33. Xela
THIRTY-THREE
XELA
The Severance Engine’s runes are blazing now, green light cutting through the gray dawn like diseased sunlight. The soldiers who fell back are advancing again, confident now, knowing their weapon is working.
“You have to fight it!” I shake him, desperate. “Whatever that thing is doing—you have to resist!”
His eyes focus. Find mine. And I see the pain there—a pain deeper than anything physical, the agony of a man being ripped away from everything that defines him.
Through the smoke and confusion I catch a glimpse of the man at the weapon’s controls—Vorn, the name from the silver-haired woman’s final words—hands moving across the rune-panels with the practiced ease of someone who’s done this before.
“It’s... pulling... at the binding...” His voice is a rasp. “Trying to... sever...”
“Then don’t let it!”
“I can’t—not from here—” He shudders, and his scars burn. “Need to... reach the Heartgrove. Draw power... directly from the King.”
“That’s suicide! You said the King—”
“Is the only thing... strong enough... to counter that weapon.” He grabs my arms, fingers digging in hard. “I have to try. If it reaches... the grove while I’m like this...”
“Then we both go.”
“No.” He shakes his head, forces himself to his feet. The effort costs him—I can see it in the way his muscles tremble, the way his breath comes in ragged gasps. “Someone has to... slow them down. Buy me time.”
“I’m not letting you face that thing alone!”
“You’re not letting me do anything.” His voice steadies, finds steel beneath the pain. “I’m choosing this. The same way I chose to bind myself to this forest. The same way I chose you.” His hand finds my face, cups my cheek. “If there’s even a chance of stopping them—I have to take it.”
“And what about me? What am I supposed to do while you’re playing hero?”
“What you do best.” Despite everything—the pain, the fear, the army advancing behind us—he almost smiles. “Fight. Survive. Make them regret every step they take toward the grove.” His thumb brushes my cheek. “You’re the most dangerous thing in this forest besides me. Use that.”
I want to argue. Want to scream at him that this is stupid, that we should face this together, that I didn’t survive this long just to watch him sacrifice himself for a forest that’s been draining him year after year.
But I see the truth in his eyes. He’s not asking permission. He’s already made his choice.
And he needs me to make mine.
“You come back.” I grab his face, force him to look at me. “You hear me? You go to that grove, you do whatever you need to do, but you return to me. Don’t make me hunt you down.”
“I’ll come back.” He covers my hands with his. “I promise.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.”
“I know.”
He kisses me. Hard. Brief. Everything he can’t say compressed into a single moment—the fear, the hope, the wild desperate thing growing between us that neither of us has dared name.
When he pulls back, his eyes are blazing. Not with the King’s influence. With determination.
“Hold them as long as you can. I’ll be back before they reach the grove.”
“You’d better be.”
He turns. Runs. The thornpaths open for him in a way they haven’t opened for anyone else—Briargrave recognizing its warden, making way for the only person who might be able to save it.
I watch him go until the trees swallow him. Then I turn to face the army.
Thirty soldiers are advancing through the burned corridor.
The Severance Engine rolls behind them, its runes pulsing with that sickening light, the screaming of its magic drilling into my skull.
They see me standing alone at the ridge.
See that their target has fled. See a single human woman with two blades between them and their objective.
They keep coming.
Fine.
My quiver’s been empty since the ravine. I check the edge on my blades and settle into a fighting stance.
One bounty hunter against an army. Impossible odds. No backup, no magic, no ancient forest lending me power.
Just skill. Will. The stubborn refusal to die that’s kept me alive when everyone else fell.
“Come on then,” I murmur. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The first wave breaks against me like water against stone.
I move through the soldiers with everything I have—every trick, every feint, every brutal shortcut the work has taught me. My blades find gaps in armor, throats exposed above gorgets, the soft spots at joints where protection gives way to mobility. Blood sprays. Men scream.
But there are too many.
I kill six before they push me back. Eight before a blade opens a gash across my forearm. Ten before a flame weapon singes the hair on my scalp, close enough that I can smell my own burning.
They’re not trying to kill me. They’re trying to get past me.
I fall back. Give ground. Make them work for every inch.
The Severance Engine’s runes pulse brighter with each passing moment. The screaming in my head intensifies. I can feel it reaching for Tharos even from here—that weapon, that abomination, trying to tear him apart from the inside.
Hold them. Buy time.
I kill another soldier. Take a cut across my ribs that bleeds more than it should. Keep fighting.
In the distance, toward the Heartgrove, I feel a pulse of power. Dark. Ancient. Hungry.
The Thorn King, stirring in its throne.
And somewhere in that darkness, Tharos is fighting for his life—for both our lives—betting everything on a bargain with the monster he’s spent decades containing.
Return to me, I think. Whatever it takes, whatever you have to do—find your way back.
The soldiers keep coming. The weapon keeps screaming.
And I keep fighting.
Because stopping means losing. And I didn’t survive this long by accepting defeat.