Unscramble Roots Novels & Stories

Riley nodded once. “That’s actually really good. You don’t have to plan around anything—you just play.” And more importantly, it meant Abraham would always be consistent, which was exactly what Riley needed if he was going to push forward without constantly compensating for something unpredictable. “I’ve got abilities as well,” Abraham added. “Go on.” “One of them roots things,” he said. “Vines come up from the ground and hold them in place for a few seconds, especially if they’re already moving.” Riley nodded immediately.

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.

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.

When they were all in position, Loria nodded once. Each of them dropped to their knees, palms pressed to the earth. The wind fell quiet. Then—life answered. Roots surged from the ground, not chaotic but deliberate. Thick, strong—like the spines of great oaks. Trees began to rise, drawn upward by ancient energy, their trunks wide and their bark rough like aged ironwood. Their leaves shimmered with dusky green and silver hues, like moonlight through armor. Some trunks twisted gently around one another—interwoven, like the pack itself.

Kane must’ve picked up on the hopelessness I was feeling, because without further prompting from me, he continued. “I can’t help you, Layla, but I don’t need to. All you need to unlock the Root is a Catalyst.” My dread stalled, and I looked up at him with a frown. “A Catalyst,” I repeated dully. Kane nodded. “Yes. If the Root is a memory that seals you from your powers, then a Catalyst is like a key to unlocking that memory… If any of what I read back at the Crimson Shadow library is correct, then now that you’ve come in contact with the Root, even the merest contact with its Catalyst would trigger that memory free…”

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.