The captain stood tall, helm shadowing his eyes, blade aglow with runes that pulsed like veins of fire. Etched into the metal of his helm were faint sigils, glimmering with a dull silver light, an enchantment that sealed his breath and guarded him from the pollen that weighed down his men. He did not flinch as Nemoria burst into the chamber, though the air itself trembled with her presence. His stance was measured, every line of his body honed, the calm of a man who had faced death too many times to fear it.

  Nemoria bared her teeth, wings twitching, roots writhing like a halo of serpents about her. She knew his kind, disciplined, drilled, bound to duty…yet he was no ordinary soldier. His aura carried weight, he was a wall meant to break invaders, and Orlin Draemyr had placed him here as his last bastion.

  The first clash came fast, steel ringing against talon, his sword darted like a viper, precise and unyielding, and though she struck with a predator’s fury, he turned her blows aside with measured grace. Roots lashed for him, tentacles of blood and vine, but he rolled beneath them, his blade slicing clean through one, severing it to fall twitching on the floor…still, no blood flowed.

  She pressed harder, speed and savagery her weapon, breaking furniture, shattering shelves, driving him back. Yet every time she lunged, he slipped just beyond reach, the tip of his sword cutting shallow lines across her flesh. Death was in those strikes, each one placed with intent, each one meant to end her if she faltered even for a breath.

  The chamber became their arena…the air stank of pollen and sweat, of sap and iron. Her snarls met his silence, her fury his unbroken calm. He was not as fast as she, nor as strong, but his blade-work was flawless, the product of decades drilled into muscle and bone. He yielded ground slowly, but always with purpose, as though he knew something she did not.

  Nemoria felt the strain of the seed’s roots draining her, every moment burning her life away. She could not let this duel stretch too long. To win, she would have to gamble, to open herself to the strike and trust her vines to hold...one mistake would mean her end.

  Yet the captain moved with relentless precision, his blade darting in for another killing stroke. Nemoria braced, ready to gamble her flesh against steel, but then she felt it…the faint stirring of the roots she had shed.

  The tentacles he had severed had not withered. Instead, they had writhed across the floor like wounded serpents, dragging themselves into the far corner where shadows pooled thick beneath a toppled shelf. There, wood and flesh twined together, binding and reshaping in silence. A small form took shape, hunched and crooked, eyes like glistening knots, claws of splintered bark…a wooden imp, born of her blood.

  The captain never saw it…his focus was on her alone, blade rising once more. In that instant the imp leapt, striking with a shriek that was half root, half scream. It clamped upon his sword arm, dragging with all the feral strength of its twisted frame. The captain faltered, balance broken.

  Nemoria struck…her talon shot forward, cruel and unerring, hooking the rim of his enchanted helm. With one wrench it tore free, sigils flickering and dying as the helm clattered across the floor. The sudden rush of pollen filled his lungs before he could draw another breath. His eyes widened, his knees buckled, and the sword slipped from his grasp.

  He staggered once, twice, and fell to the floor, his strength undone in a heartbeat. The imp crouched upon his arm, hissing triumph as Nemoria loomed above him. The chamber was hers, the last defense broken.

  The battle was over.

  Nemoria’s gaze swept the chamber, the ruin of splintered wood and broken stone. Her steps carried her slowly toward the desk, where Orlin Draemyr crouched, pale as chalk, a leather mask clutched desperately to his face. With a single swift motion she tore it away, and the sweet, heavy pollen rushed in. His body sagged at once, shivers running through him as his eyes rolled shut and he collapsed against the desk, lost to sleep.

  Only then did she reach for the pouch at her waist, fingers trembling, she drew out a small vial of white powder and sprinkled it over the red seed still pulsing in her wound. At once the seed darkened, turning brittle and brown, its roots shriveling as they sloughed away from her flesh. With a sharp tug it fell free, lifeless, and she caught it before it touched the ground, slipping it back into the pouch with care.

  Her body gave way and she collapsed onto her back, chest heaving, wings sprawled across the shattered floor…every fiber of her craved rest, the cool silence of sleep, but her task was not yet done. If she left the manor unwatched, prying eyes from the town would come soon enough, and all her efforts would crumble.

  She turned her head toward the great doors, resolve settling in like stone, the Crown of Thorns still rested in her keeping, and with it, she would bind the guards. One by one, as many as her strength allowed, she would bring them under her will. She would start with those outside, the men who held the gates they would stand as her sentinels, turning away any who dared approach, buying her the time she needed to tighten her grip upon the ones still within.

  She had only until the day’s end, before the last trace of pollen faded from their blood. By then, every soul not yet dead must be bound to her will. She had not planned this…it had come upon her as all things seemed to, sudden and cruel, yet now there was no turning aside. She would have to draw upon every drop of strength, every shred of cunning, until she became the mind and hand behind this grim work.

  Stepping into the yard, she lifted her gaze to the sun, its pale light mocking her with the memory of gentler days. Days of laughter and peace, days the world would not grant her so soon. A cold autumn wind rose from the stones, brushing through her blood soaked feathers making her shiver and bringing her back from her reverie.

  By late September the forest had begun to change. Leaves burned with color, amber, crimson, and gold, shimmering in the fading light of day. The air held a cool edge now, the kind that whispered of autumn nights soon to come. Training had left its mark…Brann was stronger than he had ever been, his body hardened, his mind sharpened. Lysa and Riven, too, had grown, their laughter turning to skill, their childish games to discipline.

  It was a late Wednesday when Brann sat at the forest’s edge, resting with his back against the roots of an old oak, watching the setting sun play with shades of red on the horizon. The land lay quiet in that hour between light and dark, still and peaceful, until the creak of wheels drew his gaze. Two carts rolled slowly down the road, their drivers hunched against the cooling air. Nothing about them was strange at first glance, yet Brann’s senses stirred. The training had honed them to a blade’s edge, and he felt it now, a weight like iron pressing against his chest. A shadow clung to the carts, unseen by the eye but thick to his mind, a black aura coiling in the space about them. He straightened, muscles tightening, every instinct whispering that danger hid beneath the simple trappings of those wagons.

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  Torvil was deeper in the forest, lost in his meditations, while Lysa and Riven had insisted on going into Avenwall. They had called it a trip for supplies, but Brann knew the truth well enough…the training had worn them, body and spirit both, and the city promised a change of air. They had never set foot in Avenwall, and the pull of curiosity tugged at them as strongly as any need for bread or salt. Their eyes had that restless gleam, the explorer’s spark that neither hardship nor discipline could dim.

  Brann had stayed behind, waiting for their return but now the sun had all but drowned itself in the west, its last fire catching the canopy in shades of molten gold, as the two carts passed slowly, oxen straining against the weight, shadow in their trail. None of those upon them noticed the watcher in the trees…Brann had learned to sink into the forest until even the birds overlooked him, his presence folded tight against bark and shadow, but he saw them.

  One figure in particular drew his gaze: a tall man dressed in rags, though the disguise fell short. His hair was combed too neatly, his face washed too clean for a merchant on the road. And across his jaw lay a scar, long and deep, the kind a blade left behind. On either side of him sat two women clothed in the same threadbare garb. To any passerby they might have looked like weary travelers, but Brann knew the bearing of soldiers. The stiffness of their posture, the way their eyes measured the roadside and the woods, it all rang familiar, too familiar.

  The carts creaked on toward Avenwall, shadows lengthening in their wake, and Brann’s unease sharpened like a knife

  Brann had no intention of setting foot in Avenwall, the city was not part of his path, yet the thought of Lysa and Riven crossing paths with those ominous carts just beyond its walls sent a shiver down his spine. His instincts gnawed at him, and he had learned not to ignore them. With a grim breath, he made his choice…he would follow.

  He trailed after the wagons, keeping low in the brush, never once setting foot upon the road, his steps were soundless, his presence folded into the hush of the undergrowth. The carts lumbered toward Avenwall’s gates, and soon the tall towers rose before them, stone catching the last glow of the dying day.

  At the edge of the city, Brann froze, scanning the gate and the folk beyond that were making room for the carts to pass. Fortune favored him, there was no sign of Lysa or Riven. Yet another kind of unease lingered…what if they had been drawn into something bad beyond those gates? The questions coiled tight in his chest as he prepared to risk the city, to plunge in after them if he must.

  Then as he was about to decide he heard it, Riven’s laughter, high and untroubled, drifting down the road like a bell. Moments later, the two stepped out from the gate, Riven still grinning, Lysa walking close beside him with a pack slung over her shoulder. Relief struck Brann like a cool wind, easing the knot in his chest.

  He could have stepped out, could have joined them then and there, but instinct pulled him back. Better they remained untouched by what he had seen. Better they stayed blind to the shadow that clung to those carts. So Brann stayed hidden, watching in silence as the two made their way back toward the forest. The first stars had already begun to pierce the sky, their pale light guiding the children home, while Brann lingered in the deepening dark.

  When their silhouettes disappeared from view Brann made his choice, he would not let shadows slip past him unanswered. Leaving the safety of the tall grass he was hiding in, he crossed the open road and entered the city beneath the veil of dusk, moving as a shadow among shadows.

  Avenwall was alive with sound…from the central square drifted the bright strains of lute and drum, the laughter of children, and the rising voices of actors upon a makeshift stage. A traveling troupe had drawn the folk together, farmers and merchants alike gathered shoulder to shoulder, their faces turned toward the play. The scent of roasted nuts and spiced wine thickened the air, warm against the autumn chill.

  Brann’s eyes, however, were not for the merriment. Beyond the crowd, he found what he sought: the two carts, parked at the far edge of the square with their backs turned to a narrow alley. They stood apart, too deliberately apart, as though their owners wanted them near yet unnoticed.

  A quick sweep of the crowd showed him the tall man, slipping through a tavern door on the square’s flank. One of the women trailed close behind. Brann slid between clusters of revelers, keeping low and unseen until he reached the tavern’s left wall. From there he pressed against the timber, finding a small, warped window shuttered only halfway.

  Peering in, he found the tavern scene in full swing. The room was loud and warm, a haze of pipe smoke hanging over the rafters. Tankards clashed in cheers, dice clattered across rough-hewn tables, and a fiddler in the corner fought to be heard over the din. Serving girls wove through the crowd, balancing trays of ale and roasted meat, while a pair of men argued in slurred voices over who had cheated whom.

  At one table sat the tall man, the scar across his jaw catching the firelight, speaking in low tones to the first woman. Their clothes might have been rags, but they sat with the ease of predators wearing skins. Across the room, at a separate table, the second woman drank with two other men, the same who had ridden the second cart. Their voices were quieter, their glances sharper, men accustomed to waiting, watching.

  Brann’s pulse slowed into the familiar rhythm of a hunt. Something was being plotted here and he meant to know what.

  The hours slipped by, and the moon climbed to its place at the center of the sky. A thin crescent moon that offered little light, leaving Avenwall steeped in shadow. One by one, townsfolk drifted from the square, seeking the warmth of their homes and the weight of their beds. The laughter of the play had long since faded, the stage left dark and silent, but Brann remained.

  Still and patient, he watched through the narrow tavern window as the night thinned the crowd inside. The tall man had withdrawn to a corner table, his scar catching what little firelight remained. The women, however, played their roles well. Each had drawn a drunken man into her orbit, speaking close, their hands brushing against them, their smiles promising warmth that the ale alone could not give.

  To a passerby it might have looked no different from any tavern tryst, but Brann’s eyes told him otherwise. Their choices were too careful…men with no rings upon their fingers, men who drained their tankards as if they had nothing better to do than drink until dawn, men with no close friends to notice if they wandered off into the dark. The women wove lies sweet as honey, drawing their prey into the web with practiced ease.

  And always their eyes flicked toward the door, always toward the carts waiting in the shadows beyond the square. Brann saw it plain now, the plan was to lure the men outside, deliver them to the alley, where the tall man and his companions would see to them. For what purpose, Brann could not yet guess but it was nothing good.

  A low chill crawled down his spine…whatever fate awaited those poor fools, he would not sit idle and watch it come to pass.