The Injured Luna

Golden Roots

Chapter 23

Golden Roots

“He’s found the next one.”

The words had barely left my mouth when I took off running, feet pounding against the forest floor, heart racing like the hooves of a panicked herd. The trees blurred around me, the shadows deepening as the air thickened with something foul—like rotting leaves and burnt ash.

The child screamed again.

Closer this time.

Johnny and Richard sprinted behind me, their snarls vibrating through the pack link, but I didn’t wait. Couldn’t wait.

We burst into a clearing—moonlight spilling like silver blood across the grass—and there he was.

A little boy, maybe six years old, crumpled on the ground, eyes glowing white with the force of his awakening gift. And standing above him—towering, cloaked in that same monstrous, swirling blackness—was the shadow man. Only now, he was more solid, more formed. Almost human, yet not.

The shadows curled like smoke around the boy.

“No!” I screamed, power rippling out from my chest.

The ground quaked beneath my feet.

And then—they came.

Soft singing rose from the trees, ancient and melodic. My breath hitched as translucent forms emerged from the mist. Women in flowing gowns made of leaves and light. Men with spears woven of roots and golden crystal. Eyes like mine—piercing and amber, glowing with knowing.

“My ancestors,” I breathed. “You came…”

One stepped forward—tall, regal, her long braids woven with star-like flowers. “Child of earth and flame,” she said. “You carry the blood of the first. You are not alone.”

The shadow man hissed, recoiling from their light.

“Say the words, Anna,” another ancestor called. “You know them. They live in your bones.”

As if guided by instinct, I raised my arms. I didn’t know the language, not consciously, but the syllables poured from my lips like wind through canyon stone.

The ancestors chanted with me, voices braiding into mine, echoing across the forest.

And the earth listened.

The vines responded.

Thick roots erupted from the soil, writhing like serpents, curling around the shadow man. He thrashed, shrieking, his form cracking at the edges. But he fought back—tendrils of darkness stabbing at the vines, slashing at the light.

I felt fire rise in my chest.

Not to burn.

But to light.

I focused on the boy—his tiny form pulsing with terrified power—and then to the ancestors, their light a bridge between realms.

“Now,” one of them whispered.

I called the golden light.

It surged from the center of my being, blazing through my fingertips, down into the vines. They glowed, seared with the brilliance of the sun. The shadow man screamed—high and inhuman—as the golden vines coiled tighter.

“Darkness cannot survive truth,” my ancestor declared.

With a final cry, I thrust both hands forward.

The vines pulsed.

And with one blinding flare of light, the shadow man shattered—splintering into dust that dissolved like ash on the wind.

Silence.

The boy sobbed, and I rushed to him, gathering him into my arms. His tiny body trembled, but his light was calm now—tucked safely inside him like a candle behind glass.

“You’re safe,” I whispered. “You’re safe now.”

The ancestors watched me with warm pride.

“The battle is not over,” the leader said softly. “But you have turned the tide.”

And just like that, they faded back into mist.

Richard stepped forward, awe in his eyes. “Anna… you…”

I held the boy close and met Richard’s gaze. “We’ll find the rest. And we’ll stop whatever comes next.”

But even as I said it, the forest shifted—and far in the distance, I felt a flicker of something worse awakening.

Something older.

Something that remembered me.