The Consortium army spreads across the forest like a wound. They’re not just walking through Briargrave; they’re destroying it. Burning a corridor through the undergrowth, cutting down anything that moves, leaving charred earth in their wake.
And at the center of their formation, surrounded by the largest concentration of soldiers, is the weapon.
It’s a siege engine. That’s the only word for it—a massive construction of metal and stone mounted on reinforced wheels, covered in runes that glow with sickly green light. The runes are screaming. I can hear them even from here—a high, keening sound that sets my teeth on edge and makes my stomach churn.
“Severance Engine.” Tharos’s voice is barely a whisper. “They’ve built a Severance Engine.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means they’re not here to kill me.” His hands have curled into fists at his sides. “They’re here to break me. Sever my bond with the forest. Leave Briargrave unguarded and the Thorn King free.”
“Why would anyone want that?”
“Power. The King is ancient. Concentrated. All those centuries of feeding on vengeance and hatred—that’s not just malice. That’s energy. Magic. The kind of power that could fuel armies, forge empires.” He turns to face me, and his expression is grim. “They don’t want to stop the King. They want to harvest it.”
“And you’re in the way.”
“I’m the lock on the cage. Remove me, and everything comes out.”
The army below has noticed our presence—or maybe the forest told them we were coming. Shouts go up. Soldiers reform into combat positions. The Severance Engine’s runes pulse brighter, and even from this distance, I feel pressure push against my mind. Hungry. Probing.
“How long until they reach the Heartgrove?”
“At this pace? An hour. Maybe less.”
“Then we stop them.”
Tharos looks at me. Looks at the army. Looks at the weapon that’s designed to rip him apart from the inside.
“We try.”
The battle begins before we’re ready for it.
Consortium soldiers don’t wait for us to attack—they come for us with the efficiency of professionals, flame weapons blazing, blades gleaming. The first wave is ten strong, crashing through the undergrowth with killing intent clear in their eyes.
Tharos meets them with violence.
Roots explode from the earth, impaling two soldiers mid-stride. Vines whip from the branches overhead, catching a third around the throat and dragging him screaming into the canopy. The forest that was terrified moments ago has found its fury.
I move with him. Not beside him—that would leave my flank exposed—but in tandem, covering the gaps his attacks create. A soldier breaks through the roots; my blade opens his throat before he can raise his weapon. Another dodges the vines; my crossbow bolt takes him through the eye.
We’ve never practiced this. Never planned it. But our bodies move like we’ve been fighting side by side for years.
More soldiers come. Fifteen now, then twenty. They’re not stupid—they’ve spread out, forcing Tharos to divide his attention, preventing the forest from concentrating its attacks. Flame weapons light the undergrowth, and I smell burning vegetation, hear the screams of trees that have stood for centuries being consumed.
“They’re using the fire to weaken you!” I shout, parrying a blade meant for my ribs.
“I know!” He catches a soldier by the skull, slams him into a tree hard enough to crack bark and bone alike. “The forest can’t defend itself and attack at the same time!”
“Then stop defending!”
“What?”
“The trees are already dying! Make their deaths count!”
He hesitates—just a fraction of a second—and I see the cost of what I’m asking. These trees have been part of his domain since the binding began. Burning them is like burning pieces of himself.
But he does it.
