The Preator’s lunge did not come as a strike.

It came as digestion.

The outer lattice of the root system vanished first—not torn, not burned, but quietly unmade, as though the red-gold filaments had been remembered incorrectly and the universe had politely corrected the error. The continuous climate between the third place and the living mansion compressed under the pressure, every filament drawing tight around the primary anchors like muscle contracting around bone. The ninth syllable flared in reflexive defiance and was immediately met by a vast, patient solvent that tried to dissolve specificity into something archivable.

Zelda felt it as a cold tongue dragging across the inside of her...