A bitter aftertaste clung to the back of his tongue. Rocher tossed the vial in his satchel, hoping it was just the healing draught.

  He crouched beside a fallen Night Warden and pressed two fingers to the man's throat.

  A pulse. Slow. Steady.

  Alive.

  The breath he let out felt like it came from somewhere deep in his bones. He lowered his hand and sat back on his heels, staring at the man's sck face, the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

  Bone. Nerve. Breath.

  Not blood.

  He had stopped himself in time.

  The realization loosened something knotted tight behind his ribs.

  He had felt the moment where it would have been easier to finish it. To let himself go.

  Ferric's way.

  He had not crossed that line. Not this time.

  Behind him, Seraphine leaned against a tree, shoulders rising and falling with heavy, deliberate breaths. An empty vial dangled from her fingers, forgotten. She dragged a sleeve across her mouth, smearing red along the fabric, then straightened as if offended by her own weakness. Her spine locked into something resembling composure, though her hands still shook faintly at her sides.

  Rocher stood and turned toward her. "You should sit."

  "I'm fine," she said automatically. Then, more honestly, "Just... give me a moment to catch my breath."

  The ground shifted beneath their boots.

  Not violently. Not like before.

  Roots slid through loam and leaf litter, thick cords of wood pushing upward as if testing the air.

  Seraphine froze.

  "...Ysel," she murmured.

  Rocher felt it too. The forest's attention settling back into itself, awareness spreading outward like a held breath finally released. The oppressive pressure of sanctification was gone. The nd no longer felt muted, strangled.

  The roots coiled, then rearranged themselves with careful intent, bark and fiber shifting into meaning.

  NYXARA. FERRIC. ALIVE.

  Both wounded. Both still standing.

  Images followed in fragments rather than words: Nyxara kneeling amid shattered stone, hands glowing with bitter, precise magic as she warded the pylon's remains; Ferric moving like a living inferno beyond her, golems pacing at his heels as they hunted down fleeing stragglers.

  Seraphine sagged against the tree, a sound breaking out of her that was half ugh, half sob before she could stop it. She pressed her forehead briefly to the bark, eyes squeezed shut.

  "We did it," she whispered, as if afraid the forest might hear and reconsider.

  Rocher nodded, throat tight. "We won."

  The word felt strange in his mouth. Heavy. Conditional.

  The roots shifted again.

  More impressions followed, faster now.

  CLAIRE. EVELYN. ALIVE.

  The breath Rocher hadn't realized he was holding left him in a rush. His hands clenched hard enough that his knuckles ached, then loosened.

  Now the only thing left was make it to the rendezvous point, where Ysel would deal with any pursuers.

  He extended a hand towards Seraphine.

  But then the roots twisted.

  Agitation rippled through them, fibers tightening, reshaping too quickly this time. The impression sharpened before it fully resolved, urgency bleeding through the forest's living network like pain.

  One word formed.

  AMBUSH.

  Seraphine paled.

  Rocher's heart smmed against his ribs.

  "Cire."

  He did not hesitate.

  Magic surged inward—not to his arms, not to strike—but to his legs. Gold fred along the runes etched into his boots.

  The ground dropped away beneath him.

  "Rocher!" Seraphine called. "Wait—!"

  Her voice vanished behind him as the forest tore past in a blur of shadow and motion.

  Evelyn and I ran.

  We moved fast but deliberate, cutting through the forest at an angle rather than straight for the rendezvous, following paths that bent subtly away from sanctified residue and churned earth.

  The forest around us felt sluggish, dulled, still recovering from the cordon's weight. Roots did not rise to trip our pursuers. Branches did not shift to hide us.

  They could not help us now.

  Padins crashed through the underbrush behind us, breath ragged, armor cttering as they cursed and shouted orders that overpped and contradicted one another.

  Then—gradually—something changed.

  The noise thinned.

  Footsteps fell farther back. Shouts faded.

  After a certain point, there was only the sound of our own breathing and the whisper of leaves underfoot.

  I risked a gnce over my shoulder.

  Nothing.

  We hadn't reached Ysel's trap. We hadn't doubled back or made any clever moves. But somehow—impossibly—we'd lost them.

  My skin prickled.

  "That's not right," I murmured.

  Evelyn didn't answer. She was moving with eerie calm now, no longer gncing behind us, her stride smoothing out as if she knew exactly where we were headed.

  We broke through the st wall of underbrush.

  Lanternlight spilled across the clearing in a perfect arc.

  Not scattered. Not searching.

  Waiting.

  Scores of Night Wardens stood shoulder to shoulder, crossbows leveled, bdes drawn, griffon-embzoned armor gleaming under the moon. Their spacing was precise. Their posture disciplined.

  My stomach dropped.

  "Evelyn," I whispered. "Something's wrong. We need to fall back—"

  Her hand moved faster than thought.

  Cold steel kissed my throat.

  My breath locked in my chest.

  "...Evelyn?" My voice cracked.

  Her other hand braced the back of my head, pulling me tight against her with practiced ease. Close enough that I could feel her breath against my ear.

  A dagger. Sharp. Steady.

  Full of intent.

  "Sorry, Cire," Evelyn murmured, almost gentle. "I told you it was a long story."

  Then her voice hardened as she peered out over the wall of crossbows.

  "Lay down your arms!" she shouted into the clearing. "The fugitive is secured. I demand safe passage and an audience with His Highness."

  The Night Wardens lowered their aim by half an inch.

  Synchronized. Obedient.

  My pulse hammered against the bde.

  "You said you'd defected," I whispered.

  "I did," she said. "Just... not the way you hoped."

  "You lied to us?" My voice trembled.

  "Yeah." A bitter breath escaped her. "Turns out I'm not half as good at it with you."

  Leaves stirred at the edge of the clearing.

  The Wardens shifted—not with arm, but recognition.

  A silhouette stepped forward.

  Lanternlight caught dark hair, a posture carved from confidence, a face composed of quiet calcution. Tall. Broad-shouldered like Rocher—but where Rocher's presence soothed, this man's cut.

  His eyes were blue and cold as ice. Obsidian-bck lenses rested low on the bridge of his nose, catching no reflection at all.

  The Crown Prince.

  "Cire de Lune," he said, voice smooth as polished steel. "At st we meet."

  I couldn't move.

  Couldn't breathe.

  He approached with the calm of someone arriving early to a meeting scheduled weeks ago.

  "Both advance pylons have been destroyed. And the hostage delivered," Evelyn reported. "Per your command."

  "Such a shame," he murmured, tapping his chin. "So much careful work, undone in a single night."

  He looked us over once before his gaze settled on me.

  "The White Warden will be most displeased when he hears what you've done to his precious artifacts. So much of the Church's blood spilled, and for naught," he said. "I expect they will all come seeking reassurance."

  He sighed softly, in mock resignation.

  "So many powerful factions in my debt all at once. How troubling it is to clean up after others."

  His mouth curved, just slightly. As if the weight pleased him.

  I tried to lift my chin, but Evelyn's grip tightened.

  "Now, as promised," she said ftly. "You will spare my friends."

  "Of course, Guildmaster. They're mine as much as yours." He lowered his eyes to me. "So long as they remain cooperative."

  "And what if I'm not?" I said, fighting the tremor in my voice. "Are you going to kill me?"

  Evelyn's bde pressed closer.

  "Don't," she whispered in my ear. "Please don't fight. You can't win this."

  "Why are you doing this?" I rasped.

  And finally—finally—she answered.

  "Because this was the only way out," she said. "For any of us."

  My breath hitched. "What?"

  She forced a ugh—brittle, hollow, nothing like her.

  "His Highness..." She swallowed once, barely. "He isn't guessing. He knows. About the Forest. The witches. You."

  My mind spun.

  "He told me to go along with you. To help you resist. But Cire—" Her voice faltered. "It's not enough."

  I looked at the Crown Prince, trying to pry understanding from his inexpression.

  He only smirked.

  "He has a weapon," Evelyn continued, almost frantically. "He said he'd raze the entire forest with it. Every witch. Every creature. Every innocent caught in the crossfire. If you—" Her jaw tightened. "If we don't comply."

  My throat closed.

  The dagger trembled against my skin.

  "So you made a deal to hand me over," I whispered. "As a hostage."

  "To convince Rocher and Sera to come quietly," she said. "To keep all of you alive. It was the only way."

  Her voice shook once—barely—but enough that I knew this was killing her too.

  "Evelyn," I choked. "You don't have to do this."

  "Cire," she said, breaking. "I already did."

  A branch snapped.

  "Cire!"

  The Night Wardens raised their crossbows in perfect unison.

  Evelyn's grip on me snapped taut.

  "Don't move!" she barked—not at me.

  At him.

  Rocher burst into the clearing, breathless, wild with panic, sword drawn.

  The Crown Prince's icy gaze slid toward him, and his expression shifted—interest sharpened into something colder, hungrier.

  "Well," he murmured. "Fashionably te, Hero."

  His eyes locked on mine.

  Then on the dagger at my throat.

  And something within him broke.