The sour note in the grove’s song had not faded with the dawn. Lauri Vatanen sat with his back against the warm, living wall of the Grove Heart’s chamber, the half-empty Nectar Flask resting on his thigh. The nectar he had taken the day before had worn thin, its placid blanket frayed to a few useless threads. The low, ambient hum of the grove, the measure of its vitality, remained stuck at a discordant eighty-three percent. It was a quiet, persistent wrongness that vibrated in his bones, a constant reminder of his own failing stewardship.
He held himself coiled, a defensive posture against a threat that was already inside the walls. The warmth of the nectar still lingered in his belly, but it was a sluggish heat, offering no real comfort. His mind felt slow, his alertness blunted by the residue of his escape. He should be tending to the outer root-weaves, inspecting the mycelial conduits for stress, but the thought of the work, of the focus it required, was exhausting. It was easier to sit here, in the dim green light, and wait for the need to drink again to become sharp enough to act upon.
A change in the air, subtle as a shift in pressure, made the fine fur on his arms prickle. The steady rhythm of the grove’s hum was disturbed by a new sound, the soft, deliberate scuff of paws on the mossy floor. Lauri did not move, did not even turn his head. He knew those footfalls. Slow, measured, and impossibly quiet for a creature of such size. An external presence, here in the heart of his sanctuary.
Ilmar Kallio entered the chamber. The elder Lore-Keeper was tall, his dense fur the pale grey of a winter sky, marked with faint, dark green patterns that resembled moss growing on birch bark. Deep amber eyes, set within a lean, thoughtful face, took in the entire chamber at a glance. He moved with a slow, deliberate grace that belied his age, his presence a point of quiet authority in the wavering light. He smelled of damp earth and pine resin, the scent of the deep forest itself. Lauri remained still, hoping his silence would be mistaken for meditation, a warden at his work. A foolish hope.
The old Ailuropodine’s gaze swept past Lauri as if he were just another feature of the room, another woven root or mossy stone. Ilmar’s attention was fixed entirely on the Grove Heart. He approached the massive, pulsating flower and laid a broad, steady paw against its bark-like surface, right over the spot where Lauri had coaxed out his dose of nectar. He closed his eyes, his expression becoming distant, his consciousness sinking into the life of the great plant. Lauri felt a familiar prickle of resentment. He was being assessed. His home, his work, his failure—all laid bare for the Lore-Keeper’s inspection.
Ilmar’s brow furrowed for a fraction of a second. His paw traced a line on one of the petals, where a faint, almost imperceptible discoloration marred the healthy, fibrous texture. It was a bruise on the soul of the grove, a tiny testament to the strain of yesterday’s communion. Lauri knew what the elder was feeling through that connection: a two percent increase in the baseline biotic stress, a quiet alarm bell ringing in the heart of the grove. Ilmar’s eyes opened, and this time they settled on Lauri, and on the cracked gourd flask resting in his lap. The elder’s gaze was not accusatory, merely observant, which was somehow worse.
— A fence is a statement of what you value, inside and out, — Ilmar said, his voice a low, quiet rumble like stones shifting at the bottom of a deep river. The words hung in the still air, simple and heavy.
Lauri said nothing. He tightened his grip on the flask, his knuckles pressing into the flawed gourd. He hated the elder’s penchant for speaking in aphorisms, for turning every conversation into a lesson. He just wanted to be left alone with the dull, manageable ache of his own making.
Ilmar continued, his gaze drifting toward the chamber’s entrance, as if he could see through the woven walls to the distant, open plains where the fortress-cities of the other Ailuropodine sub-race stood. — The Regalis build theirs of stone and law. They believe order is a wall against the Withering. We weave ours from life, from roots and symbiosis, believing freedom is the only way to adapt.
He paused, his amber eyes returning to Lauri, pinning him in place. — But both can become a cage.
The words landed like stones. A cage. Lauri felt a surge of anger, hot and sharp. This grove was his home, his sanctuary. It was the only thing left. To call it a cage was an insult he could not ignore, yet could not voice. His heart rate quickened to a frantic eighty-five beats per minute, a trapped, annoyed rhythm against his ribs that he knew the elder could likely sense.
Ilmar gestured with one broad paw toward the unseen world beyond the grove. — Is it better to die free in a decaying world, or live as a cog in a machine that never rusts?
There it was. The question. The choice he had spent years trying to drink away. It was not a philosophical riddle; it was a judgment. Ilmar was asking him what he had become. A free warden of a dying grove, or a cog in the small, decaying machine of his own addiction. The pressure in his chest was immense. He had no answer.
So he gave the one he had.
With a deliberate, almost theatrical slowness, Lauri lifted the Nectar Flask to his lips. He met Ilmar’s gaze over the cracked rim of the gourd. This was his answer. This was his fence, and his cage. He took a long, slow drink, letting the warm, sweet liquid coat his tongue. He swallowed, the act a clear and final refusal to engage. The price of this small defiance was the last shred of connection to the world outside his own head, and he paid it without hesitation. He drank nearly a fifth of what was left, another tenth of a liter gone.
Ilmar watched him, his expression unchanging. He did not sigh, did not shake his head. He simply observed the choice being made, the retreat being sounded. When Lauri lowered the flask, the elder gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod, as if a transaction had been completed. His objective was met. He had come to state the theme, to hold the mirror up, and Lauri had shown him exactly what was reflected.
Without another word, Ilmar Kallio turned and departed the chamber, his footfalls as quiet as falling leaves. He left a vacuum in his wake, a silence that was heavier and more profound than the one he had interrupted. Lauri was alone again, his isolation now measured and confirmed, a staggering ninety-five percent.
The nectar’s warmth spread through his chest, a familiar, welcome tide. It pushed back the sharp edges of Ilmar’s words, dulling the anger and the shame.
But the quiet was different now. The question the elder had asked remained, a sour note in the grove’s song that the nectar could not wash away.
A cage of life, or a cog of stone.
The question echoed in the sudden emptiness of the chamber, a quiet poison for which he had no antidote. He took another small sip from the flask, but it did nothing. The words were already in his bloodstream.
The air felt colder. The green light of the Myxoids seemed dimmer than before.
