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  Chapter 12: Key

  Focusing on the veins once more, Sam quieted the sharp thoughts racing in his mind. He let his body relax, sinking deeper into the steady rhythm of his breathing.

  With a calm, practiced focus, he tried again to feel the veins, this time more gently. He visualized them, not as an invading force, but as part of a network; something that could be re-routed, redirected.

  Slowly, he concentrated on the thick vein running toward his shoulder. He didn’t try to force it back. Instead, he imagined guiding it, easing it to the surface of his skin, letting it rise and fall in a slow, controlled pattern.

  It took time; longer than he would have liked; but there was a shift. The pulsing became steadier, not so erratic. He focused on the flow of energy that had been out of his control, now slipping beneath his consciousness with more intention. He could feel it ebbing and flowing with the rhythm of his breath.

  And, for the first time since the poison had taken hold of him, Sam felt the barest trace of balance return. The quiet held. For a few moments, at least. Sam let his eyes flutter open. The room; dim, damp, stone-walled; was still. The only movement came from a single torch flickering on the far wall, casting long shadows across the floorboards and the empty cot beside him.

  His body felt heavier than usual, not from exhaustion, but from awareness. Every breath seemed tethered to something deeper now, as if the veins beneath his skin had become roots, anchoring him to the stone floor.

  He looked down at his arm. The green lines were still there, faint but unmistakable, threading from the inside of his elbow up to the slope of his shoulder. They didn’t pulse now. They simply glowed; quiet and waiting.

  He flexed his hand. No pain. Only a dull tingling, like the last whisper of a limb fallen asleep. Sam shifted upright, testing the stability in his legs. His stomach rolled, but he stayed upright. He reached for a nearby wall to steady himself, fingers brushing the damp mortar. Cold, real, grounding.

  He scanned the room again, cataloging its features now that his mind was clearer: reinforced door, iron lock, no windows, and a battered wooden table shoved into the corner with a dented tin pitcher and a single chair. There were no personal effects. No sign of who had been here before him; or who might come next.

  But he wasn't dead. That mattered. They'd given him the antidote. That meant someone still thought he was useful. The question was: for what?

  His legs wobbled as he took a careful step. He kept one hand braced against the wall, fingertips dragging along the cold stone, grounding himself in each stride. The simple effort of moving forward felt monumental; like wading through the aftershock of a dream not fully ended.

  The table waited in the far corner like an altar. The dented tin pitcher glinted dully in the torchlight, haloed by shadows. When he reached it, Sam didn’t hesitate. He gripped the handle with both hands and tilted it to his mouth, drinking deep, greedy gulps that spilled down his chin and soaked the collar of his shirt. The water was lukewarm and metallic, but it felt like life itself.

  Only when the last drop echoed into the bottom of the pitcher did he exhale, setting it down with a soft clatter. He slumped into the chair, breath hitching, sweat damp across his brow. For the first time since the poison, the room didn’t spin.

  Sam lifted his left hand slowly, holding it in front of his face. It trembled faintly, but not from weakness this time. He turned it palm-up, staring at the faint green shimmer beneath the skin, veins coiling together like ivy.

  "Was it a hallucination?" he murmured, voice low and raw. "Or was it real?" He narrowed his eyes, gaze locking on the spot where the veins met in the center of his palm. The memory of the fever dream surged; vines splitting skin, twisting out of his body like he’d become soil.

  He focused harder. The silence around him thickened. His breathing slowed. In his mind’s eye, he reached down through the rhythm of his breath, through the beat of his pulse, and into the slow surge of something older; something rooted.

  A shift. From the tip of his fingertip, the skin parted just slightly. A fine green tendril slipped forth between his skin; delicate, no thicker than a thread, swaying as if caught in a breeze. It unfurled six inches into the air, then stilled.

  Sam’s breath caught. Not a hallucination. Real.

  Sam stared at the tendril stretching from his fingertips; slender, green, and glistening like wet ivy in moonlight. It swayed gently in the still air, curling slightly at the end like it was tasting the room.

  He swallowed hard. "Move," he whispered, his voice rough. He narrowed his eyes and concentrated, trying to will the vine into motion. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then; slowly; it twitched, barely perceptible, a lazy bend at the tip.

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  A rush of adrenaline hit him. He tried again, his brows furrowed in concentration. This time he imagined it curling inward toward his palm. The vine twitched again; then coiled halfway, jerking like a puppet on a slack string.

  It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t obedient. But it was responding. Sam exhaled, steadying his breath like before. He reached inward, focusing not just on his thoughts but the feeling; the awareness that had slipped beneath his skin when he'd redirected the veins. A current of warmth flared faintly through his hand. The vine responded, coiling tighter, then uncurling in a fluid motion like a beckoning finger.

  Sam blinked, stunned. It wasn’t like moving a limb. It was more like coaxing something alive, something separate yet bound to him. The vine had its own presence; dormant, yes; but instinctive, and it was listening.

  He inhaled slowly, centering himself, and turned his focus inward once more. The vine hung suspended from his fingertips, pulsing faintly with an inner rhythm that didn’t feel entirely his own. But it responded; and that was something.

  With more focus, he imagined the tendril retreating, like a thread being drawn back into a spool. He didn’t force it; just guided it, calling it home. The vine trembled, then slowly began to withdraw. Inch by inch, it slithered back along his fingers, sliding into the pads of his fingertips without a trace. His skin knit itself shut seamlessly, leaving no mark; no wound. Only a faint warmth lingering in his palm.

  He released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Then, he saw it; the veins. Faint, glowing green, crawling beneath his skin like roots in soil. They shimmered up his forearm, curling in tendril-like loops past his elbow, reaching toward his shoulder like they remembered the path they’d once taken. It wasn’t just in his hand. It was in him.

  The heavy door groaned open without warning. Sam flinched, quickly dropping his hand to his lap just as two guards stepped inside. Their boots thudded against the stone floor, eyes already sweeping the room. One of them paused, brows lifting slightly at the sight before them.

  “Well, damn,” the taller one muttered. “He’s up.” The other snorted, closing the door behind them. “Didn’t think he’d come around this fast. Thought the antidote would knock him out longer.” Sam sat still, his shoulders square but loose, trying not to betray the weight of what had just happened. He kept his hand clenched in his lap, hiding the faint warmth still radiating from his fingers.

  “What day is it?” he asked, voice rasped and low. The guards exchanged a glance. “Doesn’t matter,” the shorter one said, approaching cautiously. “You’re alive. That’s enough for now.” The taller one crossed his arms. “How are you feeling?” Sam considered lying; but decided otherwise. “Like someone pulled my guts out and stitched in moss.” That earned a dry chuckle. “Fair.”

  Their eyes lingered on him, but neither seemed to notice the faint green tracing beneath his skin. If I can hold onto control, Sam thought, his gaze unmoving as the guards stepped further inside, I could make my move once they're distracted.

  He kept his breathing steady, fingers still curled beneath the table’s edge. The vine hadn’t stirred again; but he could feel it, a strange, dormant energy beneath the skin of his palm, waiting. Don’t rush it. Don’t show them. One careless movement, one flicker of green, and they’d dose him with something stronger. Maybe this time he wouldn’t wake.

  No. I wait. Watch. When they stop paying attention; when they turn their backs or reach for a flask or look at each other instead of me; that’s when I strike. Sam kept his expression vacant, eyes half-lidded, as though still groggy. "Yeah, well, he ain't dead," Crooked Nose said. "Maybe he’s just too damn stubborn."

  "Or too dangerous," the thin one muttered. They turned slightly toward each other, just enough.

  Now.

  Sam’s breath slowed. He centered himself, let the heat and movement from the vine in his palm rise. Slowly, carefully, he extended the tendril; just enough. It slithered from his fingertips under the table, curling like a feeler through the air. His eyes locked on the small brass key hanging loosely from the thinner guard’s belt.

  The vine brushed it once. A soft jingle. No reaction. Sam gritted his teeth, adjusting the pressure. The vine coiled tighter, slipped through the loop, and… got it. The key vanished beneath the table’s edge as the vine recoiled, reeling it back to Sam’s lap. He pressed it into his thigh beneath the tunic’s fabric, breath shallow. Neither guard had noticed. Sam kept his expression vacant, eyes half-lidded, as though still groggy.

  The thin guard gave Sam a long, assessing look. “Still looks half out of it. Pupils are blown. Probably doesn’t even know where he is.” The other guard chuckled. “Good. Let him stew. If he drops dead in the night, less work for us.”

  Sam let his head loll slightly, blinking slow and unfocused. His body slumped forward just enough to sell it. “He’s not going anywhere.” The thinner one gave the pitcher a glance. “He even managed to drink. That’s a good sign, I guess.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Come on. Let’s get some food while he’s still drooling on himself.” They shuffled out with the sound of scuffed boots and muttered curses, the door shutting behind them with a clunk.

  Only once the lock turned did Sam lift his head. Still here, he thought. Still breathing. Still in control. His fingers brushed the hidden key beneath his tunic, heart steady.

  Sam stayed seated for a while longer, keeping his breathing slow and shallow. He strained his ears, listening. Muffled laughter drifted through the stone walls. The guards, true to their word, were eating. Something clinked; bottles or mugs; and the slap of dice on a tabletop followed.

  He waited until the conversation picked up again, until their voices swelled with the confidence of full stomachs and full mugs. Then, slowly, he stood. Moving with purpose, Sam reached beneath his tunic and slipped the stolen key into the lock. It turned with a faint click. He held the door in place, easing it open just enough to slide through, then gently pressed it closed and turned the key again.

  One more soft click. The corridor beyond was cool and dimly lit, lined with old stone and smelling faintly of wet earth and beer. He padded forward barefoot, his steps careful. Just ahead, light flickered beneath a door. Through the crack, he could hear the guards laughing, arguing about the rules of their dice game. One belched, loudly. Another cursed.

  Beyond them, up a narrow stairwell, came the faint creak of floorboards. Movement. Voices. Something was happening above. Sam moved quietly past the door, toward the sound.