“I know.”
He kisses me. Hard. Brief. Everything he can’t say compressed into a single moment—the fear, the hope, the wild desperate thing growing between us that neither of us has dared name.
When he pulls back, his eyes are blazing. Not with the King’s influence. With determination.
“Hold them as long as you can. I’ll be back before they reach the grove.”
“You’d better be.”
He turns. Runs. The thornpaths open for him in a way they haven’t opened for anyone else—Briargrave recognizing its warden, making way for the only person who might be able to save it.
I watch him go until the trees swallow him. Then I turn to face the army.
Thirty soldiers are advancing through the burned corridor. The Severance Engine rolls behind them, its runes pulsing with that sickening light, the screaming of its magic drilling into my skull. They see me standing alone at the ridge. See that their target has fled. See a single human woman with two blades between them and their objective.
They keep coming.
Fine.
My quiver’s been empty since the ravine. I check the edge on my blades and settle into a fighting stance.
One bounty hunter against an army. Impossible odds. No backup, no magic, no ancient forest lending me power.
Just skill. Will. The stubborn refusal to die that’s kept me alive when everyone else fell.
“Come on then,” I murmur. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The first wave breaks against me like water against stone.
I move through the soldiers with everything I have—every trick, every feint, every brutal shortcut the work has taught me. My blades find gaps in armor, throats exposed above gorgets, the soft spots at joints where protection gives way to mobility. Blood sprays. Men scream.
But there are too many.
I kill six before they push me back. Eight before a blade opens a gash across my forearm. Ten before a flame weapon singes the hair on my scalp, close enough that I can smell my own burning.
They’re not trying to kill me. They’re trying to get past me.
I fall back. Give ground. Make them work for every inch.
The Severance Engine’s runes pulse brighter with each passing moment. The screaming in my head intensifies. I can feel it reaching for Tharos even from here—that weapon, that abomination, trying to tear him apart from the inside.
Hold them. Buy time.
I kill another soldier. Take a cut across my ribs that bleeds more than it should. Keep fighting.
In the distance, toward the Heartgrove, I feel a pulse of power. Dark. Ancient. Hungry.
The Thorn King, stirring in its throne.
And somewhere in that darkness, Tharos is fighting for his life—for both our lives—betting everything on a bargain with the monster he’s spent decades containing.
Return to me, I think. Whatever it takes, whatever you have to do—find your way back.
The soldiers keep coming. The weapon keeps screaming.
And I keep fighting.
Because stopping means losing. And I didn’t survive this long by accepting defeat.
