She catches me looking and gives me a nod. It meansstill alive, keep fighting.Sarnyx doesn’t waste nods. She doesn’t waste anything. I once watched her reuse a bandage three times in one battle, and then kill someone with the pin that held it together.
Vashael stands behind the shield line, and I have to say, watching her work is one of the more attractive things I’ve seen during an apocalypse. She mixes toxin compounds in vials grown from the Verdance’s own wood, her hands moving with the rapid precision of a chemist who could poison you and make it sound like a compliment.
Her mist slowed the constructs during the early waves, turning their vine-fiber bodies stiff and brittle. But the Cathedral is learning her compounds now, adapting its constructs’ biologyin real time, which is both horrifying and, if I’m honest, a little impressive.
She’s switched to concentrated vials, throwing them in clean arcs that shatter against the Cathedral’s root-legs. Where the liquid strikes, vine armor blisters and blackens.
It won’t last. Nothing lasts. But it buys minutes, and minutes are the currency we’re trading in.
Eltrien stands at the base of the Heartwood, and he hasn’t moved from that position since the battle started. Which means he’s either channeling critical intelligence to Rhyven’s commanders through the Rootline, or he’s fallen asleep standing up.
Given that his marks are blazing bright enough for me to see him from three rings out, I’m going with the first option.
He’s tracking the Cathedral’s movements through the root system, feeding positioning data to Rhyven’s defense grid. Every time a squad redirects to intercept a breach before it happens, that’s Eltrien.
He’s the reason we’re not fighting blind, and he looks like he’s about to fall over.
Nimor is inside the Cathedral with the others. He went in first, scouting through shadow, finding passages the Cathedral hadn’t sealed yet. I don’t know if he’s still solid in there. Every time I saw him phase back during the earlier waves, he looked a little less whole. The Cathedral’s interior does something to him. He keeps going anyway, because Nimor has never met a suicidal decision he didn’t embrace with both arms. Both translucent, flickering arms.
I find Raskel on the inner ring, and I have to stop for a second.
The gnome. The tiny, grumpy, stick-wielding gnome who banned me from Dr Pepper, whacked my shins for vibrating, and once called me “a hazard to the structural integrity of this house.”
That same gnome now stands on top of a supply crate, directing the entire logistics operation for the defense of a magical city under siege.
The Verdance citizens carrying ammunition, medical kits, and water stream past him in organized lines. Raskel routes them with sharp gestures of his stick, redirecting runners before they can collide or double back.
It looks chaotic. It is not chaotic.
Every runner gets where they need to be. The flow never tangles, never stalls. It’s the most efficient supply operation I have ever witnessed, and it’s being run by someone who comes up to my knee.
“You, with the water. Third section, eastern side. You, medical kit to the Heartwood base, the tall one with the glowing marks needs fluids before he passes out. You, ammunition to the breach point, and if you trip again, I will personally nail your boots to your feet.”
He sees me staring.
“What are you looking at, insect? Get back to the wall.”
“Raskel, you’re incredible.”
“I am aware. Get back to the wall.”
“Seriously, where did you learn to do this?”
“I am four hundred years old and I have survived eleven wars, six famines, and your personality. Supply coordination is not the most challenging thing on that list.” He whacks his stick against the crate. “Wall. Now.”
I notice, as I turn away, that he’s sending water and medical supplies to Eltrien without being asked.
Leo and Sarah are inside the civilian shelters beneath the Heartwood.
Thalia assigned them there before the battle started. Leo didn’t love it. I saw the protest forming on his face, the fighter’s instinct that wanted him on the wall, swinging at things, being useful in the way big men with good hearts often define usefulness.
Sarah rested a hand on his arm. “There are children in those shelters, Leo.”
That settled it. Leo can't say no to protecting children. It’s one of the many reasons I like him.
I can’t see them from here. The shelter entrances sealed when the first wave hit. But a Verdance runner told me during a resupply that Leo is standing at the main entrance with a blade borrowed from a guard, while Sarah organizes the families inside, keeping the children calm and distributing food and water.
The runner said Sarah has the kids playing a game that involves counting the Heartwood’s pulse, turning the deep vibrations of the battle above into something rhythmic. Something safe.
