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“But Velhya—” A sound broke in her chest, raw and wordless. “They needed her, too.”

There were no words that would make the ache disappear, so he didn’t try. The quiet stretched long and thin. Still, she let him hold her. When the muffled sound of shuffling footsteps started, Wren pulled away.

It was dawn now, pale yellow light breaking over the crumbled remains of the temple. A glint of silver caught the light, and Wren stumbled forward, passing between the waiting Guardians surrounding Velhya’s last stand. Others gathered behind her, and suddenly Leora was there.

The pendant—Velhya’s silver symbol of Nalduun—was the only evidence she’d ever been there at all, arranged as if placed there. Wren swallowed, carefully picking it up, the metal cool against her fingers. She lifted the pendant toward Leora.

“You should take it,” Wren said, unhooking the clasp.

Leora simply closed her eyes, giving the barest nod as if she didn’t trust herself to speak. Wren helped secure it around her neck, and when it was there, Leora met her eyes—damp with unshed tears—and pulled her into a fierce hug.

They stood side by side, too numb to speak. Warmth crept up Wren’s arm—the faintest tingle of magic against her skin. It was a warning that something was shifting. The guardians bowed their heads as a low vibration shook beneath the cracked stones.

A thin green sprout pushed upward where the pendant had fallen, unfurling in the weak morning light. It grew taller with each breath. The stem thickened, branches burgeoning, leaves unfurling—reaching toward the sky. It kept growing. A sapling in full bloom, buds opening one by one until each branch hung heavy with the scent of their perfume.

The magic it gave off was nothing like the Binding Bough. No crushing pressure to contain. No ancient wound held shut by force. It was alive. Free. Made to help the Glade endure.

In the sapling’s crown was a seed, fresh and green. It resembled the one that previously protected the Glade, but golden veins threaded through its surface like the ones that once shimmered beneath Velhya’s bark.

Leora reached for the seed, and the forest hushed when she brushed her fingers against it, like it mourned with them. One by one, the Gladeans knelt before the sapling, bowing their heads. When Leora released her, approaching it with careful steps, Wren knelt too. With a gentle pull, the seed came away easily in Leora’s hands. Wren felt the magic slipping from it like a brush against her skin.

Leora bowed her head, cradling the seed in the crook of her elbow. She lifted her hand, and a swirl of water coalesced around her fingers. It circled the tree in widening spirals of sparkling dew, settling on the new branches and leaves like jewels in the morning light.

“In life, she protected us,” Leora said, her voice wavering. “And in death, she protects us still.”

Chapter 51

The Empty Heart

Orzen was following someone beneath the trees. Why couldn’t he remember who? Shadows shifted strangely. The figure crept along the darkness ahead. Nearly close enough to catch now. Something in Orzen told him not to try. He wouldn’t like what he saw when he did.

But Wren’s safety depended on it.

Somehow, he knew that clearly.

Moonlight flooded the leaf-strewn ground, slick with decay. One beam struck a figure, illuminating them. Dark armor. Dark hair. His own face leering back at him, teeth elongating into the needles Silas bore in his Rootflesh form.

A nightmare. But he couldn’t wake.

Roots emerged from the ground, too quick to escape. His sword dropped. That face, his own dark eyes now full of malice, grinning too wide. Terror surged through him. Even the fire beneath his skin trembled out of reach.

Spirit stabbed into him. Not the delicate touch Wren used when she saw his memories. Fingers slicking through his thoughts, rifling through his mind. His skull ached with the intrusion. He twisted, willing himself to wake before he had to live through it again, but the nightmare wouldn’t break. His body wouldn’t respond. His lungs strained for air that wouldn’t come.

A feeling that wasn’t his own unfurled through him. Grim satisfaction. Silas saw it all laid bare—Orzen’s feelings for her, his fear for her safety, the words he’d use if he wanted her to trust him.

You’ve given me everything I need.

Orzen bolted upright, his heart pounding within his chest.

Silas’s words reverberated in his head until he squeezed his eyes shut, pressing against the ache in his skull. Sweat beaded his brow as the world solidified around him.

The quiet cottage—the one Wren and Jessa shared—settled in his vision, and he forced himself to breathe. He threw his legs over the side of the padded bench, feet hitting the wooden floor, cool in the morning light.

He groaned and lay his head back against the wall. He no longer dreamed of flames. Now his terror came from a different kind of monster. It didn’t matter that Silas was dead. He lingered like the stench of rot, as if everything he’d ever touched had been corrupted. Even the memories he’d twisted to reach her felt clouded now.

Orzen still didn’t know what happened to Wren before he reached the Heartwood. She hadn’t been in a state to talk about it, and he refused to push her. But it nagged at him.

So many questions were crammed into his skull that he couldn’t sort through them all. What had Silas said? What had he done? Orzen had barely acknowledged his feelings, and it seemed like he might already be too late to make anything of them.