MYCELIUS SPOREBORN's Arc

Chapter 1 of 7

Mycelius pressed the pouch of spores against his chest and felt them shift, still alive after months on the road. He had carried them from his dying underground home, past forests and empty valleys, looking for one patch of ground good enough to start his people again. His feet told him the truth of every soil he crossed. This ground told him nothing but death. Dry. Cracked. It would eat his spores like ash. He crouched and dug his fingers into the dirt anyway. It crumbled to gray dust. If he planted here, the spores would wither before they rooted. He had one pouch. There would be no second chance if he chose wrong. Then his feet caught something. A pulse in the earth, faint and warm, coming from a rise ahead. He followed it, and the dust gave way to darker soil, damp between his toes. He looked up. A great fungus tree stood there. Its trunk was wide as a house, crowned with layered brown caps, and smaller mushrooms grew along its bark like steps. But the roots were the thing. They spread out and dove into the ground, and where they touched, the dry land turned rich and black. Threads of light ran through the roots, blue and gold and green, feeding the soil. Mycelius laughed out loud. Spores drifted from his shoulders. His feet drank in the wet, living earth around the roots, the most fertile ground he had ever stood on. This was it. This was what he had walked half a year to find. He knelt at the base of the tree, loosened the pouch, and paused. His hands shook. He had not opened it since he left. Opening it meant the old home was truly gone. He thought of the elders who had stayed behind in the failing tunnels, who had waved him off and refused to come. He pressed his thumb against the cord. Then he pulled it loose. Pale spores tumbled into his palm. He worked them into the damp soil, one small handful, spreading them among the glowing roots. He covered them and waited, breath held. Within moments the ground stirred. Tiny white threads pushed up through the dark earth, reaching, taking hold. They had rooted. They were alive. Mycelius sat back and let himself breathe. His people had a place now. But the tree could feed only so much ground, and a colony needed more than soft soil. It needed shelter. Walls. A place to gather and plan. He rose and walked the rich ground, mapping it with his feet. Near the tree stood a hollow shape he had missed before, an old mushroom grown tall and firm, its cap a broad orange roof, its stalk hollow enough to hold a room. Someone had shaped it once, long ago, then left it. Dust filled the doorway. He stepped inside and set down his empty pouch. The colony would begin here.