Mist clung to the roots like old sorrow, curling slow and reluctant as if the Grove itself were grieving. Draven inhaled the resin-heavy air, then released it in a measured stream. It wasn't relief—relief belonged to soldiers who believed the last arrow had flown. This was assessment, timing how long the forest would stay quiet before the next blade fell.
Golden sap no longer spurted from ruptured veins; instead it oozed in thick beads, pausing on the bark as if uncertain it should continue. Each drop caught the faint glimmer of witch-light, trembling before it finally slid to the soil below. The Grove was silent—not healed, merely bracing.
Sylvanna wobbled to a halt beside him, her lungs still hitching in uneven bursts. Frost crusted her right glove where the final arrow's backlash had flash-frozen her grip. Strands of auburn hair fell loose from her braid, sticking to her cheek in damp crescent arcs.
