His resolve was a fragile frame, and the storm of withdrawal was the gale trying to shatter it. Lauri Vatanen moved through the dying heart of his home, his actions driven by a cold, new purpose. Each step was a negotiation. His muscles, deprived of the nectar’s calming influence, spasmed with a life of their own. His hands shook, turning the simple act of gathering his tools into a clumsy, frustrating ordeal. He fumbled with the clasp of his old leather satchel, his fingers refusing to obey. Finally, it opened. He took out a small, curved knife with a bone handle and a coil of woven fiber, the basic instruments of a warden. They felt alien in his grasp.
He needed proof. He needed a weapon. He needed to understand the enemy that had stolen his home and murdered a village. He approached the weeping Grove Heart, the source of the poison. The air was thick with the chemical smell of rot and acid, a smell that scraped the inside of his nose. He knelt, his knees cracking. The floor was slick with the black, viscous fluid of the Tears of Ash. Using the flat of his knife, he carefully scooped a thick glob of the corrupted sludge into a small leather pouch. The sample was about a hundred grams, a heavy weight of pure decay. He pulled the drawstring tight, the biohazard contained but still radiating a palpable coldness.
As he stood, his eyes caught on something on the floor, half-hidden in the gloom. It was his Nectar Flask, the cracked gourd he had dropped in his final, paralyzing moment of failure. It lay empty in a puddle of corrosive slime, a symbol of his addiction, his weakness, his shame. For a moment, he felt an urge to kick it, to smash it into fragments, to erase the evidence of the man he had been.
He hesitated. The impulse lasted for fifteen seconds, a silent war waged in the ruins of the chamber. To destroy it would be to pretend. To leave it would be to forget. He bent down, his joints protesting, and picked it up. The gourd was slick with grime, but it was familiar. It was his failure, made solid. He would not run from it anymore. He tucked the empty, useless flask into his belt. It was not a comfort. It was a reminder, a stone he would carry to ensure he never forgot the cost of his despair.
Elina Rovio was still there, huddled by the entrance, watching him with wide, fearful eyes. He was a terrifying sight: a gaunt, shaking warden covered in the filth of the blight, his face a mask of grim determination. He walked toward her, his steps unsteady but deliberate. He was taking responsibility. He was a warden again.
— Go north. Find the Sunkenwood Clan. Tell them the Tears of Ash come from the east. Tell them it is a weapon. Warn everyone, — he said, his voice a raw rasp.
The apprentice healer stared at him, her mind struggling to process the command. Then, seeing the absolute certainty in his eyes, she nodded once, a sharp, jerky motion. She turned and fled into the woven-root passages without a backward glance. He was alone.
He walked to the edge of the Silent Grove, the place where the living, woven architecture of his home gave way to the wilder forest. This was the point of no return. Behind him lay his sanctuary, now his tomb. Ahead lay the territory of the Regalis Regime, a land of stone, law, and hostility. Stay and be consumed by the blight he had helped to fester, or go and face the enemy who had unleashed it. It was the choice between a certain, quiet death and a dangerous, uncertain life.
Lauri stood at the threshold and took a deep breath. For the first time in five years, the air that filled his lungs was not softened by the sweet, hazy perfume of nectar. It was sharp, cold, and unfiltered. It tasted of damp earth, of pine needles, and of distant, cold iron. The world, without his chemical shield, was suddenly hyper-real, its edges so clear they were almost painful. The sensory input was overwhelming, a flood of information he had long ago chosen to drown.
He had chosen this. He had traded his comfortable numbness for this agonizing clarity.
With his hand resting on the cold leather of the pouch containing the blight, Lauri Vatanen took the first step out of the Silent Grove. He crossed the invisible line, abandoning the only home he had ever known. The price was his sanctuary. The price was his peace. He paid it without looking back.
The forest ahead was unnervingly silent, an absence of life that suggested the blight was faster than he feared.
