The survivors break formation. They scatter in different directions, abandoning their weapons, their fallen companions, their careful tactical training. Panic does that to people. Shows them what they really are beneath the professionalism and the discipline.
I let the forest hunt them. My attention is fixed on the one who hasn’t run. The silver-haired woman who’s been barking orders since the ambush began, who stands in the center of the carnage with her weapon raised and her expression cold.
She’s not afraid. That interests me.
“You’re the one they call Blackroot.” Her voice carries over the sounds of dying hunters, steady and composed. “I expected you to be... more.”
“You expected wrong.” I step over a body, approaching her with the slow, deliberate pace of a predator that doesn’t need to hurry. The forest parts around me, clears a path straight to where she’s standing. “The Consortium should have learned from the last hunters they sent.”
“Those were freelancers. We’re professionals.” She smiles—a thin, cold expression that doesn’t reach her eyes. “And we’re not here for you.”
I stop. Her tone makes me pause, makes the forest hesitate with me.
“Explain.”
“The Consortium has been studying this forest for years. Mapping its patterns, analyzing its magic, learning its weaknesses.” She lowers her weapon slightly—not surrender, just a change in posture. Like she’s negotiating rather than fighting. “We know what you’re guarding. We know what sleeps in the Heartgrove. And we know it’s far more valuable alive than dead.”
The King’s attention sharpens. Even contained, even pressed against my barriers, I feel its hunger spike at her words.
“You want to harvest it.” The realization comes with a cold certainty. “You’re not here to destroy the Thorn King. You’re here to use it.”
“Everything has a purpose. Everything has a price.” She tilts her head, studying me with the detached interest of a merchant examining goods. “The King’s power—properly channeled, properly controlled—could reshape the Veillands. Could give the Consortium advantages no amount of gold could buy. We just need to... relocate it.”
“Relocate.” The word tastes like ash. “You want to break my containment and steal an entity that’s been trying to consume everything in reach for eight centuries.”
“We want to harness it. There’s a difference.”
Behind her, a shadow moves. Xela, circling into position. She meets my gaze across the bodies littering the ravine floor, and I see the same cold fury in her expression that burns in my own veins.
The Consortium doesn’t want to destroy the King. They want to control it. Want to take the horror I’ve spent my entire adult life containing and turn it into a weapon they can aim at their enemies.
“You’re insane.” I take another step forward. The vines overhead tense, eager. “The King can’t be controlled. It can barely be contained. Whatever your scholars told you, whatever research convinced you this was possible—they were wrong.”
“Were they?” The silver-haired woman raises her weapon again. Not threatening—pointing. At me. “You’ve contained it since before I was born. Kept it chained inside this forest while you walked free among the trees. If one orc can hold it, imagine what we could do with proper resources. Proper infrastructure.”
“One orc.” I laugh, and the sound is harsh even to my own ears. “You think I’m holding it because I’m strong? I’m holding it because I’m willing to die trying. Because I’ve given everything I am to keeping that thing chained. The binding isn’t a cage—it’s a leash, and I’m the one wrapped around its throat.”
“Then perhaps it’s time for new management.”
“Vorn and the engine specialists are still moving.” A flicker of something—satisfaction, or its close cousin—crosses her face. “You can’t stop what’s already in motion.”
She fires.
The bolt takes me in the shoulder—the same shoulder the Consortium scouts wounded hours ago, still not fully healed. The impact staggers me back, sends pain radiating down my arm. The forest screams in response, vines and roots and thorns surging toward the silver-haired woman with killing intent.
She dances back, faster than I expected. Trained for this. Ready for this.
But she’s not ready for what comes next.
Xela hits her from behind.
EIGHTEEN
THAROS
The bounty hunter moves like death made flesh.
I’ve watched Xela fight before—in the bone garden, against the first wave of scouts. But this is different. This isn’t survival. This is execution.
