It reached for it, grasping the scrap of material. It attempted to pass it to the missing limb, but instead dropped the scrap onto the ground before marching stiffly towards the rear doorway, now collapsed under the weight of burnt wood and sprawling vines. It barely slowed, its taloned hand reaching for the thrashing tendrils and tearing an armful clear. As it dug its way through, I followed in the servitor’s wake, tucking myself tight and avoiding the flowers. For beneath their petals, I could see rows of thorns that seemed to gnash like teeth.

My gait was still slow, reliant on the walking cane, but the machine’s pace was equally restricted by the ruins. We ascended the staircase, intact only because of the repairs overseen by Stylee. Now the bark was burnt away, whole sections were revealed to be recast in resin. Judging from the way it was layered, and in places aged, this must have been ongoing for months, as the mandack tree was slowly hollowed by the invasive tendrils.

We reached an impasse, where the stairs had crumbled. I half expected the glitching servitor to plunge into the abyss. But it slowed, twitching for a moment, before turning and proceeding along the corridor. There was something concerning about its gait; it stumbled at points and I could see curious marks on its grey skin, like tiny bites, the surrounding flesh swollen and discoloured. Though the servitor was lobotomised and immune to pain or discomfort, its biological components were still susceptible to certain toxins.

I followed tentatively, using my cane to ward off tendrils emerging from the cracked walls. Their pink flowers seemed drawn to me, perhaps attracted by my body heat. The damage was less here, at least from the fire, but if anything the infestation was worse. Perhaps the heat from the flames acted as a catalyst, or the death of the mandack tree had provided the opportunity for explosive growth. Either way, I swear the amber-flecked tendrils were attempting to encircle us.

I glanced back. Had the tunnel narrowed? Or was that paranoia? Both seemed equally probable, for I did not recognise the path we walked. I feared the deteriorating cyborg would lead us to a dead end and consumption by the encroaching plant, until it tore through the last of the roots, revealing a door at the corridor’s end. Beyond was a metallic lift shaft, long carved into the wood, the stained metal untouched by the invasive tendrils. Pipes ran beside it, carrying promethium to the inner sanctum. It seemed this was the industrial heart of Dolos’ rural retreat.

The servitor lumbered to the lock, engaging its implanted key on the second attempt.