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“I couldn’t save him.” Her voice broke. “I got separated. I put myself in danger and—” A sob broke through, and she burrowed closer, letting his solid presence bleed into her.

He didn’t move, only sat there, each breath a slow drag of effort. At last, he wrapped his arms around her, a heavy, wordless embrace. His heart thumped beneath her ear—slow and heavy, as if forced to beat by will alone. The quiet that settled between them wasn’t peace. It was the kind of silence that followed a collapse—an exhausted emptiness where even grief was too heavy a burden.

Garin’s arms stayed around her until her shaking slowed. The forest shivered too—leaves falling in drifts around them. Wren finally blinked the tears from her eyes, her throat raw.

Behind them, Silas stood watch. Finally, he said, “It’s not safe to linger this long. We should keep moving.” His voice was steady, almost gentle, but it echoed like a snapped twig in the silence. “Your friend might be hurt. There are a lot of dangers lurking out here if you aren’t vigilant.”

Wren swallowed and pulled away from Garin, wiping her face with her sleeve. He’d said Orzen followed her into the forest—but she’d used the stone and it had pointed ahead. Her pulse thudded in her ears. She rubbed her temples, forced a breath.

Garin braced himself with his staff, wiping caked mud from his palms. He placed a hand on her elbow, using her as a guide. His staff wasn’t as effective without his weaving. The whisperstone glowed brighter, its thread trembling in the air before them.

“The pulse is stronger,” she whispered, moving faster, as if the motion itself could burn the grief away.

They pressed deeper into the woods. Trees thickened into knots. Shadows stretched as dawn bled through the haze. It should have been cold—it was the first day of Frosthold—but the air clung to her skin, hot and damp, like the forest itself was breathing too close. Moss sagged from the branches; sap dripped from the bark in slow beads, glistening like sweat.

Garin yanked her back, boots skidding on slick leaves. His staff struck the earth with a dull crack—A jagged shard of stone erupted upward, cleaving a thick, pulsing vine in half. It hissed, blackening as rot ripped back through its length. Garin leaned heavily on the staff, swaying slightly. Wren’s heart slammed against her ribs.

“Chokevine,” she breathed. “Like at Branwynn’s.”

She lifted a hand to shade her eyes and froze. The clearing ahead moved. Vines wriggled across the ground, climbing trunks, knotting together like a nest of snakes. At the center stood a stripped, bone-white tree, its bark pale against the tangle.

And bound to it—Orzen.

The vines coiled around his chest and throat, hoisting him a foot above the earth. His pack and sword lay half-buried in the tangle below, out of reach.

His head slumped forward, motionless.

The whisperstone in her palm flared so bright it burned.

“Orzen!” The cry tore out of her, raw and reckless.

The forest swallowed it whole. He didn’t stir. Didn’t even flinch. Maybe he couldn’t.

Panic crashed over her. Not again. Not today. Not another person she cared about. She refused. She dropped to her knees at the nearest vine, hands shaking. She shoved her will through it, past her exhaustion into its woven threads—throbbing, angry, and alive. The threads recoiled in her grip, but she clung to them.

Hennah said the weaves weren’t separate. Not really. Then burn, she thought fiercely. She forced them to remember. Days without rain. Dust thick in her throat. Cracked earth splitting underhoof. Sun blazing until even shadows curled away.

Heat rose, searing until her skin prickled like it might blister. It tore through her painfully and for a moment, she wasn’t sure if the magic was working, or if it was tearing her apart in her desperation.

The vines shuddered. Cracks split through them. Then, with a final push, she poured the memory into their roots. Fire licked down their lengths. Corruption spread like ink through water, and one by one the vines twisted, split, and crumbled to ash.

Garin shifted, taking a step away from her, like he could feel the destruction through the soles of his boots. Silas didn’t move. He stood several paces away, eyes fixed on the smoldering ground, shining with something almost admiring.

A laugh, thin and hollow, rattling like wind through a cracked windowpane slid into her skull. She doubled over, clutching her horns, the echo piercing through her like a knife. When it faded, she forced herself upright, shaking.

“What is it?” Garin asked, concern deep in his voice.

“I’m okay,” she lied. “It took more out of me than I thought.”

Orzen dropped like a severed branch as the vines holding him fell away. He struck the ground with a dull thud. The way to him was clear now, and she ran. Her hooves skidded in the fallen ash, and she fell to her knees beside him.

His skin was wrong—parched and papery, pale as bleached bark. Too dry, like the vines had drunk the life right out of him.

“Garin! Water!” she shouted, voice cracking.

Her fingers fumbled at her satchel, clumsy in their panic. A small pouch tumbled free, and she tore the wax paper open and dumped it into the waterskin that Garin dropped by her knees.

All the while, Orzen lay still and silent.