The thing of roots and rot screamed—a sound like wind shredding through broken reeds. Its tendrils lashed blindly, gouging furrows in the soil, striking branches from the trees. The lake itself seemed to recoil as the mass dragged itself upright, half-corporeal, hollow eyes searing with a sickly light. Ghor corruption in its truest form.
Thorn stepped forward, towering, every line of his body braced between the monster and the women. His hand shot out behind him, guiding Suraia back with calm certainty even as his eyes never left the thing. He knelt and the bark-brown fingers of his other hand dug into the soil, calling to what lay beneath. Roots shifted, answering his command, rising in living cords that wrapped around the corruption’s legs and torso. They strained, groaning under the pressure, but they held, keeping the bulk of corruption from crashing forward.
“Hold, Vasha,” he growled, his voice pitched low, like thunder deep under earth.
The Oakhai dropped to one knee beside him, fox ears pinned back, tail bristling. Her hands pressed flat to the soil. “I can try…” she began, but Thorn cut across her.
“Not try. Do. Open yourself. Let the forest move through you.”
She clenched her teeth, shut her eyes, and flung her senses wide. Magic jolted through her veins, wild and sharp, so unlike Thorn’s steady thrum. She poured it into the ground in raw torrents. The air thickened. Moss glowed faintly under her palms. A scatter of fireflies swarmed from the rushes, drifting closer, their tiny bodies lighting the dark with fragile constellations. From the underbrush a hare crept, ears trembling, yet it came. Birds gathered in the branches, wings flickering like shadows.
Suraia watched, chest tight. She could see it—life itself pooling toward them, every small creature lending a flicker of strength. Thorn’s power drew it all in, grounding it, shaping it into cords of living energy that lashed around the Ghor corruption like green fire. Vasha’s raw force fed him, fuel for roots to thicken, for vines to climb.
And still the thing fought. Its tendrils flailed, snapping roots, splattering the ground with sweet, acrid sap. Each strike shook the earth, sent leaves and dirt raining down. Thorn’s arms trembled with the strain, sweat rolling down his temple, but his eyes glowed steadily, brighter and brighter.
It was then that the forest broke with another sound—shouts, torchlight, boots crashing through the brush.
“Aelric Harren!” Vasha spat, twisting toward the noise.
Half a dozen men burst into the clearing with torches flaring high. At their head strode the half-elf noble, cloak swept back, face alight with the thrill of spectacle. Right next to him were Rostan and Jory, even the wood elf boy Lareth was there. Aelric raised his torch like a banner. “Back, all of you! I will save the trading post—burn the rot out at the root!”
“No!” Thorn barked, voice carrying the weight of command. “You will undo everything—”
But Aelric did not hear. Or would not. His men jeered, fanning out with torches raised. “Burn it!” one shouted. “Burn the witchcraft away!”
Suraia staggered forward, heart in her throat. “Wait… please, you mustn’t…”
Aelric turned on her, sneer twisting his lips. “You again. The red-haired witch.” He shoved her hard aside with the flat of his arm. The world tipped—her head cracked against stone, stars burst behind her eyes, and she crumpled with a cry.
“Suraia!” Vasha shouted, half rising, but Thorn’s roar shook the clearing.
The corrupted mass shrieked, thrashing harder as firelight seared across its form. The torches lured it, enraged it. And worse, it drew in the forest’s sickened beasts. Wolves staggered from the brush, eyes glassy. A boar, froth caking its tusks, charged snarling into the torchlight. Birds screamed, flung from their nests in panic.
The clearing erupted into chaos.
Thorn thrust both arms wide, summoning roots from the soil itself—deep alder roots ripping free, cords of ivy snaking from the tree line. They lashed outward, entangling wolves, dragging them down. Vasha sprang to her feet, bow snapping taut, arrow after arrow driving crazed beasts back from the men who suddenly screamed and scattered.
Jory and Lareth ran screaming, Rostan and a few other brave men stood to fight the entangled beasts.
Still Aelric pressed forward, torch brandished high, face split with mad triumph. “I will burn you out!” he roared at the corruption itself.
“Fool!” Thorn thundered, but it was too late.
The Ghor corruption lashed. A poisoned tendril whipped out and pierced Aelric through the side. His cry cut the clearing in two—high, raw, and terrified. Blood ran dark down his hip, foaming with poison. He fell to one knee, torch spinning into the mud. Those of his men that had remained faltered, horror breaking their bravado. One bolted. Then another. The rest stumbled back, shouting, “Run! It’s cursed!”
In that instant of distraction, Thorn and Vasha pressed harder. The Ee’dornil forced roots deep beneath the corruption, binding its core. Vasha’s magic flared through him, wild, uncontrolled, but it fed the spell. The ground itself groaned. Fireflies burst into a storm around them, whirling. The Ghor corruption gave one last convulsion—then shattered.
It broke apart in fragments of glowing green light. They swirled upward like sparks torn from a bonfire, dozens of them streaming toward Thorn. But most turned to Vasha, orbiting her in whorls of living fire.
“Open yourself!” Thorn called, voice ragged but commanding. “This is Eonil’s gift—take it in!”
Vasha’s arms opened, eyes wide. For a heartbeat her whole body glowed—ears alight, tail shimmering silver-blue in the green haze. She gasped, awed. “I can see… all of it. Every root, every breath. The forest… it speaks.”
The light sank into her. For a moment she stood utterly still, serene, radiant. Then the glow dimmed, leaving her trembling, gasping, but smiling through the tears in her eyes.
Thorn’s gaze snapped to Suraia. He strode to her quickly, crouched low, hands steady though his breath still heaved. “Are you hurt?”
She winced, pressing one hand to her temple. “I… I’m all right. Just hit my head.”
A moan broke the moment. Aelric.
Suraia’s head whipped around. The half-elf lay curled, his cloak soaked with blood, breath shallow and rattling. Dark poison oozed from the wound, hissing where it touched the soil. His skin was already clammy, his lips pale.
The red headed healer’s instinct surged. She stumbled to him, dropping to her knees. “He’s dying. Poison… deep in his blood.” Her hands fluttered uselessly over her satchel. “I…maybe… I can try…”
Thorn loomed at her shoulder. His jaw was iron. “You do not have to save everyone, Silverbell.”
Vasha knelt on the other side, fox ears drooping, her gaze soft but steady. “But she will,” she said quietly. “That is who she is.”
Thorn slightly shook his head and started to gather his clothes to get dressed again.
Suraia’s hands were already in her bag, fumbling out the small vial she had brewed with such care. The antivenom. She uncorked it, scooped a trace of the oozing poison from Aelric’s wound, mixed it with the potion, and shook until it glowed faintly. She whispered a prayer she was not sure anyone heard.
The potion went between Aelric’s lips, bitter and burning. Then her hands pressed to his chest. Light burst white with a blue hue, flooding the wound. It seared against the corruption in his veins, dragged it out, tore it apart. Her curls whipped in the current of her own magic, eyes flickering with brilliance. She gave more than she should have, more than she had to spare. Her body trembled with the cost.
At last Aelric gasped, colour creeping back into his face. The poison slowed, then ceased. The wound knitted beneath her palms until only a raw scar remained.
Suraia collapsed back on her heels, panting, hair plastered to her damp cheeks. The light faded from her hands, leaving her trembling and utterly spent. She had saved him.
And he recoiled.
The moment he could speak, his face twisted in horror. He scrambled back, clutching his side. “Witch!” he spat. “Heretic! You cursed me! You nearly killed me! You all saw it!” His voice cracked but grew louder as his men, the ones who had fled, crept back into the edges of the clearing. Their wide eyes betrayed it—they had seen the white light with a blue hue of her magic. Rostan stood closer to Aelric, clutching his arm, nodding in agreement.
Suraia stared at him, stricken, mouth opening but no words came.
Thorn’s teeth bared in a snarl, his whole frame taut with the urge to strike. Vasha surged to her feet, bow half-raised. “You ungrateful…”
The forest stirred with new torchlight and heavy steps. A commanding voice cut across the chaos. “Enough!”
Christopher Cooper Crooby entered the clearing with Lareth and Jory flanking him, faces taut, blades bare. The Xaverion guard must have followed into the woods, found by Jory and Lareth after they fled, going back only after the shouting and the fight was over. Their eyes swept over the wreckage—the roots torn up, the soil scorched with sour sap, Aelric’s pale form still slick with blood, and Suraia crouched in exhaustion.
Aelric seized the moment. “You saw her! The cursed light! She’s a heretic, dangerous! Arrest her before she poisons us all!”
Christopher’s jaw clenched. He did not miss that Suraia’s hands no longer glowed, only shook with fatigue. He had seen that light before at the farm and knew what it had done there. But Aelric’s men pressed in, nodding, voices low with fear.
At last, Christopher spoke, voice heavy as iron. “Very well. For the safety of the trading post… she comes with me.” Emphasis on the last word.
Thorn’s voice rumbled like stone. “I will not leave her side.”
Vasha stepped closer, tail flicking, bow still in hand. “Nor will I.”
Christopher’s gaze moved over the three of them in the torchlight, the Ee’dornil and the Oakhai standing protectively on either side of the red headed crouching human woman. His sigh was barely audible, weariness lining his face. “Then all three,” he said at last, voice heavy.
Aelric slumped back, smug despite his pallor, clutching his side as though his wound were proof of martyrdom. His men muttered agreement, emboldened by the promise of punishment.
Thorn bent, his towering frame shadowing Suraia as he helped her rise. She swayed, too weak to stand. Without hesitation he swept her into his arms, cradling her as though she weighed nothing. When one of the men stepped forward to offer help, Thorn’s glare froze him where he stood. “She is my ward,” he said, voice low and final. “I will bear her.”
Christopher cleared his throat. “She might fare better on horseback,” he offered, glancing to his gelding tethered nearby.
“No,” Thorn cut him off. “No one else touches her.”
Something in his tone brooked no argument. Christopher gave a single, slow nod. “Very well. But I will take your belongings.” He lifted the healer’s satchel and the Ee’dornil’s pack onto his horse. Vasha reluctantly surrendered her bow, quiver and dagger.
When one of Aelric’s cronies called out for their hands to be tied, Thorn’s head snapped around, eyes glowing faintly in the gloom. “No.”
The crowd muttered uneasily, but Christopher raised a hand. “He is right. Look at her.” He gestured to the barely conscious weight of the red-haired woman against Thorn’s chest. “She can barely breathe on her own. None of them will try anything in her state.” His voice carried enough command to still the grumblers.
So, it was settled.
Torches lifted. Orders barked. The red moon of Ghor hid behind clouds and the blue moon Denday was nowhere to be found when the little company began the long march east. The watchtower was hours away, and night already pressed between the trees. Every step of that journey would be under suspicion, steel at their backs, the mutters of Aelric’s men a constant undercurrent.
But the three of them went together, bound by circumstance if not by rope. Thorn carried Suraia with quiet, implacable strength, Vasha walked close at his side, tail lashing in agitation, and Christopher rode ahead, shoulders heavy beneath duty’s weight.
The forest swallowed their shapes, torches guttering in the dark, and the march began.