“She’s real, and she’s coming to destroy the town,” I snap. “So you can either take cover or you can wait to get crushed by a tree. Your choice.”
That gets a few people moving, but not fast enough. Most are still sitting, looking at me like I’ve grown a second head.
And then the first tremor hits.
It’s subtle at first. Coffee cups rattling, the old ceiling fan swaying. Then stronger, the floor vibrating beneath our feet, windows starting to rattle in their frames.
“Earthquake?” someone asks.
I shake my head. “Worse.”
The massive oak trees lining Main Street begin to sway—not with wind, but with purpose. Their roots shift beneath the pavement, cracking asphalt like it’s made of graham crackers. One of the older trees in front of the post office pulls itself entirely from the ground, its massive root ball dripping soil as it rises impossibly into the air.
Now people are moving. Screaming. Running.
Merry is suddenly in action mode, shepherding customers toward the back of the diner. “Basement, now! Move it!”
I stay by the window, watching in horror as Kestra rises from the earth in the middle of Main Street. She forms like a time-lapse video of decay in reverse: first roots and soil, next a twistedtrunk-like body, then her face, materializing into that tortured mask I saw on the mountain. In the middle of our cozy town, she’s even more terrifying, her bark-skin cracked and weeping amber sap, her black eyes like empty pits, her fingers elongating into writhing root-tendrils that dig into the street.
She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. She raises her hands, and chaos follows.
The trees respond like extensions of her body, their branches whipping out like weapons, smashing through windows and wrapping around anything they can reach. A lamppost bends and snaps. A parked car is lifted and tossed aside like a toy.
“June, get away from that window!” Merry calls from the back.
I see Dale across the street, emerging from the sheriff’s office with his pistol drawn. He’s shouting something—evacuation orders, probably—and pointing people toward shelter. I run out to meet him.
He spots me and his eyes widen. “June! Get back inside!”
I don’t. I can’t. Because I know Kestra. I spoke to her. Maybe I can reach her somehow, make her understand that this won’t bring back what she’s lost.
I move, heading to the middle of the street.
“Kestra!” I call out. “These people didn’t destroy your grove!”
Her head snaps toward me, movement too fast to be natural. For a brief moment, recognition flickers in those black eyes. Then her face twists with contempt.
“You think your words mean anything, human?”
Dale is approaching now, pistol raised but uncertain. “June, what the hell is this? How do you know this… thing?”
I open my mouth to answer, but Kestra’s movement catches my eye. She gestures sharply, and the massive oak behind Dale—the one that had been in front of the town hall for a century—uproots itself, its trunk swinging toward him like a battering ram.
Dale doesn’t see it coming. He has no time to move.
But the impact never comes.
A dark blur drops from above, from the roof of the building behind Dale, and lands between him and the tree. Eight massive legs slam into the pavement with enough force to crack it further, and a familiar network of silk shoots out in a wide net, catching the trunk mid-swing and redirecting it harmlessly to the side.
The ground shakes as the tree crashes down, but Dale is untouched, staring up in shock at the massive spider creature who just saved his life.
Riven.
My heart stops, then restarts at double speed.
He came. He actually came.
For a second, the entire street goes silent. Everyone is frozen, staring at Riven—this enormous, alien, terrifying creature. There are gasps, a few screams, people scrambling back in fear.
