The "Bloom"

The sanctum was its usual vast and breathtaking, filled with living wood that curved into graceful arches bathed in gold light. Sun-shafts poured through cracks above, catching the drifting motes of dust and pollen like stars suspended midair. Yet beneath the beauty, an uneasy buzzing lingered in the air, a tremor of apprehension running through its roots.

Kagha stood in the middle, looking stern as ever, surrounded by a handful of higher druids who watched me with uneasy eyes. When she saw me enter, that composure faltered. A blush—quick and barely visible—brushed across her cheeks before she masked it behind her usual cool restraint. Her serpent stirred at her feet, tongue flicking in slow rhythm. But when Ethel followed, the color drained from her entirely.

“This is your ally?” Kagha demanded. “An old crone, four pathetic menfolk, and a pregnant woman? What is this?” Her gaze shifted to the casket and the stone statue, brow furrowing. “A circus troupe?”

Ethel gave a curtsy, her grin too wide for her wrinkled face. “A play, she says! Oh, I do love a show,” Ethel crooned, turning with theatrical flair. “These fine props were ordered by your friend, the warlock,” she added, pointing a crooked finger toward me with a wink.

Kagha’s eyes narrowed. “You brought props?”

I smiled faintly. “Offerings, for the Oak father.”

At the edges of the sanctum, the druids watched in tense silence. They weren’t fools. Kagha leading outsiders into the heart of their circle—especially strangers bearing even stranger artifacts—reeked of trouble. I caught their whispers, the suspicion threading through every word. None dared speak outright, but I could feel the weight of their eyes. Kagha turned, her voice snapping like a whip. “Back to your duties. The Ceremony is private.”

They dispersed reluctantly, though not before exchanging nervous glances. Even she felt their doubt; her jaw tightened.

Kagha gathered herself, motioning sharply for me, Ethel, and the strange entourage to follow as she led us deeper into the sanctum. We descended a steep flight of carved wooden steps until we reached the hollow beneath the Idol. The chamber stretched wide and low, carved by roots the size of tree trunks. Faint light bled through cracks in the wood, painting everything in a soft emerald hue. It was a place that felt alive and ancient. If the Idol was the heart of the Grove this was its stomach. I couldn’t help but wonder if the developers had ever imagined something like this, or if I’d simply stepped into a version of the Grove that the game had never dared to show.

“They used to conspire here,” Kagha said, more to herself than to me. “The Shadow Druids, with my help. This was where the Rite of Thorns was planned.” She paused, lips curving in a bitter half-smile.

I stepped closer. “This will be different. I have created this ritual myself, something never seen before."

Her eyes narrowed. “And what exactly are you planning?”

I hesitated, then spoke low. “To perform the Bloom properly, I’ll need to… prickle the cycle of Sylvanus.”

Kagha’s brow creased, suspicion darkening her features. She studied me for a long moment, then exhaled through her nose and gave a cold, humorless smile. “I suspected as much. I don’t disagree entirely. Nature is balance—but for some to grow stronger, others must grow weaker.” Her tone softened, a flicker of unease bleeding through. “I accept.”

Ethel snickered from behind me. “Ooh, you rascal,” she purred. “You’ve got something naughty planned, don’t you, you little weasel?”

I shot her a glare. “Get to it.”

Ethel’s grin widened, her teeth catching the green light. “Yeah, yeah, As long as I get the juicy parts.”

We set the stage. Ethel’s redcaps—disguised as silent, glass-eyed men—moved the casket and statue into place. Mayrina sank down in a corner opposite of the statue, hand on her swollen belly, her face pale and blank. I positioned Kagha in a quarter circle after Mayrina, facing the casket. I handed her the youth potion, its gold and green liquid shimmering in the Grove’s eerie light. She turned it in her hands, eyes wide with both suspicion and awe. “What is this?” she asked, her voice low and wary. “A powerful brew,” I said evenly. “The kind queens would kill for.” I looked to Ethel. “Right?” The hag stood at the center, her smile anything but reassuring. “Oh, yes,” she crooned, voice dripping with mock sweetness. “No curses, no tricks.”

Kagha didn’t look convinced, but she was too deep in it now—too close to reaching her goal. She gave a stiff, uneasy nod, more in surrender than agreement.

“Birth,” I said, nodding toward Mayrina. “Growth,” to Kagha. “Decay,” to the stone dwarf. “****,” to the casket.

Kagha looked around the circle, her eyes thoughtful. For a moment, she seemed almost satisfied.

Ethel gestured for me to step back. “Watch and learn, petal.”

Kagha held up the vial of youth potion, shimmering faintly. “Now what?” she asked, uncertain.

“Now,” I said, “you drink.”

Kagha hesitated but obeyed. She raised the vial to her lips and swallowed. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the potion took hold. Her skin shimmered, her hair lengthened, her features softened. The years fell from her like shed bark—until she looked scarcely twenty. For a breath, she was radiant.

Then, before she even had a chance to admire her new body, she let out a bloodcurdling scream.

The Rite had started.