Mere's throne rose from the ruin of the grove like a blister on rotted flesh — roots twisted into a high-backed seat, bones lashed together with strips of vine and hair. Skulls — small ones — hung by cords, teeth rattling softly in the hush breeze. Beneath it, the hush pulsed: a heartbeat that had no right to be alive.
Rafi and the braid girl crouched behind a wall of moss-thick trunks. Her breath ghosted across his shoulder as she peered through the gloom.
"He's waiting for you," she murmured. Her eyes were fever-bright again — hush spores flickered in her pupils like trapped fireflies.
"I know," Rafi said. He felt the hush humming in his own blood, a traitorous warmth that made every step toward that throne feel like stepping back into the nightmare that should have ended in ashes.
He stepped into the clearing first, boots sinking in soft loam that oozed sap when pressed. Mere lounged on the throne, arms draped over bone armrests, a crooked crown of sap-slick twigs resting on his matted hair. His smile gleamed wet and wide.
"Rafi. My lost brother." Mere's voice oozed out, sweet as poison. "Did you come to kneel?"
Rafi didn't answer. He glanced at the braid girl — she hovered at the edge, shadows swallowing her shape. For a heartbeat, she looked less girl than sprout — bark cracks lining her cheeks, moss clinging to her braid like a shroud.
Mere laughed. He threw his arms wide, as if to bless an invisible congregation. "Look at them! They came to stop me. To kill their own dream of silence!" He leaned forward. "But it's too late, Rafi. I have given the hush a body — my body. My mouth. My hunger."
Rafi stepped closer, fists clenched so tight his nails bit skin. The hush pulsed louder: Root and bone. Tongue and bark. It wanted him to join Mere — to bow, to hush his grief forever.
"No more kings," Rafi growled. He tossed the old journal at Mere's feet. Pages fluttered like dying birds. "The hush is a grave, not a crown. And you're too stupid to know you're already buried."
Mere rose from the throne. The hush rose with him. Roots cracked the earth, coiling up his legs, threading into his spine until he loomed half-boy, half-fungus, crowned in writhing branches.
"Then bury me yourself, brother," Mere rasped. His mouth split wider than human lips should — rows of tiny root-teeth pulsed inside. "If you can."
He lunged. Rafi met him head-on, a collision of bone and bark, blood and old grief. The braid girl screamed behind him — or maybe the forest screamed — or maybe he did.
They crashed against the throne. Roots lashed Rafi's arms. Mere's laughter choked off in a gurgle as Rafi found the soft place beneath the roots at his throat and shoved, fingers digging through pulpy bark and slick, reeking sap.
Mere's eyes went wide. The hush hissed, shaking the grove. Rafi thought of his mother, his father, all the children with teeth rattling on this throne. And he whispered one word:
"Burn."
The braid girl lunged from the shadows, her braid trailing sparks. She struck the throne with a flint rock, once, twice — a spark caught on the sap oozing from Mere's body.
The flame bloomed fast and furious. Mere shrieked, half-human mouth gulping smoke, then root-flesh split with a final wet crack. The throne toppled backward, a pillar of screaming fire.
Rafi fell to his knees. The hush roared through his veins, demanding to live — but the flames hissed back louder.
He crawled to the braid girl. Her eyes were clear again, terrified but alive. Together they watched Mere's throne become an inferno, the hush howling like a storm trapped in a child's mouth.
One king less. One root closer to death.