The subroot passage hated straight lines.
That was how I knew it belonged to the Garden.
Dungeons preferred efficient cruelty. Corridors, chambers, traps, boss rooms. The Catacombs had a funeral architect's sense of drama: long halls, echoing bells, alcoves for bones. The academy preferred arrogance made geometric.
The Garden grew like memory.
Roots curved where grief had touched them. Steps bent around old stone. Black water ran upward along bark-veins, carrying petals that flickered between white, silver, and ink. Every few meters, a whisper brushed the walls.
Names.
Not ours.
Students trapped deeper in the breach. Servants locked in side rooms. A kitchen boy under a fallen shelf. Two Obsidian girls inside a storage alcove filling with black water. A Silver student pretending not to be afraid because his house crest was visible.
The route had dragged the forgotten under the Garden because Elara would hear them.
Cruel.
Elegant.
