to Bobbi.

What would this do to him?

A flash of shadow burst from the tree before she could react. Bobbi barreled from her confinement, eyes wild with fury as she knocked her captor to the ground. The breath was knocked from Mystia's lungs when she slammed into the grass, the syringe falling from her fingers.