They ran.
Not toward the mountains, not away from the threat, but toward home. Toward the fire. Toward whatever was left.
The journey that had taken three days took one. They ran through the night, through the burning forest, through the screams of dying animals and the crackle of consuming flame. Ash flew ahead, scouting, reporting, crying her grief to the uncaring sky.
When they reached Hometree, there was nothing left.
The great tree—their home, their heart, their connection to generations—lay on its side, still burning, its glowing sap running like blood across the charred ground. Bodies lay everywhere. Blue bodies. Verathi bodies. Warriors and elders and children, cut down by guns and fire and the endless, mindless cruelty of war.
Kaelen fell to his knees.
"No," he whispered. "No, no, no—"
Seri was already moving, searching among the bodies, turning them over, looking for faces she knew. Her mother. Her father. Her friends. Her—
She found Anya near the base of the fallen tree.
The matriarch lay on her back, her eyes open to the sky, a bullet hole in her chest. She looked almost peaceful. Almost asleep. But the blood pooling beneath her told a different story.
Seri sank down beside her. Didn't move. Didn't speak. Didn't cry.
Kaelen crawled to her, pulled her into his arms. She was stiff, unresponsive, her eyes fixed on her mother's face.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."
She didn't answer.
She didn't answer for a very long time.