The impact is enormous. The arrow is no standard shaft; it’s thick as my thumb, tipped in something that glows white-hot, and when it hits, the root plating around the golem’s shoulderdetonates. Chunks of hardened soil and fiber spray in every direction. The creature staggers sideways, one arm hanging useless, a sound like grinding boulders coming from its eyeless head.
I spin toward the source.
She’s standing on the roof of Jo’s house.
Red hair. Marks blazing gold at her collarbone. A longbow in her left hand that’s taller than she is, already nocking another arrow with the casual precision of someone who’s done this ten thousand times. She’s wearing armor consisting of combat gear, leather and bone plates fitted close to her body, scored and stained from use. A short sword hangs at her hip. Her boots are planted wide on the shingles, balanced like she was born fighting on uneven ground.
Elle.
But not my Elle. The face is the same. The hair is the same. The stubborn set of her jaw that says she’s already decided how this fight ends and the golem just hasn’t been informed yet.
She looses the second arrow. It takes the golem in what passes for its knee, and the leg buckles. The creature drops to one side, catching itself on its remaining good arm, root fibers gouging trenches in Jo’s garden.
“Get clear!” she shouts down at me. Her voice is Elle’s voice, the same pitch, the same cadence, but harder. Worn smooth by years of fighting instead of years of adjusting to a world she never asked to be part of.
I get clear.
She drops from the roof, landing in a roll that brings her up already running. The longbow goes over her shoulder and the short sword comes out, and she moves toward the downed golem with a directness that reminds me of Sarnyx. No hesitation. No second-guessing.
The golem swings with its remaining arm. She drops into a slide, passing beneath the blow, and comes up on the other side with her sword already buried in the gap between two root plates at its torso. Magic pulses down the blade, bright and fierce, the opposite of everything I carry. The root fibers around the wound turn brittle and crack.
The golem screams. A deep, subsonic vibration that I feel in my bones more than hear. It thrashes, trying to shake her loose, but she holds on with one hand and drives the sword deeper with the other.
“Any time you’d like to help,” she calls over her shoulder.
Not panicked. Just irritated, like I’m the one slowing this down.
Fair enough.
I channel corruption through both hands and slam them into the ground. The magic races through the dry soil, black veins splitting the earth in a line that runs straight to the golem’s base. When it reaches the creature, it climbs—threading through the root plating, finding cracks and seams, working into the structure of the thing from the bottom up.
Root magic built this golem. Root corruption can unmake it.
The creature shudders. Its movements slow. The grinding sound from its head pitches higher, almost frantic, as the corruption eats through the bindings that hold it together. Elle, this Elle, sees the opening. She rips her sword free, pivots, and brings the blade down on the golem’s neck joint in a two-handed strike that carries the full weight of her body behind it.
The head separates. Not cleanly, root fibers stretch and snap like wet rope, but it separates. The body stands for another two seconds, swaying, arms grasping at nothing. Then it falls. The impact shakes the entire garden, knocks a section of fence flat, and sends up a cloud of dust and debris that takes a full minute to settle.
Silence.
Elle sheathes her sword, pushes her hair out of her face with the back of her wrist, and turns to look at me.
“You’re not Kaelren,” she says. Not a question.
“Not in the way you think.”
“Thank the goddess.” She exhales and plants her hands on her hips. “That man is an absolute headache. I’ve been stuck on this side of the gate for three days waiting for him to break through, and all he does is pace, brood, and send messages through the Rootline telling me to hold position and wait for backup. I’ve been engaging without backup since I was fourteen. He acts like I’m made of glass.”
Peeble, who has been uncharacteristically quiet during the fight, chooses this moment to interject. “Well.OurKaelren does that too. But he’s less annoying about it. Marginally.”
I give them a look.
“What? I said marginally.”
Peeble spends a few moments explaining our situation, and surprisingly this Elle takes it in stride.
Iteration Thirteen Elle crouches in front of Peeble, her expression softening for the first time since she dropped off the roof. “Peeble. Oh, you beautiful bug. You look just like mine.” She holds out a finger, and Peeble, who normally requires a minimum of three compliments and a formal introduction before allowing physical contact, climbs onto it without hesitation.
“I am universally adored,” Peeble says. “It transcends timelines.”
