32. Xela
THIRTY-TWO
XELA
The forest’s fear is a physical presence now, pressing against the roots that shelter us. I can feel it even without sharing his bond with the land—a tension in the air, a wrongness that sets my teeth on edge. Whatever the Consortium has brought, it’s close.
“We should move.” I say it even though every part of me is screaming to stay. “See what we’re facing.”
“Agreed.” But he doesn’t let go. Keeps me on his lap, keeps his hands on my waist, keeps looking at me with those eyes that see too much. “Xela.”
“What?”
“Whatever happens today—whatever we face—I need you to know this.” He leans forward, rests his forehead against mine.
“You’ve given me more in a few days than I’ve had in decades.
More hope. More warmth. More reason to keep fighting.
” His voice drops. “If this is the end, I want to face it knowing I told you the truth.”
The words hit me harder than any blow. I blink, eyes suddenly stinging, and curse myself for the weakness. Bounty hunters don’t cry. Survivors don’t let themselves feel this much.
But I’m not just a bounty hunter anymore. I’m not sure what I am.
“You’re really bad at pillow talk,” I manage.
“I warned you.”
I kiss him. Hard. Pouring everything I can’t say into the press of my lips against his—the fear, the hope, the wild impossible thing growing in my chest that feels too much like the word I swore I’d never use again.
When I pull back, we’re both breathing hard.
“When this is over,” I say. “When the Consortium is dead and the King is contained and we’re standing in the wreckage of everything they threw at us.
” I cup his face in my hands, make sure he’s looking at me.
“I want time. Real time. Without hungry gods and bounty hunters and weapons that make Briargrave cower.”
“What would you do with that time?”
“Find out if you’re as bad at pillow talk as you seem. See if that smile looks the same in sunlight. Discover what you’re like when you’re not constantly fighting to survive.” I brush my thumb across his cheek. “Learn everything about you that the forest hasn’t touched.”
His expression shifts—vulnerability, wonder, a hunger that has nothing to do with the Thorn King.
“That sounds like something to survive for.”
“Then let’s go fight.”
We dress in silence—or I dress, and he adjusts the armor that never fully came off. The cramped hollow doesn’t allow for much privacy.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m appreciating.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Ask me later. After we survive.”
We climb out of the hollow and into a world that’s changed.
The gray dawn light reveals a forest in turmoil.
Trees that stood straight yesterday now bend toward the east, their branches reaching as if trying to flee.
The constant creaking of living wood that’s become familiar has turned into an almost-moan, a sound of distress that vibrates through the earth beneath my boots.
And on the horizon, black smoke rises against the gray sky.
“They’re burning a path,” Tharos says. His voice has gone flat. Cold. The warden speaking now, not the man who held me in the dark. “Cutting through everything between them and the Heartgrove.”
“Efficient.”
“Stupid. The forest will remember every tree they kill. Even if they win, even if they take what they’re after—Briargrave will hunt them forever.”
“Assuming there’s a Briargrave left to do the hunting.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to.
We move toward the smoke, and the thornpaths open reluctantly—not with the easy obedience I saw before, but with hesitation. Resistance. The vines part just enough to let us through, then close behind us with what sounds almost like a whimper.
Tharos’s jaw is tight, his eyes fixed on the smoke ahead. “Whatever they’ve brought—it’s not natural. The Consortium hasn’t just assembled an army. They’ve found a weapon.”
“What kind of weapon?”
“I don’t know.” Something moves through him—a shudder that has nothing to do with the cold, nothing to do with the wound in his shoulder. His hand rises unconsciously to his chest, pressing flat over the binding scars. “The King has gone quiet. Not the silence of restraint. Something else.”
I have never heard him describe the King as quiet before.
We crest a ridge, and I see them.
The Consortium army spreads across the forest like a wound. They’re not just walking through Briargrave; they’re destroying it. Burning a corridor through the undergrowth, cutting down anything that moves, leaving charred earth in their wake.
And at the center of their formation, surrounded by the largest concentration of soldiers, is the weapon.
It’s a siege engine. That’s the only word for it—a massive construction of metal and stone mounted on reinforced wheels, covered in runes that glow with sickly green light.
The runes are screaming. I can hear them even from here—a high, keening sound that sets my teeth on edge and makes my stomach churn.
“Severance Engine.” Tharos’s voice is barely a whisper. “They’ve built a Severance Engine.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means they’re not here to kill me.” His hands have curled into fists at his sides. “They’re here to break me. Sever my bond with the forest. Leave Briargrave unguarded and the Thorn King free.”
“Why would anyone want that?”
“Power. The King is ancient. Concentrated. All those centuries of feeding on vengeance and hatred—that’s not just malice.
That’s energy. Magic. The kind of power that could fuel armies, forge empires.
” He turns to face me, and his expression is grim.
“They don’t want to stop the King. They want to harvest it. ”
“And you’re in the way.”
“I’m the lock on the cage. Remove me, and everything comes out.”
The army below has noticed our presence—or maybe the forest told them we were coming. Shouts go up. Soldiers reform into combat positions. The Severance Engine’s runes pulse brighter, and even from this distance, I feel pressure push against my mind. Hungry. Probing.
“How long until they reach the Heartgrove?”
“At this pace? An hour. Maybe less.”
“Then we stop them.”
Tharos looks at me. Looks at the army. Looks at the weapon that’s designed to rip him apart from the inside.
“We try.”
The battle begins before we’re ready for it.
Consortium soldiers don’t wait for us to attack—they come for us with the efficiency of professionals, flame weapons blazing, blades gleaming. The first wave is ten strong, crashing through the undergrowth with killing intent clear in their eyes.
Tharos meets them with violence.
Roots explode from the earth, impaling two soldiers mid-stride. Vines whip from the branches overhead, catching a third around the throat and dragging him screaming into the canopy. The forest that was terrified moments ago has found its fury.
I move with him. Not beside him—that would leave my flank exposed—but in tandem, covering the gaps his attacks create. A soldier breaks through the roots; my blade opens his throat before he can raise his weapon. Another dodges the vines; my crossbow bolt takes him through the eye.
We’ve never practiced this. Never planned it. But our bodies move like we’ve been fighting side by side for years.
More soldiers come. Fifteen now, then twenty.
They’re not stupid—they’ve spread out, forcing Tharos to divide his attention, preventing the forest from concentrating its attacks.
Flame weapons light the undergrowth, and I smell burning vegetation, hear the screams of trees that have stood for centuries being consumed.
“They’re using the fire to weaken you!” I shout, parrying a blade meant for my ribs.
“I know!” He catches a soldier by the skull, slams him into a tree hard enough to crack bark and bone alike. “The forest can’t defend itself and attack at the same time!”
“Then stop defending!”
“What?”
“The trees are already dying! Make their deaths count!”
He hesitates—just a fraction of a second—and I see the cost of what I’m asking. These trees have been part of his domain since the binding began. Burning them is like burning pieces of himself.
But he does it.
The trees that are already on fire explode outward, showering the soldiers with flaming debris.
Men scream as burning branches pierce their armor, as flaming leaves catch in their hair and clothing.
The attack costs Briargrave—I can feel it in the way the earth shudders beneath my feet—but it costs the Consortium more.
A dozen soldiers fall in that single moment. The rest retreat, regrouping, and for a breath I think we’ve won.
Then the Severance Engine activates.
The keening sound I heard before intensifies—becomes a scream that drives needles into my skull. I stagger, hands going to my ears, and beside me Tharos drops to his knees.
“Tharos!”
He’s shaking. His scars have split. His eyes are wide, staring at nothing, and his mouth is open in a silent scream.
“No—hold on—” I grab him, try to pull him up, but he’s rigid. Frozen.