* * *
Long before thetwisted trunk and skeletal branches came into view, Vivienne felt the tree’s presence—an oppressive weight pressing against her chest, heavy as grief itself. The air here was different, thick. It curled around her skin like ghostly fingers, whispering of sorrow and suffering long past but never truly gone.
“This place feels… wrong,” Florence muttered, shifting uneasily, her fingers twitching toward her dagger.
A silent understanding passed between the rest of the group.She feels it, too.
Owen’s voice was steady but grim. “Hundreds of children’s remains are entombed in the hollow of that tree.” He exhaled sharply, his dark eyes fixed on the cursed wood. “They were burned alive… with everburn.”
Florence’s breath halted in a choking sound. The color drained from her face as horror dawned in her hazel eyes. “Gods,” she whispered, her voice barely more than breath. “Who—who could do something so monstrous?”
"Fendwyr," Cirrus muttered, the single word barbed with contempt. His jaw tightened as he stared at the gnarled tree, his hands clenched into fists. “They slaughtered the elders at the ruins… then came here to erase the next generation.”
Florence paled further, her expression shifting from horror to disbelief. “Fendwyr?” she repeated. “The kingdom we all serve?”
Though no confirmation was spoken, their silent nods said enough. The truth struck her like a physical blow, her body folding in on itself as if trying to reject it. She let out a string of biting words in Castavellan, as she paced the underbrush. Her breath came in quick bursts, eyes brimming with unshed tears.
No one interrupted. Some grief needed space to settle.
Vivienne knelt in the clearing, her fingers brushing the barren, lifeless ground.Elandra must have stood here once, just like this.Regardless of whether the cave paintings were myth or memory, she felt the anguish. She could picture it too clearly—returning home to find nothing left but charred ruins, the laughter of children forever silenced.I would’ve ripped out a piece of my soul, too.
Reaching into her tote, she pulled out one of the glowing Noctilum blooms. Its silver-blue light a gentle, beating heart. With quiet reverence, she placed it at the base of the tree.
“Viv, what are you doing?” Lewis asked, drawing the others’ attention.
“I’m putting a flower on a grave,” she murmured. “It’s the least we can do.”
A tremor rippled through the earth. Vivienne gasped as warmth spread beneath her palms, a soft green glow radiating outward in waves. Then, as if the island itself exhaled, something shifted.
The ground stirred. From the cracks in the barren soil, thick emerald vines erupted, climbing in twisting tendrils up the blackened trunk. The hollow sealed itself beneath their embrace, closing the tomb like gentle hands pulling a blanket over sleeping children. And then—life exploded.
Flowers painted a kaleidoscope of color, blooming in radiant bursts that rippled outward like the tide. Petals of crimson, sapphire, and sun-kissed gold unfurled as though stirred from a centuries-old slumber, carpeting the ground in a breathtaking display. Vines snaked up the ancient, skeletal branches, weaving a tapestry of emerald and gold. They curled around the twisted limbs, softening the once-barren husk with lush tendrils of new life. Buds swelled and blossomed, dotting the branches with jewels of violet and cerulean, their fragrance filling the air with the intoxicating scent of renewal.
The tree, once a tomb of sorrow, now stood as a monument of beauty, draped in nature’s redemption. It shimmered beneath the sunlight, its branches no longer a monument to grief, but a living tribute—a promise that even in the wake of devastation, life would always find a way.
Owen inhaled sharply. “It’s… beautiful.”
“Maybe now they can rest in peace,” Cirrus murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
Florence wiped a stray tear from her cheek, exhaling a slow, shuddering breath. “In beautiful peace.”
A sudden prickling sensation burned along Vivienne’s wrist, sharp enough to startle her. She glanced down, eyes widening as somethingmovedbeneath her skin. Dark lines, as if drawn by invisible hands, pushed upward from deep within her flesh, curling into delicate patterns.
She watched in fascinated horror as the markings settled—a swirling vine, etched in what appeared to be black ink, spiraling around her wrist in looping tendrils. The leafy design wove twice around her forearm before ending just below her elbow.
"Whoa, Viv," Lewis breathed, pointing at her wrist. “What-what is that?”
“I... I don’t know,” Vivienne admitted, flexing her fingers. The ink didn’t smudge. Itwasn’tink.
Cirrus knelt beside her, his fingers ghosting over the delicate lines. A slow, knowing smile spread across his lips. “You don’t know what this is?”
Vivienne shook her head, concern creasing her brows.
“It’s a godsmark,” Owen said, awe overtaking his usually steady tone. His dark eyes locked onto the mark, unreadable emotions flickering behind them.
Florence took a cautious step forward, her expression caught between reverence and skepticism. “Impossible,” she whispered. “No one’s been godsmarked in a century.”
Lewis let out an exasperated huff. “You all keep sayinggodsmarklike we know what it means. Someoneexplain!”
