The House of Roots 

Its doors bleed red,
its roots clutch the dead.
Walls breathe in silence,
and the Codex waits within.
 
No mason laid its stones, no hand carved its doors. The House of Roots rose from the earth the night the Codex first burned a scream into parchment. Trees clawed upward and twisted into its frame, bone and bark fused until death itself could not part them. Its windows bleed with a crimson glow, as though it drinks the light of every soul that crosses its threshold.
 
Some say the House is not a dwelling but a vessel, for within its halls lies a missing portion of the Codex — a page that never should have been inked. Those who enter seeking it hear whispers not in words but in the rustle of roots, the shifting of bones, the groan of doors breathing. Few ever emerge, and those who do cannot speak of what they saw. Their tongues blacken, their eyes sink hollow, and their shadows no longer belong to them.
 
The Codex marks this place not as a sanctuary but as a maw. To step into the House is to be devoured — not in flesh, but in memory. For the House remembers all who cross its path, and in its roots their names rot eternal.