CHAPTER 87: THE MURKFEN KIN II

The path beneath Ash’s feet wound downward, slick with dew, as root-arches curled over them like the ribs of some great slumbering beast. The moss underfoot pulsed softly, like a heartbeat too slow for mortals to sense. Bioluminescent vines hung in long, trembling strands overhead, their pale light painting the world in shades of moonlit green and haunting violet.

Ash walked slowly, eyes darting to every flicker of light and shadow, "This place... it’s not natural," he murmured.

"It’s not supposed to be," Tholn said without looking at him, "The Nest remembers things older than names."

Each step felt like descending into a breathing cathedral. The walls were not stone but bark — ancient, knotted, and veined with glowing mycelium that shifted in color like slow lightning. Soft spores drifted through the air like lazy snowflakes, catching light in their descent.

"What are those spores?" Ash asked, watching one settle on his arm.

"Memories. Some say the Nest sheds them. Dreams that rot slowly."

Moisture clung to Ash’s fur, and the air was heavy — not just with scent, but with weight, like a memory pressing against the skin. He tasted minerals and old storms with every breath. Aether sang here, quiet and mournful, thrumming in the wood like a song only the dead would remember.

Far below and high above, lanterns floated in silence — shaped not like orbs, but gnarled claws curled around pale flame. They gave no heat. Only illumination... and a sense that each one was watching.

Towering trees with trunks as wide as fortresses held the Nest aloft. Their roots didn’t grow — they reached, tangled in midair like the fingers of titans locked in a prayer long abandoned. Pools of glass-still water reflected not the chamber around them, but stars — constellations Ash didn’t know, drifting through skies no longer real.

"Those stars..."

"Echoes," Tholn said, "The Nest’s way of remembering what the sky used to look like."

Not reflections. Memories.

Ash paused beneath one arch where vines hung in a woven curtain. Behind it, he caught a glimpse of a deeper space — one where the air shimmered like liquid and the roots whispered in languages he couldn’t understand.

His heart beat faster.

His beast senses twitched — something was watching.

Dozens of somethings.

"Feels like I’m being watched," Ash muttered.

"You are," Tholn’s voice was quiet, "Always."

He resisted the primal urge to growl.

No enemy lunged. No threat revealed itself.

But the Nest was awake.

And it was looking back.

Something shifted then — a rustle in the bark not caused by wind, a warmth that touched Ash’s spine without heat. The mycelium threads near his feet curled gently inward, as if beckoning. Above, one of the lanterns dimmed, then pulsed, then dimmed again — like breath held and exhaled.

Ash froze.

He felt... noticed. Not in the way prey felt the gaze of a predator. Not even how a warrior feels before a duel.

This was older. Stranger. Like a mountain regarding an ant — not with malice, but with memory.

He didn’t know how he knew.

But the Nest saw him. And more than that — it recognized him.

And for the first time in a long while, Ash wasn’t sure who was truly watching who.

He exhaled slowly, then glanced at Tholn, whose gaze remained fixed forward.

Without a word, they continued deeper.

The path narrowed briefly, the arches tightening, before blooming outward again — suddenly, expansively — into a vast hollow. The air here was denser, richer with ancient breath, and strung with mists that hung like silk from root to root.

The space then bloomed before him—an immense subterranean basin shaped not by chisels or tools, but by patient growth. Bioluminescent mist curled between hanging bridges and wide-root platforms. Homes were woven into trees, glimmering with fungal glow and rootlight. It wasn’t constructed. It had always been growing toward this shape.

Ash took a slow step forward.

"You all live here?" he whispered.

Tholn nodded, "We don’t leave the Nest. It is our cradle and our grave."

Ash scanned the hollow before him, his instincts crawling beneath his skin. The basin stretched wide and deep, ancient and alive — and in every corner, he felt it: the silent press of eyes. Of presence.

The Murkfen Kin were already there—woven into the very roots and hollows of this vast living place. They did not emerge, for they had never been hidden. It was Ash who now stood revealed.

They watched from every level of the living city—balconies carved into bark, high alcoves tucked behind webs of glowing moss, platforms spiraling around titanic tree-trunks that reached endlessly upward. Some leaned silently against latticework of vines and bone. Others hung suspended like still-winged moths from branches above. All of them stared.

There was no welcome. No whisper. Only the rustle of breath and the soundless weight of observation.

"Ash," Tholn said calmly, "don’t flinch."

"I’m not." Ash’s voice was low, "But if I were the type to run, this would’ve been the time."

Tholn didn’t laugh, but his silence carried the shape of amusement.

Ash’s gaze swept across the upper tiers. He could feel it — the weight of expectation. The stillness here wasn’t passive. It was watching. Measuring.

Some hung upside down like silent bats, watching. Others crouched in meditation, eyes slowly opening as Ash passed.

Their forms were as strange and haunting as the place itself — some tall and reed-thin, others squat with bark-like skin, some shimmering faintly with mist trailing from their limbs. Horned. Scaled. Eyeless. Too many eyes. Not beast. Not man. Not demon. Something else entirely.

Elders tilted their heads in greeting, their expressions unreadable. Some younglings whispered behind webbed leaves. A few reached out — claws half-extended — only to be drawn back by older Kin who said nothing, merely watching with eyes full of knowing.

"I don’t think they like me," Ash muttered.

"They’re deciding," Tholn replied.

He felt as though he’d stepped into the breath of an ancient god — and all its children had turned to see who had dared to inhale.

Then — movement.

Tiny footsteps. Quick and hesitant.

From beneath a coiled curtain of roots, a young Murkfen child padded forward. Its fur was soft and mist-pale, eyes luminous and wide. It paused, sniffed the air, then stepped closer.

Ash stood still.

The child reached out and pressed a clawed hand gently against his leg.

"...You’re real," it whispered.

Tholn tilted his head toward the child. "What do you see?"

The young one blinked slowly, "He smells like the root-heart. But not old."

"New can still be old," Tholn said, a faint trace of something in his voice—curiosity, maybe.

Ash opened his mouth, stepping forward slightly, "What does that mean?"

Tholn didn’t answer directly. Instead, his head turned toward the deep root-paths ahead. "We should keep moving. Elyrra is waiting."

Ash hesitated but followed as Tholn stepped forward, the mist parting before them.

Another child followed, then another — peeking from behind twisted trunks and crawling out of vine-ringed hollows. A cluster of them stood near Ash now, silent but curious, wide-eyed and reverent.

"They’re not afraid," Ash said softly.

Then, glancing sidelong at Ash, Tholn’s voice lightened with rare humor, "Still think they don’t like you?"

Ash gave a sideways glance, the corner of his mouth twitching, "I think the jury’s still out."

Tholn snorted faintly, "That’s generous."

As Ash and Tholn walked on, soft noises began to stir. A few of the younger Kin, small and hunched with oversized eyes, crept closer from their moss-ringed shelters. One with vine-wrapped horns blinked up at Ash, sniffed the air, and reached out a clawed hand.

Ash froze.

The youngling touched his arm lightly.

"It’s warm," the child whispered in awe, "Like the memory-tree."

Before Ash could respond, an elder called out in a low tone, and the child scampered away.

"They’ve never seen someone like you before," Tholn said.

Ash looked around, slower now, "What exactly do they think I am?"

Tholn didn’t answer. Not yet.

But the mist behind his eyes said enough.

The path widened, splitting into spiraling causeways suspended in the gloom. The further they walked, the more the air felt less like air and more like story — thick with memory, waiting to be read, inhaled, and understood.

Ash followed Tholn deeper into the living maze, the air thickening with history. The quiet around them wasn’t just absence — it was reverence. Every step felt as though they were intruding upon something sacred and half-awake, like walking through the forgotten breath of legends. Glowing fungi lit their steps, while mist clung to their fur like whispers. The light pulsed faintly in rhythm with something older — a deep-rooted life force that pulsed beneath the ground, ancient and ceaseless.

"Tholn," Ash said quietly, "the child earlier... they mentioned the memory-tree and the root-heart. What are they?"

Tholn glanced sideways, his pace unchanging, "The memory-tree is where the Nest records. Every beast, every cry, every death—it’s stored in the sap and spores. The root-heart... that’s its will."

Before Ash could press further, the path before them shifted—subtly, like a breath exhaled in stone. Runes shimmered and the mist rolled sideways, revealing a spiraling gallery of arching bark and bioluminescent script.

Tholn stopped, his voice was unreadable, "Ah! Here we are."

Ash tilted his head. "Where are we?"