Page 64 of On Brutal Thrones

Thorian doesn’t answer immediately.

That alone tells me how little he likes the idea.

“If we can reach them without putting ourselves in too much danger,” he says at last. “But stopping to retrieve them will leave us exposed. We need to be certain we can get moving again before those flowers strike.”

Talon folds his arms. “And if we can’t?”

“Then we cross without them. I won’t risk all our lives standing in one place.”

Fenric nods slowly. “I like that plan.”

“That isn’t a plan,” Talon says.

They start throwing out ideas anyway.

Fenric suggests using the massive leaves as shields until Thorian tosses one toward the nearest flowers. Three stalks bend at once and pulverize it against the ground.

“All right,” Fenric mutters. “Not leaves.”

Talon suggests fire. He gathers a handful of dry leaves and twigs, gets a small flame going, then uses a branch to push it toward the nearest towering stalk.

We all watch as the flames lick across one of the enormous leaves.

Nothing happens.

The fire burns through the dry twigs, but the leaf doesn’t even blacken. The flames curl around its edges without catching, and when Talon pushes the burning branch directly against the thick green stalk, it refuses to burn too.

“Well, that’s unsettling,” Talon mutters.

“They’re resistant to magic and fire,” Fenric says.

Talon immediately jerks the branch back, and we retreat several steps back.

“All right,” Talon says. “No fire.”

Thorian considers cutting a path, but the Vultures already proved how badly the plants respond to violence. The more they attacked, the more of the field seemed to wake.

They keep talking.

I stop listening.

My attention drifts back to the flowers.

One of the enormous heads sways several yards away, petals turning toward the sunlight. Another bends slightly beneath the weight of a cluster of pollen. Vines shift through the grass beneath them, slow and almost lazy now that nothing is threatening them.

There’s something strangely familiar about watching them.

I stare harder. At first, I think I’m imagining it, but then I feel it. A faint awareness brushes against mine.

My breath catches.

It isn’t like touching the roots beneath the cave. That had felt deep and ancient, a network of life hidden beneath stone and soil. This is closer. Sharper. Hundreds of living things pressed together so densely that their presence almost hums against my senses.

The flowers. I can feel them.

My pulse quickens.

I don’t know what that means.