The pn stopped being theory exactly two weeks in.

  No more maps etched in bark. No more arguing about angles, ranges, or contingencies. The vanguard had triggered Ysel's wards sometime in the night, and by morning they were close enough that the Forest itself had begun to tense in anticipation.

  The four of us assigned today met beneath the Great Tree to finalize pairings.

  "We'll each take one of Nyxara's golems for cover," I said, "and split into pairs to harass both corridors at once."

  Ferric nodded. "Shall we go together then, priestling?"

  "That was my thought. Of the four of us, you're the strongest single combatant. You can cover me where I fall short."

  But Rocher and Seraphine had different ideas.

  "No."

  "Absolutely not."

  Ferric looked between them, confused at first.

  Then his mouth curved into an incredulous grin. "Unbelievable. You don't think I can be trusted with her."

  "Correct."

  "Absolutely correct."

  They answered in perfect harmony, a clean call-and-response.

  Ferric snorted. "I'm fttered, really. The way you think I'd devour her whole."

  "Both of you..." I said, exasperated. "I can handle myself just fine."

  Despite my protest, Seraphine nudged Rocher to my side, and with that, the pairings were set.

  The forest shifted the moment we crossed into the outer ring—the way it always did when danger drew near. Roots tightened beneath the soil. Branches leaned inward. The air took on that taut, metallic hum of imminent violence.

  A moss-covered golem followed us from behind, stone joints grinding softly.

  They were a testament to Nyxara's expert craftsmanship. Strong, fast, surprisingly agile, and above all, perfectly camoufged within the Forest. The only weakness was how short their lifespans were.

  Perfect toy soldiers. Just wind them up and point.

  Frankly, I thought it was unfair. If they also breathed fire or shot sers from their eyes, I might have given up and stayed home.

  Rocher walked close beside me, his hand brushing mine now and then. His expression was calm. Collected. A little too composed. I chalked it up to nerves. Today was the first real test of all our preparation. Who wouldn't be tense?

  "You've got that look again," I murmured.

  "What look?"

  "The one where you're thinking twelve things at once and pretending you're not."

  His lips twitched. "You're imagining things."

  I didn't press.

  We reached the edge of the Forest just as five padins emerged from the fog—shields lifted, pendulums humming with holy detection magic. A tracking mage brought up the rear, carrying a ntern suspended from chains, its light slicing the haze into pale ribbons.

  "Hold," I whispered.

  We watched as the lead padin stepped forward and struck the earth with his hammer—sending a probing wave of sanctified magic toward the trees.

  It passed through me without pain, but not without presence. My skin prickled. For one suspended instant, I was certain he could feel me standing there, heart hammering in my chest.

  The Forest stiffened in response. Leaves curled tight. Roots drew inward like pulled fingers.

  I held my breath, waiting for a shout. A command. A call to arms.

  But it never came.

  Nothing in the response seemed to alert him.

  Nyxara's golem masked us perfectly. Against the constant roar of the Forest's mana, we were nothing but noise among noise.

  I heard Rocher shift his weight beside me, subtle and coiled.

  The padin stepped forward again, raising his hammer.

  I aimed for that moment, and let loose.

  Two cy spheres left my hand, arcing high into the air. They shattered at his feet, seals breaking as the reagents met and reacted violently.

  The bst tore the fog apart. Light and sound. Pressure rippled through the clearing hard enough to rattle my teeth. Shields rang. A shout, furious and disoriented.

  Rocher moved.

  Not the clumsy, struggling leaps he'd been battling all week, but something sharper, cleaner. The first real shape of his Spirit Warrior css skills. He shot past me, boots barely touching the ground, and struck the padin's shield at an angle that sent the man sprawling.

  The padin hit the ground hard but rolled with it, armor shrieking against bark as he fought to rise.

  Too fast. Too trained.

  Rocher hesitated for the barest fraction of a second, recalcuting, then surged forward again and drove the pommel into the man's helm with a dull, concussive crack.

  His legs became jelly, colpsing in a heap.

  Runes suddenly fred beneath Rocher's feet. A chant came unbidden, reverberating through the fog.

  My crossbow snapped up. I put a bolt square into the mage's chest. It shattered on impact, blooming into a cloud of suffocating dust that stole breath and voice alike, choking her magic dead.

  Rocher did not waste time.

  Two padins were still reeling from the bst, shields half-raised, feet unsure on churned ground. He moved through them like they were already falling—one sharp strike to a helm, then another to a throat, each delivered before they could fully reorient.

  Both went down without ceremony, armor ringing once before the sound was swallowed by the fog.

  A padin broke wide, angling to fnk Rocher while his attention was forward. I saw the shift in his weight, the sudden commitment, and fired on instinct.

  The tanglevine snapped tight around his legs mid-stride. He hit the ground hard, momentum carrying him into a painful sprawl he did not recover from.

  The st one charged, desperately. Rocher pivoted and sent the man flying bodily into a tree with a brutal side kick.

  The mage tried to speak. Failed. Panic widened her eyes as she cwed at her throat, ntern swinging wildly.

  She met my gaze for a heartbeat, recognition fring there as she understood exactly what I had done to her. What we could still do.

  Then she ran.

  It was beautiful.It was terrifying.It was over in minutes.

  I catalogued the clearing automatically. Positions. Distances. Bodies breathing.

  The padins were down. No casualties on either side.

  I exhaled, shaky. "We did it."

  Rocher gnced back at me, shadowed but pleased. "You did well."

  "So did you," I said, lifting my hand for a high five.

  For one fragile heartbeat, everything felt right.

  Then the first padin stirred.

  His hand fumbled for a phial at his belt.

  Rocher saw it first.

  "Cire—!"

  I lunged, already too te.

  The padin's jaw clenched. Not in panic.

  In resolve.

  "For the Goddess!"

  He bit down.

  White light detonated.

  Not fire. Not fme. A sanctified fsh so bright it burned the afterimage into my eyes. Heat spped my face. The air screamed. The ground hissed like quenched iron.

  Where the padin had been, there was only divine light. For a few fraught seconds, the being surged to its feet, reaching as if to take someone with it.

  But just as quickly it burned out, colpsing into a scorched hollow, a fine drift of pale ash settling onto the moss.

  I staggered back, heart smming against my ribs.

  The second moved before I could shout.

  His jaw set with practiced resolve, like a man reciting a prayer he had learned long before this day. He met my eyes for half a second. There was no fear there at all.

  And suddenly I understood.

  It wasn't panic or desperation.

  It was sacrament.

  Rocher hauled me backward into the treeline without looking back, his grip iron-tight around my shoulders.

  "Don't look," he said through clenched teeth.

  Each fsh behind us came faster than the st. Less sound. Less warning. A breath, a shouted prayer, and then judgment.

  The bsts were small. Contained. Personal.

  But the air around each death fred sanctified and wrong. Roots recoiled. My skin prickled like I'd brushed against something holy that wanted me gone.

  When the light finally faded, there were no bodies.

  Only ash.

  The smell lingered. Bitter. Wrong.

  There was nothing left to bind. No wounds to tend. No dead to mourn. My hands shook anyway, useless at my sides.

  Victory refused to take shape in my mind.

  Rocher stared at the scorched ground, breathing shallow.

  "They burned themselves out," he said hoarsely. "Every st scrap of holy magic at once."

  My throat felt raw. "They were never pnning to escape," I said. "These men came prepared to die."

  "They're scared." His jaw flexed. "Of being captured. Of having their minds twisted by demonic magic."

  I swallowed hard.

  I had seen this fight py out dozens of times in the game. Victory always ended cleanly. Just motes of light and dissipating sprites.

  Here, it did not end at all. Their screams clung to me, echoing until my stomach churned.

  I tugged weakly at Rocher's sleeve. "We can't stop. We need to keep going."

  He nodded, jaw tight.

  At least the mage had made it out. I could only hope she would tell the story the way I felt it: broken, jagged, and wrong.

  The following skirmishes did not unfold as neatly as the first.

  They at least started the same way. Fog. Footfalls. The low, humming pressure of holy magic brushing the edges of the Forest.

  And our answer was the same—attack. From the trees. Furiously and without warning.

  We tried to save them at first.

  Binding hands. Knocking padins senseless. Laying them out before they could reach their belts.

  Sometimes we were fast enough. Most of the time we weren't.

  Each fsh came faster than the st. Less hesitation. Less sound. Just a sharp intake of breath and then—

  White.

  Each successive failure knocked something loose in me.

  And as the fights went on, one other thing became clear:

  Rocher was hesitating.

  My eyes followed him as he lunged at the padin, cracking his ribs.

  The man hit the ground hard, sprawled on his back, shield twisted aside, sword knocked from his grip.

  Instead of finishing him, Rocher pnted a boot on the man's chest and leaned in, reaching for his belt.

  But it was too te.

  He paused. Eyes flicking. Searching.

  Then I saw the padin's fingers twitch. Heard the phial crack.

  I tackled Rocher into the brush to get him out of the way.

  And white light tore through the fog again.

  When it faded, we were colpsed on top of each other, staring at nothing. We stood up, breaths ragged.

  "Rocher," I said, sharp.

  His hand tightened on his sword.

  "Rocher!"

  He froze.

  I felt something ugly tear loose in my chest.

  "Stop trying to save them," I snapped. "You can't—we can't. Not now."

  He turned to me, stunned. "Cire—"

  "They are choosing this," I said, my voice breaking. "Every one of them. And every second you hesitate, you are putting yourself in danger."

  He looked away, jaw tight.

  "Look at me," I said, stepping into his space. "You are not killing them. They've already made that choice for themselves. All you're deciding is whether they go alone, or they take you with them."

  I grabbed his colr, hard enough to jolt him. "I can't lose you."

  His eyes finally found mine. He swallowed audibly.

  My hands were still clenched, nails biting into my palms. The corners of my vision had blurred.

  His thumb brushed my cheek.

  "Cire..." he said.

  I blinked, confused, and felt wetness on my shes. I had not noticed myself crying.

  I shoved him back and dragged the sleeve of my tunic across my face, irritated by the tremor in my hands, by how loud my breathing sounded in the sudden quiet.

  "Let's go. We still have work to do."