Roots sensed his intent and rebelled—twisting, bucking beneath his boots in an attempt to trip him. Memory-phantoms burst from the air like thrown veils: Roth leaning over a burning map table, eyes furious; Clara reaching out with ghost-pale fingers; a heap of students from his engineering lectures, faces melting into blame. Each specter clawed for his focus.
He ignored them all.
Sylvanna's next arrow hissed past Draven's ear, feathers brushing the edge of his hood. The shaft split into three shards mid-flight, each fragment skewering a different phantom that leapt to intercept him—one took the form of Roth's scowling face, another bore Clara's wide, silent scream, the last a nameless student clutching burned lecture notes. The illusions popped like soap bubbles, shards dissolving before they even hit the ground. Each kill bought Draven half a heartbeat—time enough for boots to find purchase on the writhing tangle of roots beneath him.
