Unscramble Roots Novels & Stories

“The fissure!” She drew my attention to the possible point of connection through which the damned being had managed to access her mind. Following her gaze, my eyes fell upon the grotesque roots spreading across the ground. Upon closer inspection, I realized these roots were more than mere extensions of the tree; they pulsed with a malevolent energy, a sinister glow emanating from their depths. The poison had infiltrated deeply into their veins, like a stealthy serpent silently poisoning its host. The black, twisted roots seemed alive, pulsing rhythmically, almost as if they were breathing. It was through them that the Dark God could access the sacred refuge of her mind.

The cracked pane shattered behind her. Both wolf parts turned toward each other. Then the nursery roots screamed as if something Adolphus buried had finally begun coming home.

All these different rootednesses. All these different quiet fuels. None of them the same. All of them necessary. The triangulation that produced what no single position could. The room holding the diversity. The diversity making the room strong. She pressed her hands flat against the cold earth. The roots below. The territory breathing. The record growing. The formation traveling. The companion thing reaching. The rootedness sustaining. The quiet fuel. The roots deepening. The water still. Rising still. Always. Third winter. The roots deep enough to hold through anything.

Two hundred pounds of solid muscle slam directly into the trunk of my tree. The roots scream as they rip out of the earth. The trunk tilts sideways. Crack.

His attention was only on getting the Noctra root as quickly as possible. Ciro signaled for them to stop. "There," he whispered, pointing to a patch of black roots wrapped around a glowing stone. "That’s what we need." Valen gasped. It was beautiful and magical as well. "We only need one." "Let's dig the root," Ciro suggested. "Root? Not the leaves?" Valen asked, surprised.

This is muscle memory from years of helping Mom in this garden. The dandelions come up with their long thick taproots, the kind that go down forever, searching for water in the drought. Sometimes they break off halfway and I can feel the snap in my fingers, that small vegetable violence. The crabgrass is harder—those shallow spreading roots that seem to go on forever, each clump revealing more, like pulling on a string and finding it attached to a whole web underground, everything connected, and if I could just find the center, the source, I could pull it all up at once, but I never find the center.

Chapter 58: The Root Cellar The woman in the red coat did not cast a spell. She didn't chant. She simply exerted her will, and the earth obeyed. The roots wrapping around Kaelen’s legs were not magic; they were nature weaponized by a mutation as old as the ice. They tightened like pythons, crushing the tactical gear my son had dressed him in. Kaelen struggled, his silver eyes flashing with calculation, but the roots were relentless. They pulled him down until his knees cracked against the cobblestones.

Dren murmured. “Yes,” I admitted. “But convincing lies are morale.” He groaned. We descended carefully, slow enough to stay alive but fast enough that our pursuers wouldn’t have time to get into position above us. Mara’s silhouette moved with controlled certainty. “Shift right. Use the root. It’s solid.” “That root?” I asked. “Yes.” “It looks cursed.” “It’s stronger than you.” “Rude.” “True.” Dren whispered, “Please stop… talking.” “Talking keeps you conscious,” I said.

A violent, psychic shove. GO! The aster, roots and tiny bloom, is ripped from the sundered cliff. Not into the void. Down. Through layers of screaming rock, weeping memory-vines, gnawing void-stomachs. Down into the absolute dark. Down into the core of the Unraveler’s cell. Its perfect, malevolent negation. The roots hit the impossible, non-dimensional walls of its prison. And… pierce.