Sylvanna exhaled a curse. "He signed their history with his own ruin."
Draven's expression sharpened. "The Grove remembers its traitor." He touched the page; ink recoiled, sizzling as if scalded. "And wants him excised."
The tunnels tightened, ceiling pressing low. Cold deepened. Draven's breath fogged in short bursts. Each inhalation tasted of cedar and distant smoke. Between steps he evaluated: mist density rising, memory distortions escalating, corruption threads thicker toward the heart. He eased his blade angle, preparing for closer quarters.
Sylvanna fell silent, focus narrowing. Her ears tracked every creak; her eyes flicked from root-seam to crystalline bloom to the faint silhouettes lurking beyond lamplight. One arrow rested nocked, tip glowing faint blue—the first of her dwindling frost-quiver.
