We followed the blood.
The wounded assassin's trail was easy to track—drops of crimson on moss, broken branches, disturbed earth. Mira led, her silent fury a palpable thing. Vance flanked right, Dorn left despite his bandaged side. Elara stayed in the middle, her hands still stained with Dorn's blood, her face pale but set.
I brought up the rear, watching for more ambushes. My sword felt heavy, useless without my magic, but the weight was comforting somehow. Real. Honest.
The whispers grew louder as we went deeper, the trees older, the twilight thicker. Shapes moved at the edge of vision—beasts, maybe, or just shadows playing tricks. I didn't look twice.
After an hour, Mira stopped. She raised a hand, and we froze.
Through the trees, firelight flickered. A camp. Tents, supplies, figures moving with practiced efficiency. At its center, a larger tent—command post.
And standing before it, arms crossed, watching the woods with cold satisfaction—
A man who could only be Lord Vane.
He was tall, distinguished, with Mira's sharp features and none of her warmth. Grey streaked his dark hair, and his eyes held the flat, assessing look of a predator who'd forgotten he was prey.
"Your father," Vance breathed.
Mira said nothing. Her grip on her sword tightened until her knuckles went white.
"We can't just charge in," I murmured. "There are too many. We need—"
"I know." Her voice was barely a whisper. "I know."
We withdrew to a small hollow, hidden by roots and shadow. Dorn sat heavily, his wound seeping through the bandages. Elara checked it, her hands steady now.
"Options," Vance said. "We could circle around, find help—"
"No help," Mira cut in. "The Academy's compromised. My father has people everywhere. Anyone we tell could be working for him."
"Then what?"
She looked at me. "Roy. The woods. You talked to the dungeon, to the golem. Can you talk to... this place?"
I closed my eyes, reaching for that deeper sense—the part of me that heard ancient things. The wards blocked my magic, but not this. Not the connection.
And the woods were listening.
*"You're back," * a voice whispered—not words, but meaning. The same presence I'd felt in the dungeon, in the arena. Ancient. Patient. "The gardener returns." *
*"I need help," * I sent back. *"There are people here who want to hurt us. Hurt the woods. Can you... do something?" *
A long pause. Then, slowly, the whisper of leaves, the creak of branches, the soft rustle of roots shifting underground.
*"The woods remember those who harm them. Show us the ones." *
I opened my eyes. "We have an ally."
---
The attack began at midnight.
We didn't charge. We didn't need to. The woods moved first.
Roots erupted around the camp, tangling tents, tripping guards. Branches swept down, knocking weapons from hands. Vines wrapped around ankles, dragging assassins to the ground. The whispers became a roar—not words, but anger, the fury of an ancient forest provoked.
In the chaos, we struck.
Mira went straight for her father, her blade a silver blur. Lord Vane was no weakling—he met her with his own sword, steel ringing against steel, father against daughter.
Vance engaged the remaining guards, his flames useless but his blade sharp. Dorn stood at his back, shield raised, a wall against anyone who tried to flank. Elara stayed close to me, her role not fighter but witness—and emergency medic if anyone fell.
I found the assassin who'd run. He was pinned by roots, struggling, cursing. I walked to him slowly, my sword in my hand.
"Please," he gasped. "I was just following orders—"
"Whose orders?"
"Lord Vane! He paid us! The collector, the attacks, all of it—he's working with someone from the Dark Forest! A necromancer! They're planning to—"
A blade sprouted from his chest. He slumped, dead.
I spun. Lord Vane stood behind me, his sword red, Mira on her knees behind him, clutching her arm.
"Children," he said, almost gently. "Did you think you could challenge me in my own game?"
Mira struggled to rise, blood seeping between her fingers. "Father—"
"Quiet." He didn't look at her. His eyes were on me. "You're the plant mage. The one who talks to old things. My employer will pay well for you."
I gripped my sword. "Your employer can rot."
He laughed. "Brave. Stupid, but brave." He stepped forward, his blade rising—
The ground opened beneath him.
Roots—massive, ancient, older than the Academy itself—erupted from the earth. They wrapped around Lord Vane's legs, his arms, his throat. He struggled, gasped, dropped his sword.
"No—what—IMPOSSIBLE—"
The roots tightened. Something cracked.
Lord Vane went still.
I stared at the roots, at the body they held, at Mira kneeling in the blood-soaked earth.
She didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared at her father's corpse with eyes that held nothing at all.
I went to her. Knelt beside her. Said nothing.
After a long moment, she leaned against me, just slightly. A crack in the armor, quickly sealed.
"It's done," she whispered.
"Yeah." I looked at the woods, at the roots slowly receding, at the silence settling over the camp. "It's done."
But even as I said it, I knew the truth.
This wasn't the end.
It was only the beginning.
---