Jason half-guided, half-dragged the old woman to the center of the courtyard, to the base of the dead tree with bark like scorched iron. Its limbs, blackened and leafless, curled upward as if in agony, frozen in a silent scream. Around its roots, the ground was broken and sunken, forming a shallow basin filled with dry ash and dust that stirred only faintly as they approached.
The hag reached out, trembling, and pressed her palm against the base of the tree. Her hand lingered there as her breathing slowed. For a long moment, she said nothing. Her head bowed, and her shoulders shook. Jason thought she was muttering again, maybe another spell, but then he saw it—tears. Real tears cutting down her wrinkled cheeks.
