And you came here. To me. To the monster you’ve fought for so long.
“To the only thing powerful enough to counter that weapon.”
The roots shift. The faces turn toward me, hundreds of empty eyes tracking my movement. I feel the King’s attention sharpen—not hungry now, but calculating. Weighing options. Considering possibilities it hadn’t entertained in centuries.
What do you propose?
“Partnership.” The word tastes like ash. “Temporary access to my body. Not possession—you don’t take control. But you channel your power through me while I maintain direction. We become a single weapon instead of two separate forces fighting for dominance.”
You would... invite me in?
“I would let you help.”
More silence. The kind of silence that makes the air feel heavy, that presses against my ears like deep water.
The cost is clear. You understand this.
“Every moment we share, I lose a piece of myself. Too long, and I can’t separate anymore. I become part of the forest permanently.” I meet the empty spaces where the King’s eyes should be. “I understand.”
And yet you offer this. For what? The survival of a forest that has consumed you? The continuation of a binding that has stolen your life?
“For her.”
The admission slips out. The King’s attention shifts, sharpens, focuses with predatory intensity.
Ah. The woman.
“This isn’t about?—”
She makes you weak. The voice turns sly, insinuating. She makes you want things a warden cannot have. Peace. Companionship. A life beyond these borders. She is why you fight. Not for the forest. Not for duty. For her.
THIRTY-FIVE
THAROS
Idon’t answer. Don’t have to. The King can feel the truth of it through the binding we share—can taste the way my thoughts turn toward Xela even now, wondering if she’s surviving, hoping she’s fighting, terrified that I’ll return to find her body among the Consortium dead.
Kill her, and our partnership will be... smoother.
“No.”
She is a weakness. A vulnerability. The Consortium will use her against you. I will use her against you. Everyone who wants to break you will find her first.
“She’s not part of this.”
She’s part of everything now. The roots shift, reaching toward me. I feel your feelings for her. They burn almost as brightly as your bond with me. Almost as strong. The faces in the bark twist into expressions of cruel amusement. That makes her dangerous. Dangerous things should be destroyed.
“She’s not part of this.” I hold my ground as the roots coil around my ankles. “That’s my condition. She lives, or we both die when the Severance Engine arrives.”
The King considers. I feel it weighing options—calculating the value of Xela’s death against the risk of the weapon reachingthe grove. Centuries of patience warring with the practical necessity of survival.
Very well.
The roots retreat. The pressure in my skull eases, slightly.
For now, the woman lives. But when this is over—when the forest is safe—we will discuss her future.
“Agreed.”
