With a roar of breaking stone and snapping wood, a gigantic tree trunk burst from beneath Mara's feet—roots snaking like chains, branches lashing upward. It coiled around her, wrapping her limbs, chest, throat in layers of ancient bark. The roots pulsed with Rod's power, blooming briefly with green leaves and golden veins.
Mara shrieked—not in sound, but in pure force. The world around them buckled.
Yet the prison held.
"Regroup!" Khoryv yelled. "That's all we'll get!"
They ran out of the cave meeting with Methodius and Shchek.
They rallied. Yurko leaned on Kyi, the wolf panting beside them. Maksym readied his remaining bronze blade, his head bleeding. Lybid was gasping. The group formed up.
The branches shuddered.
Cracks appeared.
Then it came.
A single point of darkness—no larger than a fruit pit—condensed in Mara's caged palm.
A whisper of annihilation.
With a flick, she launched it.
The bullet of pure death spiraled toward them, howling with hunger.
"DOWN!" Kyi shouted.
But no one moved faster than Methodius.
He stepped forward, lifting the Holy Bible, its leather cracked and gold-inked lettering glowing faintly.
The black bolt struck the book—
—and was stopped.
But not harmlessly.
The Bible screamed as pages flew open, its scripture burned from within.
Holy verses unraveled into ribbons of death flame.
The sacred book turned to ash in his hands, fluttering into the wind.
Methodius fell to his knees.
"Its work is done," he whispered, closing his empty hands.
The others looked up.
The cage of branches was breaking.
Mara was not done.
And neither were they.