The silence stretches between us, heavy with things neither of us is saying. My heartbeat has quickened—faster than it should be. Her proximity presses against my awareness like a second kind of warmth, something that has nothing to do with the forest, and she’s looking at me like I’m a puzzle she’s determined to solve.
“The Consortium.” She breaks the silence, though her voice is softer than before. “They weren’t here just for you.”
“No.” I let my hand drop, forcing myself to step back, to put distance between us before the wanting becomes a force I can’t ignore. “And others will follow. The knowledge was never truly gone. Just... forgotten.” I turn to survey the carnage around us. The bodies are already beginning to sink into the soil, the forest claiming them the way it claims everything that dies within its borders. “The Consortium remembered. Others will too. And when they come?—”
The forest shudders.
Not the subtle tremor I’ve grown accustomed to. Not the slight shift that signals the King pressing against its barriers. This is deeper. A vibration that travels up through the roots and into my bones, making my teeth ache and my vision blur.
Deep beneath our feet, the earth shifts.
“Tharos.” Xela’s voice cuts through the disorientation. Her hand finds my arm, gripping tight. “What?—”
The King’s voice erupts through every root and branch of Briargrave.
Thank you for the feast.
The words aren’t words—they’re feelings. Satisfaction. Anticipation. Hunger that’s been fed but not sated, that’s tasted blood and wants more.
Now let me show you what your violence has fed.
The ground splits open.
Not the controlled eruption of roots I summoned during the battle. This is wild. Untamed. The soil tears apart along fault lines I didn’t know existed, revealing darkness beneath that seems to pulse with its own terrible heartbeat.
From that darkness, a presence rises.
Roots. Not the living, seeking roots of Briargrave’s trees—these are different. Black. Twisted. Covered in thorns that gleam with a wetness that isn’t sap. They surge upward through the torn earth, reaching for the sky, reaching for us, reaching for anything living that might fuel their growth.
The King is pushing through. Using the violence of the battle, the power of the deaths, to manifest in a way I haven’t seen in years.
“Run.” I grab Xela’s arm, pulling her away from the spreading darkness. “Now.”
“What is that?”
“The King. A piece of it.” The roots are spreading, consuming the bodies we left behind, absorbing the hunters into their mass. “It’s using the deaths to grow. To extend itself beyond the Heartgrove.”
“Can you stop it?”
“I don’t know.” Honesty. She deserves honesty, even now. “The battle fed it more than I expected. It’s stronger than it’s been since I took the binding.”
The black roots surge toward us. I call the forest to respond, and Briargrave answers—living vines wrapping around the tainted growth, thorns piercing the dark wood, roots of green and brown rising to meet roots of black. The two forces clashin the center of the ravine, and for a moment, it seems like the forest might win.
Then the King laughs, and the living roots begin to blacken.
“It’s spreading.” Xela’s voice is tight. Controlled. But I can hear the fear underneath. “The infection. It’s spreading.”
“The Heartgrove.” I’m moving, pulling her with me, not caring about dignity or caution. “If we can reach the Heartgrove, I can reinforce the binding. Push the King back. But we have to move now.”
We run.
Behind us, the black roots continue to grow. The King’s laughter echoes through the forest, through the binding, through my very bones.
And in the depths of its hunger, I feel a new intent.
NINETEEN
XELA
