Page 164 of A Sunwoven Ascent

They were losing.

They were going to die here.

For one fleeting, fragile moment, she almost let herself give in.

Almost let the exhaustion take her.

Almost let it end.

The ground beneath her paws began to warm, spreading slowly at first, then stronger, pulsing through the cracked soil like a heartbeat. Evelyne’s eyes snapped open.

The cracks brightened beneath the surface, light gathering under the earth as a low, resonant hum rolled through the field. It moved through Evelyne’s bones like a breath drawn by the land itself, deep and ancient.

Then the glow broke free.

It rose from the land, not harsh like flame or blinding like lightning, but radiant and pure, spilling across the battlefield like dawn made tangible. For one impossible moment, everything stilled. Wolves. Noskari. Even the wind. Then the creatures recoiled as the light reached them, their bodies folding inward as though something had struck from within. They clawed at their chests, their heads, their own skin, stumbling as an unseen force began to tear through them.

Evelyne’s breath caught.

Cillian. It had to be him.

The light surged outward, threading through the land, through the roots, through every place the Noskari had touched. Then they began to fall, one by one, writhing against it as black mist poured from their eyes, their mouths, their ears, like something rotten being forced out and burned away. The tide turned, and hope, real and fragile, flared in Evelyne’s chest.

Then Kaldrek roared.

The sound shattered the moment. His body twisted and expanded, reshaping into something larger, more powerful, more terrifying than before. A massive white wolf stood where he had been, towering over the battlefield with eyes still black, still endless, still wrong. Around him, the Noskari fell beneath Cillian’s light.

But Kaldrek did not.

And Evelyne’s hope collapsed, because whatever had taken him still held him completely.

Chapter 66

Cillian entered the grove with the Sunweavers behind him. There were more of them than he had expected. Far more. He had imagined a handful of figures stepping from the ships, perhaps a small remnant of a forgotten people answering the tree’s call for help. Instead, they had come in numbers and in silence, their gold light moving through the dark like dawn held beneath skin. They had barely spoken when they met him and Alia at the docks. They had not needed to. The moment their feet touched soil, Cillian had known where to lead them.

To the grove.

The Solwyn Tree still stood tall, and the witches of Velenshire formed a living ring around it. Charise and her coven stood nearest the roots, their voices woven together in a low, steady chant that seemed to bind the air itself. Around them, other covens held the outer line. Some knelt with their palms pressed to the soil. Others stood with powders or flame cupped between their hands. They were not merely casting. They were holding something in place.

A barrier.

Cillian could see it now, a thin shimmer surrounding the Solwyn Tree, bending the darkness back each time it pressed too close. The witches nearest the trunk fed the spell with everything they had, their faces pale with strain, while those around them fought off anything that tried to break through. Noskari slipped between the trees in flashes of gray skin and black mist, but the covens met them with fire, water, and stone.

Still, the witches were tiring.

Cillian felt it with every step closer to the tree. The barrier held, but only just. And the Noskari knew it too. They did not throw themselves blindly against the spell. They tested it, again and again, waiting for the smallest weakness to open.

If Kaldrek reached the tree, if that thing inside him sank its claws into the Solwyn’s power once more, he would not stop.

He would drain the source dry.

The Sunweavers filtered into the grove without command, as though each already knew where they belonged. Some moved to the Solwyn Tree and knelt beside the witches, pressing glowing hands to the roots and soil. One by one, they greeted the ancient source, receiving the light she offered before slipping back into the night and spreading across the fields. Cillian watched as they knelt and drove their hands into the dirt. Golden light poured from their palms, threading through the grove, the grass, and the battlefield until every patch of land touched by the Noskari began to glow beneath their feet.

The witches’ chant changed. It grew louder and stronger, as though the Sunweavers’ arrival had given them something more than power. Purpose. Hope. Charise looked up, her eyes widening as the remaining kin joined the spell, their light sinking into the ancient pulse of the Solwyn Tree. The barrier brightened at once, burning so fiercely that the nearest shadows recoiled. And across the field, the Noskari began to falter.

Cillian stood at the edge of it all, watching people he had only just begun to understand return to their mother, to the home they’d hadn’t seen in centuries, to save her. Yet, even as the Noskari fell and the land began to heal, one thing remained untouched.

Kaldrek.