The air inside the clan's inner sanctum was thick with humidity. A greenhouse roof arched overhead, letting in streaks of filtered sunlight through layers of leaves, vines, and bioluminescent flowers that never stopped blooming—even in darkness. The floor pulsed faintly beneath her feet, a sign the underground roots were active, absorbing trace essence from the soil.
Deya kept her hands in her coat pockets, walking straight past the younger trainees who paused to bow slightly. Not from respect—but from habit. Even after everything, they still recognized her bloodline.
Not that she cared.
"Deya Floren," a voice called behind her. Formal. Controlled. It belonged to Instructor Vale, one of the old guard who'd somehow survived the rebranding. His tone was neutral, but his eyes flicked to the whip holstered on her side.
"You've returned," he said. "For good this time?"
"Just long enough," she replied without slowing down.
He didn't follow. They never did. This place had changed its face—no more war crimes, no more coercive poisons, no more "accidents" on enemy grounds—but it hadn't changed its roots. The vines were still the same. Only now, they coiled with guilt instead of pride.
She passed a wall covered in old clan banners. One was covered with a black tarp. The past.
That past still clawed at her throat.
Her mother was waiting in the central bloom chamber, a space that looked more like a temple than a dojo. Thick green stalks twisted up from the floor, each one filled with glowing toxin sacs. Essence-infused flora danced in lazy patterns above the shallow water that pooled near the meditation stones.
"Didn't think I'd see you standing here again," her mother said. "Let alone willingly."
Deya tilted her head. "I came for answers. Not a welcome."
Her mother didn't flinch. "Then you'll get them. But first… you'll need to understand why we train the way we do. The world doesn't care if your methods are clean."
"I already know that," Deya muttered.
"Then act like it," her mother snapped. "Because you're still weak. And weakness, in our family, gets buried."
There was a long silence. Only the hiss of a venom-spitting flower broke it.
Finally, Deya nodded toward the far end of the chamber. "I want to see it."
Her mother's brow furrowed. "See what?"
"The Labyrinth."
Her mother stared at her for a beat, then slowly stepped aside. "If you walk those paths… your old fears will follow."
"Let them."
She stood before the vine-covered gate, fingers hovering over the seal that pulsed with dormant energy. The Clan's personal training ground—once a place used to break minds and bodies, now rebuilt into a proving ground.
"You always did walk ahead of yourself," her mother said behind her. "Maybe this time, you'll find what you're chasing."
"I'm not chasing anything," Deya said, eyes locked forward.
"I'm planting something."
The gate hissed open.
Roots and thorns awaited.