For a split second, Don thought it was Silverwing.
The wings were wrong for that conclusion—too large, too rigid—but his brain reached for the familiar anyway, desperate for something that made sense.
That illusion died the moment the man turned his head just enough for Don to catch the face in full.
And before he could finish registering it, something else pulled his attention away.
Across the sprout's remaining vines, cuts appeared.
Not impacts. Not explosions.
Lines.
They formed all at once—thin at first, then spreading as if the structure itself had decided to fail. The vines reacted late, coiling and wrenching in uneven motions, mass shifting in a panicked attempt to pull back.
It only made it worse.
The movement widened the tears. Fibrous layers split apart under their own weight, the internal cords stretching until they snapped. One by one, then in clusters, the vines began to fall.
WHUMM—!
CRRRAASH~
