The grove had once been sacred.
Now it was ash.
Twisted black trunks jutted from the ground like broken teeth. Smoke rose from the roots. The stench of char still clung to the soil, even after decades.
"I did this," Briar said.
Kael stepped over a scorched log, examining the blackened bark. "Why?"
"They were feeding the Ash King," she said. "Their roots corrupted. I had no choice."
Corva stood silently, eyes closed, whispering prayers for the dead trees.
Kael touched a trunk. A vision slammed into him—Briar, eyes gold with fire, raising her hands as flame consumed the grove. He staggered back.
"You burned them alive," he said. "Even the ones that begged."
Briar didn't defend herself. "To stop him, I had to sever his hold. The trees were his anchor."
One tree still stood. Tall. Blackened. Alive. Its branches bent toward Briar.
"Finish it," it whispered, voice like rustling leaves and ancient sorrow.
She placed her hand on its trunk.
The flames returned.
When they faded, the last tree was gone.
And so was the Ash King's foothold.