Tovar stands frozen, his eyes wide with disbelief. His lips curl into a sneer, but there’s something else behind it—fear. “You cannot banish me,” he spits, though his voice trembles with uncertainty. “The Grove is all I’ve ever known.”
“As it was for me,” I snap, my voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Yet you sent me to the wolves without a second thought. Now leave your staff and your cloak, and get out before these Fae dish out their own justice. Because if they choose to, I won’t be able to stop them.”
Arax’s hand hovers over his sword, a silent threat, while Zyphoro lets smoke swirl in her palm, the crackling tension ready to explode at any moment.
Tovar’s face tightens in defiance, but his hands betray him as they slowly reach up to untie the robe from his neck. The once-proud symbol of his authority slips from his shoulders and crumples to the floor, a discarded relic. The staff follows, its gnarled wood hitting the ground with a thud that reverberates through the hall, a final punctuation to his downfall.
His shoulders sag, and for the first time, he looks small—like a man unmoored from the only thing that gave his life meaning. He stands there, trembling, his gaze darting to the faces around him. He searches for mercy, but there is none.
With slow, reluctant steps, he turns and walks toward the door. His feet drag across the floor as if every step costs him something, and the weight of his banishment presses down on him, visible in the stoop of his back. As he reaches the threshold, he hesitates, his hand hovering over the vine-covered doorway as if he might say something, might plead for forgiveness. But there are no words left for him here.
He pushes through the vines, and the door closes behind him with a soft rustle, sealing him away from the only home he’s ever known.
The silence that follows is heavy, but I feel no triumph in it—only the bittersweet sting of loss, for what he once was and what we’ve both become.
“What now, Jewel?” Enaria asks, her voice trembling with uncertainty, and the entire council turns toward me, waiting for my next word. Their eyes are on me—expectant, hopeful, desperate.
I walk over to the discarded symbols of power that once belonged to Tovar, the Keeper’s robe and the elder staff, lying on the ground. My fingers close around them, and the weight is heavier than it should be. As I turn to Enaria, I hand them both to her. She fumbles with them, her eyes wide with disbelief.
“Jewel. I cannot take on the role of Keeper. The council must—”
“You are now Keeper,” I interrupt, my voice steady though my heart pounds in my chest. “We do not have time for meetings and politics when the Legion threatens everything we hold dear. We need a leader now.”
Enaria gulps, the responsibility sinking into her bones. “Then you should be that leader, Jewel.” When I hesitate, she steps closer, pleading. “I will take on the mantle of Keeper, but you’ve seen the outside world, you know what we face. If The Grove has any chance of surviving this, it must be with you leading us.”
“She’s right,” Solena says softly from beside me, her hand warm on my shoulder. “You are no mere human, Amara. You’ve faced the Father Below and lived.”
I turn back to Enaria, finding an uncomfortable logic in her words. “I will see us through this,” I finally say, forcing strength into my voice. “Whatever happens, we will not go quietly.”
Enaria nods, determination flickering in her eyes. “We will not.”
But even as I say the words, a wave of uncertainty crashes over me. Suddenly, Arax is at my side, vying for my attention, while Solena whispers something else in my ear. The council descends upon me with more questions, all of them leaning in as if I hold every answer. Zyphoro arches a questioning brow, her gaze sharp, waiting for instructions. The room is closing in. The weight of their expectations presses down on my chest, and the edges of my vision blur.
“I’ll be back,” I mutter, my voice tight, trying not to let my panic show. I slip from the hall, trying not to run but desperately needing to escape.
I find a quiet place away from them all, away from the eyes that look to me for salvation, and the moment I’m alone, my knees give out beneath me. I crouch low, leaning forward with my hands braced on my thighs, gasping for air. I’m suffocating under the weight of it all—the pressure, the duty, the fear.
They expect me to lead. To save The Grove. To be strong, but I feel anything but strong.
I close my eyes, willing the tears to stay hidden, but my thoughts betray me. They drift to Daedalus. Even after everything that has happened, after the betrayal, after the lies, I still yearn for him. The memory of his touch lingers on my skin, his kiss, his hands in my hair. A part of me misses him so fiercely it feels like another betrayal—this time, of myself.
I swallow hard, forcing the thoughts away, but the ache remains. He wasn’t there when I needed him most, and yet… I can’t stop wanting him.
I shake my head, burying the thought, because even now, in the midst of all this, I can’t afford to let myself feel this way. Not when there’s so much at stake.
Some time later, I find them all gathered around a fire, sharing food beneath the stars. The warm glow of the flames casts long shadows over the group as they sit on the ground, passing bowls of stew made from the vegetables we’ve grown in the soil of The Grove. It’s quiet, almost peaceful, though I catch Arax hungrily eying up any rabbit that bounces by. Solena smirks but says nothing, merely stirring the stew with an amused flick of her wrist.
“We’ll need more than vegetables to survive a war,” Zyphoro murmurs, though her tone is more teasing than serious as she leans back on her elbows, eyeing the fire with disinterest. Her appetite seems as distant as her thoughts.
“Tomorrow,” Arax begins, his voice cutting through the calm, “we’ll need to assess our situation. We’ve counted our numbers, and they’re… not promising.” His eyes meet mine, the flickering firelight dancing in them, but even the warmth of the flames doesn’t soften his expression.
“How many?” Solena asks, her tone as sharp as ever, but there’s a quiet determination in her posture, her eyes locked on Arax.
“The twenty Blades will fight,” Arax says, “but they’re not enough. And while they serve you for now, I do not trust them without Commander Rook. They follow me because they must, but their loyalty wavers. Without their true leader, they’re unpredictable.” He pauses, running a hand over the pommel of his sword. “If the Legion reaches us at full strength, our numbers will be like dust in the wind.”
Zyphoro snorts, her smirk widening. “Twenty Blades and a handful of Tenders against the Legion of Saints? This should be interesting.” Her voice drips with dark humor, but beneath the surface, there’s a seriousness that lingers. She knows what we’re up against.
“We’ll need to get creative,” Solena adds, her brow furrowing. “Anything that can give us an advantage in the forest. The Grove is our best defense—it will fight for us. But we should think of the children and the elderly. They will need somewhere safe to hide if the worst happens.”
