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“He’s waiting for you,” her father said, holding her hand in his. “Stubborn, that one. I like him.”
“I do too.” She gave him a soft smile.
A loud crack echoed through the air. Fissures of shadow spread like broken glass across the sky. She gripped her father’s arm.
“I don’t want you to go,” she held on tight.
“I’m always there, Little Sprout. Time to choose.”
She pinched her eyes shut as her chest rose, drawing in breath. Air filled her lungs. The sky tore open.
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you too. Always have.”
Then he was gone—and the Hollow Heart with him.
Chapter 49
She Who Bears The Moon
Wren awoke to the scent of ash and blood. Her limbs were leaden, as if they belonged to someone else entirely. She blinked but her vision blurred. The world rose around her in shadows and colors too harsh to focus on for long. Even the light of the moon was too bright.
Cool fingers brushed her cheek.
She flinched. Panic flared hot and sudden in her chest. Her muscles burned as she scrambled back, hands slipping on leaves, not stone. Her shoulders hit the base of a tree. She looked up, eyes finally focusing and recoiled.
Orzen startled, yanking his hand away. “I, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—” he said, voice rough. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” For half a beat, he looked perplexed—distress heavy in his eyes at her fear.
“Orzen…?”
The word barely made it out. Her tongue scratched like it was coated in sawdust. Her eyes fixed on the man kneeling across from her, searching his face for a clue. It wasn’t enough.
Reaching for him was awkward and painful—like dragging herself through tar—but she tried anyway, brushing the damp bangs from his brow. A jagged, puckered burn scar hid beneath. She released a ragged breath.
“It’s me,” he said, lifting his palms as if afraid she might bolt.
Her heartbeat slowed. “It’s you.”
She swallowed hard, lips pressing together so they wouldn’t tremble. She couldn’t help the tears gathering in her eyes. It really was him this time.
He pulled her into a fierce hug like he couldn’t wait any longer. She sank into it, breathing in the scent of smoke and leather. For a moment, she simply let his warmth and relief envelop her. Finally he let go, clutching her by the shoulders, searching her eyes as if checking to make sure she was really there.
“I thought I’d lost you.” His voice was thick.
“Orzen,” she whispered—this time it wasn’t a question. “How did you…?”
Her words slowed as the sounds of fighting reached her. He’d moved them both away from the Binding Bough before she woke. Beyond Orzen’s shoulder lay a field of fallen Witherborn. Velhya and Garin stood back-to-back beside the Bough on the far side of the temple, fighting a tangle of those still alive.
Wren’s back brushed against one of the trees at the edge of the temple. She leaned against the bark, panting. A cold pressure was building in Wren’s chest. She’d expected to wake with Voryx somewhere within her, but she felt nothing.
Even her Spirit was quiet. The well that usually waited within her felt hollow and empty. She couldn’t fight. Couldn’t protect Orzen now. Couldn’t do anything without her Spirit. The carved squirrel lay beside her knee. Was that how he’d saved her? She held it within her palms, heavy with familiar weight.
“Take this,” she said, thrusting it into his hand. “To keep you safe.” It was foolish, but it was all she had to offer.
He hesitated a single moment, then slipped it into a pocket.
The ground rumbled beneath them. Across from Velhya and Garin, the Rootflesh had changed. It no longer stood alone. Wren shrank back against the tree, heart pulsing in her ears. The Avatar of Voryx—the monstrous shape the god projected whenever he claimed a mortal vessel—now swelled around it, setting the temple alight with an eerie green glow.
