The Ashes of Eden

The Sapling was uneasy.

For days, it had tasted the city in its roots: ash, oil, and the tang of fear. The orphans had not returned, and though the Sapling stretched its roots deeper and deeper, it found nothing but silence. It knew danger was coming, though it could not see the shape.

When the raiders arrived, they came with fire.

At dusk the forest edge broke into motion: men with torches, bottles of liquor stuffed with rag fuses, and iron sticks that cracked like thunder. Behind them stumbled the orphans, bound, bruised, and terrified. Ashwin was among them, blood dried along his temple, his mouth set in a thin, hard line.

The Sapling throbbed with alarm. Its beasts and plants stirred at once. The village leader raised his staff, and barked orders, his voice ringing across the clearing. The prophetess took Tarin and Isha to her side and whispered for them not to let go of her hand.

And then the first bottle was thrown.

It shattered on the earth near the pond, and fire bloomed like a hungry flower.

The Sapling struck back.

Roots surged up through the soil, tearing cracks in the earth. Raiders stumbled, screamed as wooden spikes punched through boots, skewering feet. A cloud of wings rose from the flowers, the Sapling’s bees.

They were massive, the size of a man’s hand, their stingers glistening like daggers. The air shook with their droning as they fell upon the raiders in a storm. Screams filled the garden as men clawed at their own skin, trying to rip the bees free.

One raider fired his gun blindly, the crack of it echoing across the pond. The bullet ripped through two bees before lodging in a tree. Another swung a torch, burning three of them from the air, only to collapse as the swarm buried him in stings.

Still, the raiders pushed forward, firing into the mass of buzzing wings. For every bee that struck, another fell, wings broken, twitching in the grass.

The Sapling unleashed its gardens.

Acid-spitting flowers hissed, spraying jets of green liquid that burned through cloth and flesh. Men shrieked as their arms blistered and peeled. Rock-flingers hurled rocks the size of fists with enough force to crack open skulls. Poison-ivy pods burst on impact, splattering sticky venom that blistered wherever it touched, and left a highly flammable oil on its victims.

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One raider stumbled back screaming, his face melting from an acid hit. Another doubled over, choking as a poison pod exploded across his chest. Yet the raiders kept coming, their torches lighting the garden aflame as they advanced.

The village leader shouted, raising his arms. “Hold fast! Protect the roots!”

From the shadows thundered the saplings bear, her massive form crashing through men like a living boulder. She rose on her hind legs and came down on one raider, smashing his ribcage flat. Her cubs darted at her side, smaller but no less fierce, biting and clawing at any who dared approach.

Gunfire cracked. The bear roared in pain as bullets splashed onto her flank, but she did not stop. She ripped a gunman in half, flung another into the pond, and trampled a third beneath her weight.

Then came tragedy.

Her cub, charging too far ahead, leapt at a raider wielding a shotgun. The blast echoed like thunder. The cub hit the ground mid-leap, rolling to a stop with blood pooling beneath it. Its tiny body twitched once, then lay still.

The mother’s roar was a sound the garden had never heard: grief and fury twisted into one. She tore three men apart in her frenzy, her claws red, her fur blackened by fire, but the cub did not rise.

The Sapling shuddered, light flashing through its trunk like a heartbeat of rage.

The raiders pressed forward with their fire. Bottles arced through the sky, smashing on bark, on hedges, and flowers. Flames spread quickly, eating vines, and choking the garden with noxious smoke. The pond hissed as burning liquor spread across its surface.

The village leader and residents fought desperately, rallying the people, and stamping out the fires. The prophetess shielded her brother and Isha beneath the trailing vines of the Sapling, whispering prayers through the smoke.

But the fire was spreading. And, if the Sapling burned, Eden would fall.

The tree spirit reached deep. At its heart stood its greatest weapon: the electric tree. Its branches trembled, the air around it buzzing with power.

From its crown, lightning fell.

A jagged bolt of white-blue shot into the raiders, striking a cluster of men. They exploded in fire and smoke, their bodies blackened in an instant. The shockwave rattled the pond, and made the orphans cry out in terror.

Another strike followed. Then another. The garden became a storm. Raiders dropped their torches, screaming, as bolts carved them down where they stood. Guns melted in their hands, flesh boiled, shadows burned into the ground.

The survivors broke. Some fled into the ruins. Others tried to dive into the pond, only to be dragged down by the roots waiting beneath the water’s edge.

When the last cry faded, silence fell.

The ground was littered with corpses. Bees crawled over the fallen, wings tattered. The flowers drooped, their pods empty, their vines scorched. The bear lay beside her cub, whining low, licking its fur in vain. The living cub pressed against her, trembling.

The village leader fell to his knees, coughing smoke. An old man leaned on his staff, his face streaked with soot and blood.

The orphans huddled together, staring at the ruin. Ashwin dropped to his knees before the Sapling’s trunk. His voice was hoarse.

“I thought I was clever. I thought I could cheat and take, like the adults. I thought I was strong.” His voice cracked. “But I brought all this. Death. Fire.” He bowed his head until it touched the roots. “Forgive them. Please. Let them stay. They will do anything you ask, Just… please, let my friends stay. I don't ask anything for myself. You can do whatever you want to me.”

The Sapling listened. Its grief was vast, its rage still smoldering. But it understood. The children were not the same as the men who had come with fire. They could yet grow.

But the battle had shown the truth. Fire had nearly destroyed Eden. Even its strongest defenses: its bears, and bees. The lightning tree: all had nearly failed.

The Sapling would not survive another raid. Not unless it vanished from the eyes of the world.

So it began.

Roots dug deep, hollowing chambers, sinking Eden slowly into the earth. The soil it raised became walls, winding paths, high hedges, and twisting corridors. The pond sank with it, hidden in the labyrinth’s heart. Above, the sky still shone, but now it was a secret sky, veiled by walls and greenery.

The saplings Eden was destroyed.

The labyrinth of the great tree spirit was born.

And in its heart, it forged a new weapons.

From its gourds it drew the memory of fire, of liquor, of glass. It pressurized the liquid within until it grew volatile. When thrown, they would not simply burn, but would explode, fire bursting outward in a rain of flame.

A weapon to answer fire with fire. The first of many.

And as the first gourds swelled in their vines, the Sapling made its vow.

Never again.

The labyrinth would never again be caught unguarded.