Fire erupted from Jacob's chest—not the orange of flame, but the sickly green of rotting wood lit from within. It raced along the roots, turning them to ash before they could retreat. The crows caught midair, their feathers igniting into tiny funeral pyres.
Emily's skeletal form unspooled, her ribs splitting open to release a storm of infant screams. The Priest lunged, but Jacob was faster—he yanked the key free, and with it came—
a memory older than time
—A little girl crouched in a different throne room, her knees bloody from crawling through broken glass. A man stood over her, his face obscured by smoke. "This is how we survive," he said, pressing a knife into her small hands. "You'll forget the pain by morning."
The Crow hadn't been a god. Just the first child they'd broken.
Jacob's realization struck like a guillotine. The Priest's stolen face melted, revealing the hollow beneath—a void shaped like a screaming mouth.
"You taught me to lie!" the Crow's voice shrieked from every direction. The walls pulsed, the embedded corpses tearing free with wet pops.
Jacob barely dodged as a skeletal hand grabbed for his throat. He rolled, coming up with a femur bone clutched like a club. The first corpse's skull shattered like porcelain.
"I'm ending this," he snarled.
The Crow's laughter was the sound of a nursery rhyme sung backward.