The village "armory" for this specific trial was not the secure root-chamber where Bessie and Soul-Drinker were currently being held hostage.

  Instead, Kael escorted us to a damp, earthy-smelling storage shed dug into the side of the canyon wall. It smelled of wet hay, rust, and the distinct, sharp tang of fertilizer.

  It was filled with what could only be described as a farmer's worst nightmares.

  Rakes with missing teeth leaned against the walls like skeletal hands. Heavy, wooden-handled hoes lay in piles. Rust-pitted scythes hung from the ceiling, their edges dull and jagged. There were damp coils of fibrous vine-rope, empty baskets, broken pottery, and harvesting implements I couldn't even name.

  Our escorts stood by the entrance, their faces grim. They weren't guarding us from escaping; they were guarding us from stupidity.

  “Choose wisely,” Kael said, his voice flat. “The Deep Garden does not forgive mistakes. And it hates iron.”

  Faelar was apoplectic. He stood in the middle of the shed, his hands clenched at his sides, his face a thundercloud of pure, dwarven outrage.

  He kicked a large, empty gourd, sending it skittering into a dark corner.

  “A rake?” he whispered, his voice trembling with fury. “She wants me to walk into a sentient death-jungle… with a rake?”

  He picked one up. The wooden handle was thin and flimsy in his massive grip. He looked like a bear trying to hold a toothpick.

  “This is an insult! An insult to my honor! To my beard! To my entire lineage! What am I supposed to do? Gently groom the monsters to death? Maybe give ‘em a nice scratching behind the leaves?”

  “Technically,” Elmsworth offered, examining a bag of dried seeds, “plants do not have ears to scratch. Though they may possess mechanoreceptors sensitive to vibration.”

  “I don’t care about their receptors!” Faelar roared, throwing the rake down. It clattered uselessly against a pile of pots.

  Liam, by contrast, was moving through the shed with a calm, analytical grace. He was adapting to the new tactical parameters, though I could see the tension in his shoulders.

  “Amateurs,” he murmured, picking up a wicked-looking, crescent-shaped sickle used for cutting thick-stemmed fungi.

  He tested its edge with his thumb. A small bead of blood welled up.

  “This has a nice curve,” Liam noted. “Good for close work. Better than a dagger for a slashing fight, if you know how to use it. I can make this work.”

  “No fighting,” I reminded him. “Elara was clear. If you cut a vine, the garden kills us.”

  “I’m just taking it for… pruning,” Liam lied, tucking the sickle into his belt. He found a discarded, heavy leather apron—stiff and stained, likely used for handling caustic plants—and began strapping it to his chest and arm. “Improvised armor. Better than nothing.”

  “This is beneath me,” Faelar grumbled again, kicking at a pile of broken shovel handles.

  He began rummaging through the darkest corner of the shed, muttering curses against elves, trees, and sobriety.

  “A garden hoe? You expect me to defend myself with a tool for digging potatoes? I am a warrior! I am the son of Thrain! I am… ooh, what’s this?”

  His grumbling stopped abruptly.

  He had found something half-buried under a pile of rotted sacks. He hauled it out with a grunt of effort.

  It was a massive, iron-headed sledgehammer. It was the kind of tool used for breaking bedrock or driving fence posts into petrified ground. Its handle was thick, smooth, and sturdy hickory. Its head was pitted with rust, square, and heavy as a small boulder.

  A slow, savage grin spread across Faelar’s face.

  He lifted it. He tested the weight. He swung it in a short, powerful arc that made the air whistle.

  “Now this,” he said, hefting it onto his shoulder. “This has potential. The balance is all wrong, and it’s got no proper edge, but it’ll smash a plant just as good as it’ll smash a rock. I’ll call it… ‘The Persuader’.”

  “Faelar,” I warned. “You cannot smash the plants. That counts as aggression.”

  “I’m not gonna smash ‘em,” Faelar promised, patting the cold iron. “I’m just gonna… vigorously landscape them if they get too close. It’s a gardening tool, Commander. For heavy-duty weeds.”

  Elmsworth, meanwhile, was in heaven. He wasn't looking for weapons at all; he was looking for reagents.

  He ignored the tools entirely and went straight for a pile of sacks in the corner, sniffing them with a connoisseur's nose.

  “Aha!” he cried, pulling out a handful of dried, incredibly pungent fungi. “Phallus Impudicus! Stinkhorn! An excellent choice for an olfactory deterrent! Or perhaps a botanical pheromone masking agent! If the plants smell us, we can simply smell like worse plants!”

  He stuffed his pockets with the stinking mushrooms.

  Willow was the only one who seemed to have actually listened to the mission briefing.

  She bypassed the sharp tools and the heavy iron. She went to the gardening supplies.

  She gathered a pair of thick, stiff leather gloves, stained green from use. She picked up a large, watering can made of tin. And finally, she heaved a heavy sack of dark, rich-smelling soil over her shoulder.

  “Fertilizer,” she explained when she saw me looking. “And water. If the garden is hungry or thirsty, maybe we can feed it instead of fighting it.”

  “Bribery,” Liam nodded approvingly. “I like it.”

  I took my spear—my only true advantage, allowed by Elara’s "grace"—and found the lid of a large, iron-banded wooden barrel. It was heavy, clumsy, and smelled faintly of pickled fish, but it was a shield.

  I slipped my arm through the broken handles. It would have to do.

  I gathered them at the shed's entrance. This ridiculous, cobbled-together strike team.

  A dwarf with a sledgehammer named The Persuader. An elf with a harvesting sickle and a leather apron. A wizard with pockets full of stink-shrooms. A gnome with a watering can. And me, with a fish-smelling shield.

  We looked like a group of very angry, very confused farmers who had collectively decided to declare war on a salad bar.

  Kael, our escort, sighed deeply. He pointed toward the southern end of the valley, where the trees grew so thick they blocked out the sun.

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  “The Deep Garden is that way,” he said, his voice flat and devoid of hope. “Try to be… calm. The roots can smell your heart rate.”

  The entrance to the Deep Garden was not a gate. It was a mouth.

  Two massive, ancient trees had grown together, their trunks twisting around each other like lovers—or wrestlers. The space between them formed a dark, arched tunnel that led down into a gloom so thick it felt like water.

  The air here was different. It was hot, humid, and heavy. It smelled of crushed leaves, wet soil, and something sweet and cloying, like rotting fruit.

  As we stepped across the threshold, the silence of the valley vanished.

  The Garden was loud.

  It was a low, constant rustling sound. Leaves rubbing against leaves. Vines slithering over bark. Roots shifting in the earth. It sounded like a million tiny whispers.

  “I don’t like this,” Faelar whispered, gripping The Persuader tight. “It feels like walking into a stomach.”

  “Relax,” I ordered softly. “Lower your heart rate. Don't threaten it.”

  We walked in single file. I took point, followed by Willow, Elmsworth, Liam, and Faelar bringing up the rear.

  The path was narrow, choked with ferns that reached waist-high. Above us, the canopy was a solid roof of green, blocking out the sky.

  We hadn't gone twenty feet when it happened.

  A large, wet leaf, heavy with dew, swung down from a branch. It slapped Faelar directly across the face with a wet thwack.

  It was harmless. It was just a leaf.

  But Faelar was hungover. He was tired. He was on edge. And he was a dwarf.

  “Get off me, you leafy bastard!” Faelar roared.

  Instinct took over. He swung The Persuader.

  The heavy hammer whistled through the air. He didn't hit the leaf; he hit the trunk of the tree it was attached to.

  BOOM.

  The impact shook the ground. Bark flew.

  The reaction was instantaneous.

  The low rustling sound stopped. For a second, there was total silence.

  Then, the Garden woke up.

  The vines hanging from the ceiling didn't just sway; they snapped taut. The ferns around our waist stiffened, their edges turning serrated and sharp. The air pressure dropped.

  “Faelar!” I shouted. “Stand down!”

  “It hit me first!” Faelar yelled, raising the hammer for another swing.

  The vines lashed out.

  Three thick, green tendrils shot from the canopy. They didn't aim for Faelar’s head. They wrapped around his arms and his waist, lifting him a foot off the ground.

  “Hey! Put me down!”

  More vines shot out, aiming for the rest of us.

  “Don't fight it!” Willow screamed. “It’s reacting to the aggression! Faelar, stop fighting! You’re making it angry!”

  “I’m the one who’s angry!” Faelar bellowed, struggling against the vines. The more he struggled, the tighter they squeezed. Thorns began to protrude from the green skin of the vines, digging into his leather armor.

  “Liam! Cut him down!” I ordered, raising my shield to block a whipping branch.

  Liam reached for his sickle.

  “No!” Willow yelled. “If you cut it, it will think we’re enemies! Faelar, you have to calm down! Breathe!”

  “I can’t breathe! I’m being hugged by a tree!”

  “Drink the cider!” Liam shouted. “Faelar! The flask!”

  Faelar’s eyes went wide. He stopped struggling for a second. He managed to wiggle one hand free. He reached into his tunic and pulled out the Magically Expanded Flask.

  He uncorked it with his teeth. He took a massive, desperate gulp of the glowing blue liquid.

  The effect was immediate. The electric tingle of the Blue Cap cider hit his system. His eyes unfocused slightly. The red flush of rage on his face faded, replaced by a soft, beatific smile.

  His beard began to glow a gentle, soothing blue.

  “Oh,” Faelar sighed, his body going limp in the vines. “That’s… that’s better. Hello, tree. You have… very firm grip.”

  As soon as Faelar stopped fighting, the vines paused. They sensed the shift in his bio-rhythm. They sensed the blue glow of contentment.

  Slowly, reluctantly, they uncoiled.

  Faelar dropped to the ground with a thud. He didn't get up. He just lay there, hugging his flask, humming a little tune.

  “It works,” I breathed, lowering my shield. “It actually works. We have to stay calm. Aggressively calm.”

  “Excellent,” Elmsworth whispered, scribbling in his notebook. “Botanic empathy confirmed! Reaction time: 0.4 seconds. Stimuli: Dwarven rage.”

  We moved deeper.

  The path was blocked by a wall of writhing, thorny vines. They were thick as my leg, woven together like a basket. They pulsed with a slow, green heartbeat.

  “Hydra-Vines,” Elmsworth identified. “If you cut one, two grow back instantly. And they spit acid sap.”

  Liam stepped forward, twirling his sickle. “I can chop fast.”

  “No chopping,” Willow said firmly. She pushed past him.

  She put on her heavy leather gloves. She picked up the watering can. She walked right up to the wall of killer vines.

  “Hello,” she said softly. “You look thirsty.”

  She tipped the can. Water splashed onto the roots of the wall. She reached into her sack and sprinkled a handful of the dark, rich fertilizer onto the mud.

  “Here. Good food. Good drink.”

  The vines shuddered. They absorbed the water. They tasted the soil.

  Slowly, like a heavy door opening, the vines parted. They pulled back, creating an archway just big enough for us to walk through.

  “After you,” Willow said, beaming.

  “Remind me never to make her angry,” Liam muttered as we walked through the living archway.

  The deeper we went, the stranger it got. The air grew cooler. The light shifted from green to a twilight purple.

  We reached a clearing covered in a carpet of soft, grey moss.

  “Mimic Moss,” Elmsworth hissed. “Don’t look at it too closely. It reflects psycho-active projections.”

  Too late.

  Faelar looked down. He stopped.

  “Goblins,” he growled. His beard flashed red. “Thousands of them. In the moss. Look at their little teeth!”

  He raised The Persuader.

  “Faelar, no!” I grabbed his arm. “It’s just moss! Look at me!”

  Liam stopped. He was staring at the ground, his face pale.

  “I see… files,” he whispered. “Mission reports. Redacted names. Why are my files in the moss?” He reached for his dagger, his hand trembling.

  “Fascinating!” Elmsworth cried, staring at his own feet. “I see a chalkboard! But… the equation! It’s wrong! The variable is missing! I must correct it!”

  He reached for a stick, ready to scratch the moss.

  “Stop it!” I yelled. “Everyone, eyes up! Look at the ceiling! Don’t look at the floor!”

  I grabbed Faelar by the collar and shoved him forward. I kicked Elmsworth in the shin. “Move! Don’t engage the vegetation!”

  We stumbled across the clearing, eyes fixed on the canopy, tripping over roots, until we reached solid earth again.

  We were exhausted. Our nerves were frayed. Trying to suppress our natural instincts to fight or flee was draining us faster than any battle.

  Suddenly, we were pinned.

  We had walked into a grove of Strangler Roots. They were everywhere—hanging from the trees, shooting up from the ground. They formed a cage around us. They were tightening.

  “We’re stuck,” Liam said, his voice tight. “If I move, they tighten. If I stay still, they tighten. We need a way out.”

  “I’m out of water,” Willow said, shaking her can.

  “I’m out of cider,” Faelar said, shaking his flask.

  We were trapped. The roots were closing in.

  Then, a soft cluck broke the silence.

  Nugget waddled past me.

  The chicken walked right up to a Strangler Root that was currently squeezing the air out of my personal space.

  The root paused. It hovered over the chicken.

  Nugget looked at the root. He saw a beetle crawling on the bark.

  Peck.

  Nugget ate the beetle.

  The root quivered. It didn't strike. Instead, a smaller tendril reached down and… petted the chicken. It stroked Nugget’s feathers gently.

  Nugget purred.

  The roots parted for the bird. They sensed no malice. No guilt. No complex anger. Just pure, simple, biological hunger. To the garden, the chicken was innocent.

  “The salad likes the bird!” Faelar shouted, outraged. “Why does the salad like the bird and hate the dwarf?!”

  “Follow the chicken!” I ordered. “Stay close to him! Act like poultry!”

  We shuffled behind Nugget, huddled together. We tried to clear our minds. We tried to think of beetles and corn.

  The roots let us pass.

  We broke through the final barrier.

  We stood in the center of the Deep Garden.

  It was a circular clearing, bathed in a shaft of pure sunlight that pierced the canopy.

  In the center of the clearing sat a massive plant. It looked like a Venus Flytrap, but the size of a carriage. Its jaws were closed, forming a pod.

  It was snoring. A low, rumbling sound that shook the leaves.

  And inside the translucent pod, glowing with a soft, warm light, was the Sun-Seed.

  “There it is,” I whispered. “The objective.”

  “It’s inside the mouth,” Liam pointed out. “Of a sleeping carnivorous plant.”

  “We have to get it without waking it up,” Willow whispered.

  “How?” Faelar asked. “Someone has to reach in there.”

  “Not reach,” Liam assessed. “Walk. The jaws are too big. You have to walk inside, grab the seed, and walk out before it snaps shut. It’s a pressure trigger. Like a trap.”

  We looked at each other.

  “I’ll do it,” Faelar said, hefting his hammer.

  “No!” we all hissed.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you will try to punch it from the inside!” I said.

  “I won’t!” Faelar lied. “I’ll be gentle! I’ll be… stealthy. Like a ninja. A dwarven ninja.”

  He took a step forward. The ground shook as his boot hit the earth.

  The plant stirred. One eyelid—it had eyelids—fluttered open.

  “Okay,” Faelar whispered. “Maybe not me.”

  “I’ll go,” Liam said. “I’m the fastest.”

  “You smell like fear,” Elmsworth noted, checking his readings. “The plant will taste the adrenaline.”

  “I’ll go,” Willow said. “It won’t hurt me.”

  “It’s a plant, Willow,” I said. “It eats bugs. You are bug-sized. It’s too risky.”

  We stood there, staring at the sleeping monster, the prize so close and yet so deadly.

  Then, Nugget clucked.

  He looked at the plant. He looked at the glowing seed inside. To him, it looked like the biggest kernel of corn in the universe.

  “Oh no,” I whispered.

  Nugget began to strut toward the open mouth.