His eyes bulge, his body convulsing as the vine burrows deeper. The sound is wet, terrible. I want to look away but cannot. His throat swells and pulses and then, impossibly, beauty blooms from the horror.
Golden blossoms spill from his mouth, delicate petals bursting open, followed by smaller vines studded with heart-shaped leaves. The growth spreads swiftly, mercilessly, devouring him whole. In moments, Anethesis is gone, consumed entirely, his body replaced by a towering sculpture of vines and flowers, swaying gently in the wind as though it had always been there.
The air stills. His magic vanishes with him. The collar around my throat loosens and fades to dust.
I rise slowly, circling the floral monument that was once the Lord of House Ithranor. My steps falter as I look to her. My wife.
I have never feared Amara. I have fought beside her, bled for her, loved her with the reckless arrogance of a warrior who thought himself unbreakable. I believed I was the stronger of us, the darker, the more dangerous. But as she hovers above me, silent and radiant, her emerald robes flowing like banners of the earth itself, I understand how foolish I have been.
“Wife,” I say, my voice barely a breath. “Amara. My love.”
She does not answer. The veil ripples faintly across her face, concealing whatever emotion might live beneath it.
Without a word, Amara turns from me, gliding through the air toward the fallen rabbit, the small, broken thing lying still in the grass with the arrow through its heart.
She descends in silence. Bare feet touch the ground like whispers. Her green robe parts as she kneels, the moss and blossoms pluming around her like breath. One slender hand slips from the long sleeve and hovers over the creature. She traces a single knuckle along its fur, matted and red.
I move closer anyway, my steps slow and careful, wanting her to know I am here, yet terrified she might look at me.
“Amara,” I murmur.
No reply. She doesn’t so much as flinch. Her touch remains tender, as if the rabbit might stir under her hand at any moment.
“Amara,” I try again. “It’s me. Daed.”
Still nothing. It’s as though she’s elsewhere entirely, half here, half somewhere beyond my reach.
I stand close enough to feel the faint pull of her magic, the warmth of the bond that still ties us. Her scent drifts toward me, earth and rain and the faint sweetness of blossoms, and it breaks me open in quiet ache. I want to touch her, to fall to my knees and beg her to see me, but I wait. I’ve always waited. For her beneath the ground, above the clouds, across the sea. I could wait an eternity more if that’s what she asked of me.
She lifts her hand, her fingers brushing the shaft of the arrow buried in the rabbit’s chest. The wood is slick with blood, far too large for such a fragile creature. She studies it a moment, then closes her hand around it.
“We can bury it, if you wish,” I say softly. My words sound foolish in the hush that follows.
Then, swift as the snap of a branch, she yanks the arrow free. The small body jerks with the motion before going still again. Amara tosses the arrow aside and gathers the rabbit in both hands.
The earth trembles beneath my boots.
A shiver ripples through the clearing, a breath through the bones of the world. I hear voices rising from the forest. Low. Ancient. The language of roots and wind. The trees stir as if remembering something long forgotten.
I turn toward the dark edge of the woods, and between the trunks, eyes gleam. Dozens of them. Watching. Waiting. The forest holds its breath.
Amara’s robes lift in a wind that belongs only to her. The veil rises with it, and for the first time I see her eyes clearly, blazing green, alive with power. Veins of light thread through her skin, pulsing like the heartbeat of the earth itself, and that wild energy flows into the small, lifeless creature in her hands.
A sound. A faint sputter. A gasp. Then a delicate chitter.
The rabbit’s eyes snap open, bright and black and shining. Its legs twitch, kicking weakly, and for a moment it simply sits there in her palms, uncertain.
Then, above it all, comes the sweetest sound I have ever heard.
Amara laughs.
Soft and easy. A sound of pure, effortless joy.
The green light fades from her skin. The veins dim. The forest exhales, and the Souls watching from the trees retreat, melting back into the dark. Amara strokes the rabbit’s fur once more, her thumb brushing over its ear. The creature twitches its nose and leaps from her hands, bounding through the grass before vanishing into the trees.
I can’t move. Can’t think. My jaw hangs useless as I stare at her.
“Amara… how did you…” My voice fails. My mind spins. I saw that arrow. I saw it tear through the poor thing’s chest. There was no life left in it. No magic that could restore what had been taken. Dead is dead. Dead cannot return.
