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She’d offered herself as a vessel.

Voryx hadn’t chosen her. He’d chosen Silas.

This was the consequence of the choice she’d made in the Hollow Heart. A choice at hope, destroyed by a monster straining for power. She wanted to look away, but the horror of it demanded she witness what she’d caused.

The Avatar of Voryx swelled around the Rootflesh, crystalizing into a towering abomination that looked like bark and stone made entirely of corrupted Spirit light—green and black threads swirling in the glow. Rot swung in curtains from its bones. From its gnarled shoulders rose a column of vertebrae, crowned by a bleached deer skull with flesh sloughing from its antlers.

A vessel unworthy of a god, straining to contain him.

It wasn’t yet clear who held the reins—Rootflesh or god.

Velhya clutched the tokens at her belt, and a vortex of wind and stone swirled around both her and Garin. He slammed his staff into the ground. Witherborn corpses tumbled away, pushed by the gust of wind that blew across the field as a boulder rose, slamming into the glowing avatar. The impact rebounded, stone cracking into a thousand shards that disintegrated harmlessly.

The glowing avatar brightened as the dust was absorbed into its form. No matter what attacks they wove against him, the magic broke—only reinforcing the monstrous aura.

A sound like bones rattling in a grave echoed through the stones, vibrating through her ribs. Laughter.

“You were wrong to doubt my devotion.” The voice was too human to be Voryx speaking. “This power is greater than I could’ve imagined. You’ve been denying me your true strength.”

Arrows of green magic—twisted Spirit weaving—shot from its hands. One by one, fallen Witherborn began to rise, animated but not alive—their limbs twisting as they rose, eyes glassy.

“I will not feed on scraps alone and call it worship! You were weak when you allowed them to trap you. I will seize the power you feared to take for yourself,” the vessel said, voice cracking like dead wood.

The few Witherborn still fighting began backing away from the vessel. Even they understood the wrongness of this. In one swift motion, the vessel stepped forward—and the avatar mirrored him—crushing them beneath their feet.

“Cowardly husks,” the vessel growled, his void-dark eyes twitching. “You owe me allegiance.”

Velhya dragged Garin back. They were too far for Wren or Orzen to reach quickly. Beyond the Binding Bough, in a cleared section of the temple, the avatar loomed above them. In moments, they were surrounded by the staggering reborn under the vessel’s control. Orzen cursed beside Wren, already rising.

He gripped her hand, fingers curling tight around her palm. “I need to help them.”

She nodded and started to rise but her hooves wavered beneath her. It wasn’t only her Spirit that felt weak. Everything did.

“Just in case.” He watched her warily for one beat, then tugged a dagger from his belt and thrust it into her hands. “Don’t put yourself in danger. And stab anything that gets too close.”

He charged toward the fighting, fearless and steadier than she’d ever seen him. He didn’t have his sword. He needed a weapon. Her heart leaped into her throat. Wren forced herself to her hooves, every movement a spike of suffering, intending to help though she wasn’t sure how.

He launched himself at the nearest cluster of Witherborn.

One of them—swollen with slick mushrooms—lumbered toward Orzen. A cry caught in her throat. Flashes of Tavrin’s death flitted before her eyes, fungal spores sinking deep into his skin.

She shrank back, brushing her shoulders against the bark, frozen in terror. The dagger shook within her clammy grip, but she couldn’t look away.

With a flick of his wrist, a flare of blue light erupted in Orzen’s palm, glittering as it elongated into a blade of flame. He wielded it without hesitation as the Witherborn advanced, ducking beneath its strikes. The fire obeyed, twisting in his grip and driving straight through the creature’s chest. It fell in a cloud of spores that burned like embers.

Wren’s breath caught, eyes following him as he charged again.

The fear he’d carried since the forge was gone.

He made quick work of the next group, each step carrying him further away, deeper into the heart of the fighting. She clenched her fist around the dagger hilt to keep it from trembling. Every instinct screamed at her to follow, but all she could do was watch as he threw himself into danger.

The vessel’s monstrous form swung an arm toward Velhya and Garin, the avatar lunging with him, sending the ground shaking beneath her. Velhya’s hastily thrown shield of Spirit and Air cracked beneath the spectral fist, exploding in a burst of shards that sent both of them reeling.

There were too many, even with the support of the elemental guardians that fought around them. They needed help, but what could she do without her weaving?

As if the forest had called them, a cry rose near the middle of the field. It grew louder as footsteps pounded toward the Heartwood from the forest, voices joining as one in a riot of sound.

“For the Glade!” Leora shouted, charging through the broken columns. From her palms, shards of ice hurled toward the Witherborn like arrows, sinking into their rotting flesh.