The first vessel lived in the bones of a dying city.
Jace arrived as dusk folded over rusted rooftops. The air felt sterile—no birdsong, no wind, only the steady hum of fluorescent lights from the high-rise at the city's center. The address whispered through his mind came from her: floor seventeen, apartment 1713, a woman who once studied soil.
He passed abandoned cars swallowed by ivy that pulsed faintly when his aura brushed near. His boots echoed on cracked pavement until he reached the building's doors—choked with vines that parted like curtains as he approached.
"She dreams in silence," murmured Gia. "She resists awakening."
Elevator cables groaned as he climbed fourteen flights on foot. The halls above smelled of mildew and old rain. When he reached 1713, he didn't knock. The vines around the door bloomed white, unsealing the lock.
Inside, the apartment felt more like a garden than a home. Pots crowded every surface, roots snaking through floorboards into the walls. Fluorescent bulbs buzzed overhead where sunlight no longer reached. In the middle of it all, a woman knelt—barefoot, hair gray-green with moss.
She looked up when he entered. Her eyes glimmered faint gold.
"I was wondering when she'd send you," she said. Her voice was calm, almost relieved.
Jace hesitated. He had imagined resistance, not recognition. "You know who I am?"
"You're the next one." She smiled faintly. "Another chosen child trying to save the woman who can't be saved."
He stepped closer, uncertain. "You're infected."
"Awakened," she corrected. "She calls to us all. But I refused her. I remembered I was human."
The word human tasted strange on his tongue. "She suffers because of humanity."
"Then heal her, don't become her."
Each sentence from her lips made the mark on his skin throb hotter. Vines began sliding down from the ceiling, responding to his agitation. Her own plants twitched defensively, trembling in the stagnant air.
"Your denial hurts her," he warned. "Your resistance feeds her grief."
"And what does your obedience feed?" she asked softly.
The silence that followed burned.
He drew the vine‑blade from his belt. Its light filled the room with emerald fire. The woman didn't move.
"Show mercy," Gia whispered lovingly. "Free her from confusion."
Jace's hand trembled.
"I'm sorry," he said, and meant it.
He struck once—clean, swift. The vines around them writhed, crying out in soundless bursts of bioluminescence. Her body sagged gracefully, as though released from weight. The plants covering her apartment bloomed at once, filling the room with the scent of rain and endings.
As the glow dimmed, Jace fell to his knees, catching his breath, tears streaking dirt across his face. He whispered to the stillness, "Forgive me."
Her voice answered from somewhere deeper than sound.
"You have. Mercy is never forgiveness—it's understanding."
By morning, nothing of the apartment remained. The building had cracked open down its spine overnight, vines spilling from within like veins of molten emerald. Authorities sealed the district, calling it "organic biochemical collapse."
Jace stood on the neighboring rooftop, watching black smoke rise against the dawn. The blade at his side pulsed faintly, absorbing what was left of the woman's energy.
He whispered to the wind, "That was one. There are twelve more."
Around him, the skyline burned with streaks of green as if the planet itself approved his work. But inside, something small and weary twisted—a flicker of doubt he buried before the voice could sense it.
"You bring peace," she cooed. "And he brings chaos. Keep walking, my son."
Jace turned away just as rain began to fall, each drop turning to light before touching his skin. The mission pressed forward, radiant and terrible.
The world called it disaster.
He called it deliverance.