“Agreed.” He looks at me, and there’s wonder in his expression—wonder and gratitude and something deeper that makes my breath catch. “Xela. What you did?—”
“Later. Explanations later. Fighting now.”
He nods. And we turn to face what’s left of the Consortium army.
Twenty soldiers remain. Vorn is still at the useless controls of the Severance Engine, screaming orders that no one is following. The wall of protection they formed has crumbled—half their number dead, their weapon failed, their target somehow stronger than before.
They know they’ve lost.
They try to run anyway.
The forest doesn’t let them.
FORTY
XELA
Thorns erupt from the ground, blocking escape routes. Vines descend from the canopy, catching the fleeing soldiers and dragging them back. Roots coil around ankles, pulling men down into the devouring earth.
Tharos moves through the chaos with a grace that shouldn’t exist—not fighting this time, but herding. Directing. The soldiers die one by one as Briargrave claims them, their blood soaking into soil that’s been waiting eight centuries for this moment.
Vorn tries to flee last. His professional calm has shattered completely—he’s a man running blind, panicked, willing to do anything to escape the nightmare his mission has become.
He doesn’t get far.
Tharos catches him at the edge of the burned corridor. Lifts him by the throat with one hand, clawed fingers digging into flesh.
“You came to my forest with fire and weapons.” His voice is layered again, but differently—not the King’s influence, but Briargrave’s. The forest speaking through its warden. “You killed my trees. Burned my paths. Threatened what is mine.”
Vorn chokes, clawing at Tharos’s grip. “Mercy?—”
“Briargrave doesn’t know that word.”
Vines wrap around Vorn’s limbs. Roots coil up his body. Thorns press against his skin, waiting.
“But I do.” Tharos releases his grip, lets Vorn fall into the forest’s embrace. “So I’ll give you a choice. Tell me everything about the Consortium’s plans. Who sent you. What they wanted. How many more are coming.”
“I’ll tell you.” Vorn is sobbing now, all pretense of composure abandoned. “Everything. Just please?—”
“And then,” Tharos continues, as if he hadn’t spoken, “you’ll die anyway. Because that’s the price for threatening her.” His eyes cut to me. “The only question is whether you die quickly or slowly.”
Vorn talks.
He tells us everything—the Consortium’s interest in harvesting the Thorn King’s power, the artificers who designed the Severance Engine, the reinforcements that aren’t coming because Vorn was supposed to succeed. He tells us about the buyers who would have paid fortunes for bottled malice, the empires that could have been built on concentrated vengeance.
When he’s done, Tharos nods.
“Thank you for your cooperation.”
The thorns pierce Vorn in a dozen places. He screams, but not for long. The forest drags him down, pulls him into the earth, adds his bones to the gallery of the dead.
Then it’s quiet.
I lean against a tree that isn’t trying to kill me, let the exhaustion finally hit. My wounds are screaming. My body is shaking. I’ve lost too much blood, taken too many hits, pushed too hard for too long.
But I’m alive. And so is Tharos.
He moves toward me, and I see the changes the battle has left on him. The dark in his eyes has faded to a faint ring around his pupils. His scars have closed, though they still seep traces of sap.He looks more like himself than he has since the King’s power first flooded through him.
