The Argent Whisper drifted through a sea of liquid time, its garden-infused hull groaning as Kael's clockwork heart ticked backward. Lysandra crouched beside him, her storm-cloud eyes now blooming with silver petals. Garvin's bark skin had split, revealing sinews of living root. The crew had become what they'd fought—hybrids of flesh and flora, their bodies a battleground between the seeds' hunger and their fading humanity.
"We need to find Sera's flower," Lysandra said, her voice a harmony of windchimes and static. "Before the roots finish chewing through your gears."
Kael clenched his metal hand, rust flaking from the joints. The seeds embedded in his chest pulsed, their roots threading through his clockwork heart like parasitic veins. He'd hoped the transformation would buy them time. Instead, it had made them delicious.
"The Zmey said to seek the Clockwork Citadel," he muttered, studying the map burned into his chest. The lines shifted daily, but one landmark remained constant: a tower shaped like a key, its shadow pointing to a shore where the tides collided.
Garvin slammed his axe—now fused with thornvine—into the deck. "The Citadel's a myth. A story mothers tell to scare starweaver brats into bed."
"So were the Samodivi," Lysandra snapped. "Until they ripped open Tarn's throat."
The crew fell silent. Tarn's death still haunted the ship. His blood had nourished the garden, his last breath a dissonant note in the Old Ones' song.
Kael stood, roots creaking. "We go where the map leads. Even if it's into the Citadel's teeth."
The Citadel rose from the waves like a blasphemy—a spire of interlocking gears, its walls inscribed with the giant-kings' final warnings. The air smelled of oil and iron, and the sand beneath their boots crunched with the bones of failed pilgrims.
As they approached, the Citadel shifted. Gears rotated, towers folded inward, and a doorway yawned open, exhaling the scent of burnt ozone.
"Invitation or trap?" Garvin growled.
"Yes," Lysandra said, storm-marbles crackling in her palms.
Inside, the walls pulsed with bioluminescent fungi, their glow revealing murals of the giant-kings' last days: a fleet of ships swallowed by a maelstrom, a crown of stars dissolving into ash, a pact signed with ink that bubbled like a scream.
At the chamber's heart stood a pedestal. On it rested a key made of bone—Sera's bone, if the silver veins were any indication.
Kael reached for it.
"Stop."
The voice was Elara's.
A shadow peeled from the wall, its features flickering between the brother Malakai had loved and the void-thing he'd become.
"You're not real," Kael said, though the seeds in his chest squirmed.
"Aren't I?" The shadow smiled, teeth like fractured glass. "The Citadel remembers. It dreams. And in its dreams, I'm very much alive."
Lysandra hurled a storm-marble. It passed through Elara's chest, detonating harmlessly against the far wall.
"Clever," Elara said. "But this place eats violence. Try again."
Kael stepped forward, roots bristling. "Why are you here?"
"To warn you. The key isn't a tool—it's a test. Turn it, and the Citadel judges whether your story deserves an ending." The shadow's gaze dropped to Kael's chest. "Yours? A tragedy in three acts. Malakai's pawn. Sera's proxy. The garden's fertilizer."
Garvin lunged, thornvine axe raised. Elara dissolved, reappearing behind him.
"You've always been the knife, Garvin. Never the hand." The shadow pressed a finger to the cook's bark-skinned neck. "But the garden's changed you. Sharpened you."
Kael grabbed the key. "Enough."
The Citadel shuddered. Gears ground to life, walls folding like origami. Elara's shadow laughed as the floor dropped away, plunging them into darkness.
They landed in a cavern lit by the obsidian flower—Sera's flower—its petals radiating liquid shadow. The air thrummed with the Old Ones' song, but beneath it, Kael heard her: Sera's voice, frayed but persistent.
"The flower isn't a weapon. It's a bridge."
Lysandra staggered, clutching her blooming eyes. "She's here. In the roots."
Garvin hacked at the vines snaring his legs. "Then let's dig her out!"
Kael approached the flower, key in hand. The seeds in his chest screamed in recognition. This close, he could see the truth: the flower wasn't growing in the cavern. The cavern was growing from the flower.
Elara's shadow materialized beside him. "She's more gone than I am, wind-up. Whatever you're planning—"
Kael drove the key into the flower's stem.
The world unfolded.
Memories flooded Kael's mind—not his own, but Sera's.
He saw her standing at the First Tide, the Pact in her arms. Saw her dissolve into light, not to save the world, but to seed it. The obsidian flower wasn't her legacy. It was her prison.
"The Pact needed an anchor," her voice whispered through the roots. "Something to tether the new reality. I let them weave me into the garden… but the Old Ones followed."
Kael watched her final moments—the Pact's pages stitching her essence into the flower's roots, the Old Ones' laughter as they infested her sanctuary.
"They're using you," he thought, unsure if she could hear. "Your garden… it's their gateway."
"Yes," she replied, sorrow humming through the petals. "Break the cycle, Kael. No matter the cost."
The vision faded. The cavern trembled, roots retracting as the flower's glow intensified.
Elara's shadow hissed. "Fool. You've doomed them all."
"No," Kael said, wrenching the key free. "I've given them a choice."
The Citadel collapsed around them. Lysandra dragged Garvin through the disintegrating halls, storm-marbles carving a path. Kael stumbled behind, the flower's key burning in his grip.
As they breached the surface, the Argent Whisper waited, its garden-hull thrashing in the boiling surf. The Zmey circled above, wings blotting out the false stars.
"You took your time, wind-up," the dragon rumbled.
Kael brandished the key. "We're ending this."
The Zmey's laughter shook the shore. "You'll try."
The crew boarded the ship, roots knitting their wounds as the sails caught the maelstrom's breath. Lysandra took the helm, her flower-eyes fixed on the horizon. Garvin tended the garden, his bark-skin regrowing with vicious speed.
Kael stood at the prow, key pressed to his chest. "Where now?"
The Zmey swooped low, breath reeking of burnt galaxies. "Where all lost things go. The Well of Unwritten Endings."
The crew exchanged glances. Even Garvin hesitated.
"And after?" Lysandra asked.
The dragon's gaze softened. "After, you'll wish for simpler monsters."