Chapter 107: Questions, Questions, Questions! [FIXED!]

Mae wanted to question the creature. She wanted to demand answers, to understand why she had been brought here, to know what he wanted from her. But something deep in her gut told her to stay silent. He was letting her live. That was the only reason she was still breathing.

If she annoyed him, if she pushed too hard, if she asked the wrong question—those visions of death would return, and this time, they might not stop.

She looked around the chamber. Her eyes scanned the walls, the ceiling, the floor, searching for any exit that had opened up to her. A door, crack, or even a gap in the roots. However, there was nothing.

The roots had sealed themselves tight, woven together into an unbroken shell of living wood. No gaps. No weaknesses. The chamber was a prison, and she was the captive.

Mae’s heart pounded. Her hooves scraped against the stone.

"If Jason comes here," she thought, "it might trigger something in him again."

She had seen what he became when Ylva was hurt. The rage, and power.

The way he had torn the watcher’s arm off like it was nothing. She had no idea he was so strong, that he could do the things he did. But this creature—this sleeping god fused to roots and older than empires—was on a different level. Jason was a threat, yes. But there were levels to this. And there was no way Jason would be able to touch what was standing in front of her.

"I do not wish to harm you," the creature said, his voice soft but absolute. "I know you are scared. But stay still. I need you to keep me awake."

Mae’s brow furrowed. "Keep you awake?"

She looked at him more closely. His body was bound to the chair—or the throne, or whatever this fused mass of roots and wood was supposed to be. He could not rise or move. He could not even shift his position.

That was why he used the roots to interact with the world. They were his hands, his eyes, his voice.

The creature pointed at the apple.

It hung above him, deep crimson and pulsing, its glow faint but steady. The rhythm of its pulse matched the creature’s breathing—slow, labored, as if each beat required effort.

"Cut off three of your fingers," the creature commanded, "and feed it to the apple."

Mae’s blood ran cold. Her hands trembled at her sides.

"Cut off my fingers?" She thought because she knew it could take her whole so asking for just three fingers was kindness.

She looked at the apple. It pulsed again, almost hungrily. The creature’s golden eyes watched her without expression.

"Why would I mutilate myself?" Mae whispered.

The creature did not answer. He did not need to. The question hung in the air, heavy with implication.

Mae’s mind raced. She could not regenerate. If she cut off her fingers, they would not grow back. She would be maimed forever. But there was someone in this chamber who could regenerate. Someone whose body was designed to heal, to adapt, to survive.

The ant king.

Lying on the stone floor, hibernating, his tiny chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. He had healed Ylva’s fatal wound. He had grown back his own arm after the watcher tore it off. He could survive losing a limb.

"What about a whole arm?" Mae asked.

The creature simply looked at her. His golden eyes did not blink. His expression did not change.

Mae took that as permission.

She knelt beside the ant king’s sleeping form. Her hands hovered over his small body, trembling. She felt sick.

This creature had saved Ylva’s life, he had protected Jason. He had sacrificed his power to heal wounds that should have been fatal.

"I am sorry," she thought. "I am so sorry."

She grabbed the ant king’s arm and ripped it from its socket.

The sound was wet. Flesh tearing, chitin cracking. Dark ichor sprayed across the floor but the ant king did not react. He did not scream, he did not even twitch. His hibernation was too deep, his body too focused on survival to register pain.

Mae’s stomach lurched. She forced herself to stand, the severed arm clutched in her hands. It was light—lighter than she expected—and warm, still pulsing with the remnants of life.

She approached the apple and fed it the arm.

The fruit reacted instantly. Its skin split open, revealing a dark void within. The arm was pulled inside, consumed in seconds. The apple pulsed brighter. The glow intensified and the creature’s breathing steadied.

Mae stepped back, her hands covered in ichor, her chest heaving.

She knew it was best to do what she was told.

-

Jason stood beside Ylva, both of them staring at the sleeping figure on the bed of flowers. But they were not seeing the same thing which confirmed one thing.

"What do you see now?" Jason asked, his voice low.

Ylva’s ears twitched. Her tail was rigid. "The same as before. A male of my kind, beautiful in the way of my kind." She paused. "His fur is dark, almost black. His claws are long. His jaw is strong enough to crush stone."

Ylva added but she noticed something, the more she spoke, the more this thing looked like what she described.

"I see a human," Jason said. "A woman, actually. Long brown hair, soft skin. She looks... perfect."

Ylva’s brow furrowed. "A woman? I see a male."

They exchanged glances. The same figure. Two different perceptions.

They had repeated this conversation twice to make sure there was no miscommunication but one thing was certain, if Ylva wasn’t here he wouldn’t have known this.

Jason’s mind raced. He thought about the room—the flowers, the moss, the warm light, the absence of rot and death. This place did not belong in the Marrow. It was too peaceful, too beautiful, too full of life. It was designed to harbor life, not death.

"This creature must be projecting something," Jason realized. "The object of our idea of a perfect mate."

He understood now. The human he was seeing was not real. Ylva’s werewolf was not real. The figure on the bed was something else entirely—something ancient and powerful that used illusion to make itself appealing, to lower guards, to inspire trust or desire or whatever emotion would keep visitors from attacking.

But Jason was calm.

He stepped forward, his boots silent on the moss. Ylva grabbed his arm.

"What are you doing?" Ylva wasn’t about to allow him to put himself into unknown danger.

"I need to touch it."

"Jason—"

"I need to see what’s really there."

He pulled his arm free and reached out. His fingers hovered over the figure’s skin for a moment—then made contact.

The effect was instantaneous.

His ability to nullify magic—the same power that had made the watcher’s spells useless, that had absorbed mana and shattered barriers—surged through his fingertips. The illusion unraveled like smoke in a storm. The chestnut hair dissolved. The fair skin peeled away and the round ears melted.

And what remained was one of the ugliest things Jason had ever seen.

The creature’s true form was a twisted mass of grey flesh and exposed bone. Its skin was cracked, oozing, covered in lesions that wept a thick black fluid. Its face was asymmetrical, one eye higher than the other, its mouth too wide, its teeth jagged and yellow. Its body was emaciated, ribs visible through parchment-thin skin. It looked like something that had been dead for centuries but had refused to stop moving.

Ylva gasped. "What in the—"

The creature’s eyes snapped open right after.

They were not golden anymore. They were white. Completely white. No iris, no pupil, just empty orbs that reflected nothing. Its mouth opened wide—wider than should have been possible—and a shriek rang out.

The sound was not natural. It pierced through the chamber like a physical force, vibrating in the air, rattling the roots, shaking the flowers from their stems. Ylva clapped her hands over her ears, her face contorting in pain. Blood dripped from her nose.

Jason did not flinch, this thing had no effect on him whatsoever.

The shriek bounced off the barrier around his body—a barrier he had not consciously erected. It was like an auto-defense system, responding to the threat before his mind could register it. The sound waves splashed against the invisible shield and dissipated, leaving him untouched.

He moved right away the moment he saw Ylva in that state.

Faster than he had any right to move. His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around the creature’s throat. His grip was iron, absolute right before he squeezed.

The shriek cut off into a wet gurgle.

Jason leaned close to the creature’s twisted face. His voice was low, flat, and devoid of anything that sounded like mercy.

"Scream again," he said, "and I will kill you."

The creature’s white eyes darted left and right. Its clawed hands scrabbled weakly at Jason’s wrist. Its chest heaved in short, panicked breaths.

Ylva stared.

She had seen Jason fight. She had seen him dodge punches but this was new, the way he moved like a seasoned killer even though she didn’t absorb mana, tear the watcher’s arm off. But this was different. This was cold and calculated.

His face was blank, his eyes empty, his grip unwavering. There was no rage in him this time—just absolute, terrifying control.

"This is his killing intent," Ylva realized.

Not the hot fury of a man protecting his mate, not the desperate strength of someone fighting for survival.

This was the quiet certainty of someone who had decided that another being would live or die at his whim.

The creature stopped struggling. Ylva could finally think again as the wounds she had received already began to heal.

Jason held its gaze for a long moment. Then, slowly, he released its throat. The creature gasped, sucking in air, its chest heaving.

Jason stepped back with his barrier flickered and faded. His hands dropped to his sides. No one could see this barrier, that was the problem for his enemies.

Ylva lowered her hands from her ears. Her nose was still bleeding. Her ears were ringing.

"Jason," she whispered.

He turned to look at her. His eyes were normal again. Confused, even as if he wasn’t quite sure what had just happened.

"What?" he asked.

Ylva shook her head. She had no words to describe what she was feeling.