Two weeks later, Lyra crosses the threshold into Silverleaf cloister. The living halls should hum with sap-song, but now the air hangs heavy and sour, threaded with grief. Dark resin slicks the pale wood like old blood.
At the heart of the grove, Maerwyn Silverleaf stands with both hands braced against a trembling trunk. The tree shudders under her palms, as if something inside it is trying to wake and cannot.
Lyra
The sap is wrong here. It has gone black with corruption.
Maerwyn Silverleaf
Lyra. Good, you are here. Feel this, the grove is hurting.
The three Wound-Saints move in a guarded ring around the trunk, their veiled robes catching the dim green light. Each one watches the others, then the sap-stained bark, ready to defend the grove or themselves.
The Second Wound-Saint
It is not merely wounded. Something is nested inside the roots.
The Third Wound-Saint
Then we cut it free, or the whole cloister falls silent.
From deeper in the corridor, Eris Thornwake appears with her cloak damp from the mist, one hand lifted to shield her eyes from the sickly light. She stops at the edge of the grove, taking in the blackened wood and the shivering trunk.
Cleanse the corruption from Silverleaf cloister
Expose the source nested in the roots