Hate was a seed, a seed that, once given fertile soil, would gingerly tend to itself with the nurturing flows of water and intentful trimming of petioles. It was a seed planted in the heart; a seed whose insatiable hunger filtered out any love and mirth for its own greedy roots, fattening itself with decay. A selfish seed, not a plant, but a fungus. A heavy fungus that grew larger and thicker, kept plump with manure and filth. With each pulse of anger, it thickened, a heavy thing clotted in veins and arteries, its tendrils coiling tight until no warmth could pass without its bitter permission.

  A fed fungus knows no bounds—it grows, it consumes, until it is no longer just within the man but is the man, and then it swells into something fouler still. But a fungus need not be fed. Even one once long nurtured could be abandoned, left to wither. Bloated with history, it would take long to wither true, but time is a curative paired by no other. The fungus would shrink. Its roots would loosen their grip, and the blood, unshackled at last, would flow once more—the way it must for a man to live.

  The man opened his eyes, squinting as the unimpeded day star shone down upon him. The sky stretched clear and endless, not a single cloud to soften the celestial dance of winged deities above. All around, Tarragon monks bustled, their scrolls and ink brushes documenting the aberrant density of action in the skies.

  Dragons were creatures of stillness, their movements sparse—so much so that a single flight in a month was cause for celebration. Yet today, they had already witnessed three, and the air thrummed with anticipation for the expected fourth.

  The man himself did not follow in his colleagues' charged spirits as his impetus did not rouse on extrospection. Unlike most of his communal brethren, he had not joined the Tarragon's convent because of a shared curiosity about the dragons; rather, he had been on a much more personal pilgrimage.

  He was not entirely disinterested in the draconic happenings. He kept a passing attentiveness on the subject through the societal osmosis of the convent. In fairness, the dragons' activity did deserve attention as such bustling movements heavily implied action, which, when dragons were concerned, rarely lacked scale.

  The busy observatory no longer felt like a solitary room of meditation. The Tarragon monastery was fabricated from a colossal plant, its vast body blooming from the blood-red swamps below, winding up the base of the serpentine mountains. It stretched far beyond the tallest trees, a living sanctuary that sustained the monks in every way. Its hollow stems formed their dwellings, its nutrient-rich flowers provided nourishment, and its immense leaves became platforms for study and worship alike.

  The observatory rested upon one such leaf—an enormous lateral expanse now bending slightly under the weight of dozens of monks. They filed in with their telescopes and fibrous instruments, eager to document the sky's rare commotion. No one wanted to move to a lower platform; this was the highest, offering an unbroken view of the heavens.

  The man, however, had no stake in the dragons' spectacle. Sensing the strain on the leaf, he took his leave, slipping away so that the others might remain undisturbed in their wonder.

  The man stepped into the vast spiralling stairwell, its winding path carved into the hollow core of the great plant. The air grew cooler as he descended, the day's blistering heat giving way to a refreshing dampness carrying a faint herbal scent within the confines of the monastery's living walls.

  He placed a hand against the smooth inner fibres; thick, translucent veins ran along the stairwell's curvature, carrying luminous rivulets of water. The monastery drank deep from the swamp below, drawing sustenance through unseen roots, and the pressure of its circulation thrummed in the walls reverberating down his fingertips and filling him with a rhythmic, ceaseless heartbeat.

  It was a humbling thing to dwell within a body so vast, like all things from the swamp; it was neither wholly plant nor wholly beast, yet still, one that had cradled generations of monks within its hollow embrace.

  His room lay near the top of the monastery's residential tier, a modest leaf platform tethered to the central stalk. The residential leaves were light and flexible, their stems sturdy enough to support only a few occupants at a time.

  He was granted one of the higher positioned leaves due to his position of minor prestige as both a longstanding member of the monastery as well as a follower of one of the four principal dragons.

  His homely leaf was simple, as all the residential leaves were, for simplicity was a tenet of the Tarragon lifestyle. A monk must remain unburdened—lest the weight of their worldly possessions breaks the leaf beneath them, sending them plummeting into the sinful swamps below; a religious symbology matched with a potent practicality.

  Even by the standards of the Tarragon Monks, though, The man's home was particularly empty, nearly barren. No bed, no trinkets, no adornments—only a single oversized bubble of water resting by the edge of the leaf to serve as a mirror. He stepped closer, gazing into the bubbles' smooth surface. His own reflection stared back.

  Each monk wore a simple green himation woven from the very leaves and fibres of the monastery's great plant. But it was not their robes that made the Tarragon monks infamous.

  Across Trammel, the monks were known for two things: the perilous, inhospitable land they called home and the striking artistry upon their skin.

  Beneath their garments, nearly every inch of flesh was concealed beneath vivid strokes of green and red, a living tapestry of draconic trees, each line symbolizing a chapter of their journey.

  The paint was more than ornamentation—it was a declaration. The Tarragon monastery was a place of rebirth and absolution; through these sacred markings, each monk etched the story of their pilgrimage. Their painted bodies bore the weight of past failings, the fire of their convictions, and the path toward their draconic baptism—the threshold of their ascension.

  The man's body was a canvas, his pilgrimage etched into flesh. It began at the heart, where deep green paint bloomed into the twisted form of a cursed fungus. Its mycelium roots stretched outward, creeping along his limbs and culminating at his toes and knuckles. Meanwhile, the fruiting body rose to his chapped lips.

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  From the crown of his shaven head, red paint descended in bold, unrelenting strokes—Ménage, the Blood Dragon, crashing into the fungus at his mouth. The crimson deity coiled down his body, twisting in a fierce struggle against the invading blight. The battle played out in every curve and line, each motion frozen in paint, until finally, at the heart's center, the dragon's claw gripped the fungus's core in defiant triumph.

  To symbolize the dragon giving its blessing for the monk's redemptive mission, each monk would find a dropped fragment from their patron dragon and implant it into the top of their skull where the red dragon paint originated.

  As a follower of the path of the Blood Dragon, the man had a large round, pale-pink leaf that had once been a scale from Ménage's floral hide protruding up and back from his cranium like a large unwieldy headdress.

  The leaf that formed his chamber shifted beneath him, dipping ever so slightly. He turned toward the entrance, where a familiar face greeted him.

  As a follower of Muse, the Dragon of Knowledge, the approaching monk wore a long blue tuft of fur that cascaded from her scalp, as thick and flowing as any lush head of hair. Despite her age, her smooth complexion lent her a deceptive youthfulness.

  She smiled at him with a coy smile, "Will you not be joining in the observations, Squally?"

  Squally inclined his head in a subtle nod. "No. Regardless of my absence, I trust you'll ensure I'm well-informed of whatever discoveries arise. I am much more pressed upon my own meditation. I feel I am close to something tumultuous."

  His tone was flat, but internally, the very vocalization of his progress brought with it more anticipation. His meditation had brought him to the precipice of something momentous—something that clawed at the edges of his mind, restless and urgent. A shift was coming. He could feel it. The Blood Dragon would soon touch upon his fate line.

  The woman laughed at her conversationalist's bluntness. "I just don't see how a Tarragon monk can be so unconcerned with the lives of the dragons."

  Squally let out a sigh. It wasn't the first time he had been called out for his aberrant behaviour, and he was certain it would be far from the last.

  "I am not unconcerned with the dragons," He said, folding his arms. "I am just focused on my patron dragon above all else. Honestly, I should be asking you the same thing—how do you all have so much free time to study dragons beyond your own? Especially us. As worshipers of one of the four principal dragons, there's far more for us to concern ourselves with."

  The woman puffed out her chest, adopting a haughty air that clashed amusingly with the poise one would typically expect from a monk. "Well, it is precisely because I am a follower of Muse that it is my responsibility to know all about the dragon's society. And as a follower of Ménage, I thought you would feel the same way as me."

  Squally rolled his eyes at her playful theatrics. "I guess we have different interpretations of what Ménage seeks in us."

  "Suit yourself." She gave him a final wave before striding off, eager to join the gathering crowd at the observatories.

  Left alone, Squally listened to the low hum of the distant monks, their voices softened by layers of shifting canopy. He stepped toward the edge of his leaf and lay down, his weight pressing it into a gentle incline. The leaf cradled him, swaying ever so slightly as though the monastery itself were rocking him to rest.

  His eyes fluttered shut, and sleep took him.

  The curtains came to a close, swallowing the stage in darkness. A moment later, the overhead lights blazed to life, casting an artificial glow over a bewildered audience.

  Scattered murmurs rippled through the crowd as a few attendees glanced down at their tickets, double-checking the timestamp. The chapters didn't usually end so abruptly like this; they always concluded with either an invitation to The Tournament or some kind of greeting from the White Witch.

  Instead, the scene had simply… stopped. Some barely developed character had fallen asleep without doing anything interesting, and that was it.

  A young man dressed in fine attire strode onto the stage. He carried a polished megaphone and tapped its side twice before raising it to his lips. "Alright, everyone! We're starting intermission a little early. Feel free to stretch your legs, take a washroom break—whatever you need. The next chapter of The Tournament will go live in forty-eight hours."

  Much of the audience was unsure of how to act. People exchanged bewildered glances, hesitating. Then, as a few individuals rose from their seats, the rest followed in a slow, rippling wave.

  You, however, remained seated, watching the exodus. Your legs weren't particularly sore, nor did you need the washroom, but since the intermission was offered, you supposed you were a little peckish.

  The crowd moved sluggishly, and you found yourself waiting by your seat for a while. The theatre was massive, and every seat had been occupied at the show's start. Now, as people funnelled toward the exits, time stretched in an idle lull.

  You reached into your pocket, fingers brushing against your crumpled ticket. Unfolding it, you scanned the time stamp.

  ' The Tournament [A Non-Traditional Fantasy] - Chapter 60: An Acquaintance's Dream - Word Count: 4,227 Words

  The chapter shouldn't have ended yet.

  By the time you pulled your eyes away from your ticket, you realized something.

  You were alone.

  The auditorium, once brimming with life, was now cavernous and silent. You stood, ready to leave—to follow the others to the food stands—but as you took your first step toward the aisle, a strange hesitation gripped you.

  Your gaze drifted back toward the curtain. A slow, poisonous curiosity seeped into your thoughts.

  You weren't even that hungry. And with no one around to stop you…

  Perhaps a little exploration was in order.

  Rather than ascend the aisle, you moved down—heading toward the stage. You hadn't secured the best seat in the house, and now, standing at the foot of the towering platform, you truly grasped its magnitude. The stage loomed above—higher than you were tall.

  If you were going to explore on your break, you may as well go all the way.

  With a quick hoist, you pulled yourself up, hands pressing against the smooth wooden boards. Once mounted, you took a couple of steps to get to the very center of that theatrical world. You then turned around to see the view from the vantage point of a performer. Rows upon rows of empty seats stared back, an audience now absent, yet their presence still lingered in the air. You felt as if you were still being watched.

  Was this what it was like to be a character? Not a reader, not a spectator, but one of the figures within the story itself?

  Somewhere to the side of the stage, in one of the traveller wings, you could hear the soft rustling of fabric—Névé preparing her costume for the next chapter. You felt a niggling call to sneak out back and try to speak with her; she was one of the more heavily foreshadowed characters throughout the previous chapters.

  You had been watching this play for a long time now and so it was hard to remember every reference; but if you recalled correctly, she was supposed to be a child prodigy who Bennu the Phoenix said would be the most powerful human to enter The Tournament. Apparently, she betrayed humanity to join the White Witch, though, firmly cementing her as one of the story's villains.

  Having a chance to speak with her personally was enticing indeed, but you had something else you were even more interested in.

  Your fingers tightened around the edge of the red velvet curtain.

  And then, with a breath you barely registered, you stepped through.