Without thinking, Basuin follows.
It’s hard in the dark. She’s too fast for him to catch sight of, and too quiet to hear—almost. Every faint rustle of brush that most people would miss, Basuin finds. And he holds on to that, letting it pull him through the darkened woods after the Forest God. The place where his heart used to be feels so empty, but if he were still alive, it would be hammering away as he chases after her.
He needs to know what she’s doing to stop the legion. This duty she speaks of, what he’s getting in the way of.
Then, he hears her voice. Quiet, and softer than it’s ever been to him. “Wake, my friend.”
He draws nearer, the Forest God’s back illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the fronds that block out the sky. She stands before a tree, her hand placed upon its bark. At her words, it sways as though a harsh wind blows through, leaves raining over the crown of her head.
“Am-sa,” a voice groans from the roots beneath her feet. Unlike Qia, the tree doesn’t shift into something human in form. “Where do you go tonight?”
“That’s not for you to worry about, friend.” Her hand smooths over its bark. “But I would appreciate it if you would allow us passage.”
“Of course, Am-sa. And then, I will sleep again.”
The Forest God, slow and poised, turns around to face Basuin. “Well? Are you coming, or were you going to wait until I get back?”
He blanches. Shame is hot around his neck and crawling up his ears. Basuin rubs a hand over his mouth, wiry beard overgrown now, and takes a guilty step forward.
“To where?” he asks, spinning his shame into confidence.
But her lips twitch, flattened and mean. “To show you my god-given duty.” Every word slipping from her teeth is sharp enough to cut into him.
It sounds like a challenge, and Basuin has never backed down from one before. So he closes the gap, eyes glancing between her and the tree. Its trunk is knobby, an uneven oval wrought into its bark, and the Forest God traces it with her delicate hand.
“This is Chiro,” she says. A creak and groan of the oak meets her introduction. “He’ll take us there.”
“Hello,” he says, awkward again. He doesn’t know how to speak with the forest. But Chiro seems happy with his greeting, another gust of leaves spinning around them.
“Let’s go,” the Forest God says, and then that bright blue light pulses through her hand again. This time, it hits him with heat—hits him and drags him closer to her. The wolf-man teethes on Basuin’s necrotic flesh, muzzle bloodied with his organs, and starts scratching at the rest of him. It feels the pull, too.
Then, within Chiro’s trunk, a shimmering blue image fills the oval-like gnarled bark. It looks like water, but brighter. And when she puts her hand to it, her fingers go straight through it. Just like the dome that covered Gyeosi, she sinks into the magic. It’s so quick, Basuin’s afraid she’ll disappear before his eyes.
“Wait,” he calls out as blue magic swallows her wrist. She stops, turning to look back at him, confused. Flustered, Basuin can’t think of anything to say. Nothing to protest with. He doesn’t even know why he spoke aloud.
For the first time, she huffs a laugh at him. But it isn’t kind. It’s mocking.
“Are you scared?” she asks. “You’re dead.”
The wolf-man laughs and laughs and laughs at him, too.
Then, the Forest God outstretches a small hand with a toss of her head for him to follow. And despite her jeers, Basuin takes her hand, his large fingers wrapping around hers, and lets her pull him inside the blue portal of magic. It’s warm, and it pops and sizzles on his skin, tickling him. He holds his breath as he dives in, but it doesn’t last long.
And when he feels forest floor beneath his boots again, Basuin smells gunpowder. Like a sword taken to the gut, his legs give out beneath him and he stumbles, trying to breathe the scent of it away.
“We’re here,” she says, no fanfare.
Basuin looks up to the watchtower, to the lantern-lit walls of the Shaelstorm Bastion. The Forest God stands, staring it down like she’s on a battlefield, outlined in the glow of the orange flames.
She takes off in a blink, rounding through the forest and toward the bastion. There’s no guard in the tower—Shaelstorm has no defenses. That woman will be able to slip right through and slaughter everyone. He’s seen little of her magic; he doesn’t know what power she has. She could level the whole bastion. He has to stop her.
And wouldn’t that be deserved? the wolf-man asks him, gnawing his insides raw.
Basuin sprints after her. But she doesn’t head for the gates. She heads for the fields.
He’s too slow, and before he can catch up, the Forest God drops into a crouch and knifes her palms into the upturned soil the legion tilled for farming. Blue magic pours, like water, through all the cracks and crevices in the earth and spreads in veins into the entire field. Instantly, the green growth breaking through the dirt withers, yellow and soured. The crops die.
Shaelstorm is meant to starve.
