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Her eyes darkened like twin pits of hell. "She has severed herself from the rules we abide by. The entire forest is in peril while the cursed one survives."

The bark-forms along the trunk shifted restlessly.

"She and her nest must burn, and it is your duty to make that happen."

Blaidd gave a single, tight nod.

"Then listen," the changeling said. "Follow the forest path to the witch's cottage."

A pause, as if she was enjoying this cat-and-mouse game.

"You will find it...changed."

With that, her form began to dissolve, skin flowing back into shapeless bark. One by one, the other changelings slithered into the hollow of the Great Oak, their shapes thinning until nothing remained but ancient wood.

The clearing emptied in the blink of an eye, and silence returned.

Footsteps approached behind them. Kenji and Sulien emerged from the trees. They had been listening from a distance with their weapons at the ready.

Blaidd reached for Fae and pulled her close. He knew what she was thinking.

"This is not your fault," he said quietly against her hair. "None of this is your fault."

She did not answer immediately.

"If you want to blame someone," he added, "blame your ancestors. You had nothing to do with any of this."

"Yes," Sulien said, snorting softly. "Blame your ancestors. We shall go piss on his grave after we deal with the creature."

The bluntness of it startled her into a laugh.

For a heartbeat, the crushing weight lifted from her shoulders—the deaths in the pack, the lives lost.

"Let's finish this," she said, no hesitation in her voice.

Chapter 47

The forest was different from the last time Blaidd had walked this path. It had once been dense, green, and layered with birdsong. Now it felt lifeless, as if shrouded in shadows.

The path narrowed against a rock face, slick with slimy dark moss and shadow. Even though it was spring, the trees here stood bare—branches clawing at an overcast sky that seemed bruised and low. Dead ravens and other forest creatures lay rotting along the forest floor.

Too many to count. Dozens.

Wings splayed, feathers slick with decay, black sludge dripping from their decaying bodies. The smell was everywhere—sweet, cloying rot threading with the overpowering smell of copper. No insects touched the carcasses. No maggots fed on the dead.

The air itself felt poisoned and heavy, like it was waiting.

Cold drizzle began to fall like needles, soaking their clothes and plastering Fae's hair to her face. The sky darkened further as if something just beyond the horizon was drawing light into itself.

They rounded the last bend in the path—and the cottage that once stood there was no more than a pile of rubble.

On top of the destruction stood a tree, just not like any they had seen before.

It was smaller than the Great Oak. Its trunk was swollen and twisted, black bark split and layered in ridges like muscle beneath skin. Its branches arched outward at contorted angles, like broken limbs frozen mid-spasm. Moss did not grow on it; no birds perched there.

Black sap seeped from fissures in the bark.

It bled sap that dripped thick and slow, pooling at the roots in tar-like sludge. It sizzled faintly when it touched the ground, leaving white patches.