Page 189 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

Jessa appeared, throwing a shield of Air to protect Leora. Willowmay—the fae that watched the young within the Glade—ran at Jessa’s side, longbow drawn, downing Witherborn with fierce efficiency. Others followed them, wielding folicrafted weapons and shields, releasing their own battle cries.

“DOUG!” Wendall barreled past, expression intense in a way Wren had never seen. He bellowed with all his might as he swung the rolling pin with wild determination, smashing it into a Witherborn’s skull.

Buzzing followed as Old Man Tarl appeared, cloak humming and writhing with his prized grimbees.

“Go get ’em, girls,” he said, sweeping it from his shoulders. Grimbees darted out and swarmed the nearest Witherborn. Their bulbous bodies were incongruously innocent against the blackness that oozed as they fed on the decay.

Wren wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. None of them were warriors, but they drove into the Witherborn as one. Guards and Gladeans alike, fighting not only for the safety of their homes, but for the Virewood itself.

In a flash of purple-black and dark red hair, Sylvi and Fennik appeared, fighting side by side. Daggers, arrows, and barbs flew in equal measure.

“On your left,” Fennik growled, blades flashing past his sister.

“Naturally. I’m always right,” Sylvi grinned, ducking past him and loosing three arrows in quick succession.

The scouts fanned out, Hollis and Ivon leading. Armed with slingshots and crossbows, they peppered the Witherborn with projectiles. Calen barreled in behind them, swinging a makeshift club as a rotting wolf lunged—jaws dripping with black sap. The crack of impact sent the beast flying into the shadowed tree line.

Near the vessel, Witherborn dusted and re-formed. Even decay struggled to hold itself together in its presence as it drew more power. The Guardians fighting alongside Velhya shuddered and fell. Their essence lifted like mist toward the avatar.

Now armed with both fire and the spear of a fallen Witherborn, Orzen blazed toward the vessel. With a powerful sweep of his arm, he launched the spear. It pierced through the avatar and lodged into the gnarled bark of the vessel’s leg. The glowing form around it shimmered but did not break.

An inhuman roar echoed against the stones. The vessel snapped the spearhead off and threw the weapon aside.

“You have always been a fool.” Its lipless mouth stretched into a too-wide grin fixed on Orzen. “Mortal weapons cannot kill me now. You have already lost.”

The avatar was almost solid now.

Together, vessel and god raised their arms and flung them forward. A violent blast of green light carved halos into Wren’s vision. All around the temple, Witherborn exploded. Splinters and rock tore through the field, felling Gladean and Witherborn alike. Stones bound toward Wren, and she dodged aside, shards piercing her legs like bee stings.

Someone screamed Hollis’s name. Garin fell with a cloud of dust and stone. So many cries rang out that Wren couldn’t distinguish them all.

Leora rushed to stabilize the wounded. She dashed through the fighting within Jessa’s shield of Air. Calen stayed by Jessa’s side, swinging his club at anything that came too close. Every drop of blood soaked into the earth, feeding the vessel’s control.

The air thickened until it pressed against Wren’s skull, like the moment before a gathering storm broke. A tremor surged from the vessel, and with a deafening crack, the stone floor of the temple split into sections. Jagged lines widened between the avatar and the Gladeans. They stumbled back. Fennik shouted for retreat, dragging a Gladean from the rim of the widening abyss.

Velhya and a few of her Guardians were the only Gladeans on the same side of the fissure as the avatar and the Binding Bough, protected by a multitude of Witherborn. The fissure crept toward Wren—separating her from them. If she didn’t go now, she’d lose any chance at reaching Velhya in time.

Wren ran, muscles aching. When she neared the gap, she vaulted across, hooves slipping on the other side. She landed hard on her knees near the Bough, scraping a bloody gash into her fur—but she’d made it. Wren forced herself up, driving past the tree toward Velhya and the vessel.

She stilled when the vessel spoke.

“I will enjoy making you watch me destroy her.” She couldn’t see Orzen, but she knew the vessel was speaking to him. Its thin lips peeled back, revealing needle-sharp teeth dripping with resin.

“Bring the Spirit Weaver to me.”

Orzen’s growl of rage echoed over the fighting.

He was too far to save her now.

Witherborn—both fallen and fighting—went rigid, ringed in green light that crept through their limbs. Their minds were hollowed out by the Rootflesh’s stolen power. The defeated lumbered upright in jerking motions, reanimated but empty. Blows landed against them, flesh tore, but they did not react.

As one, they turned toward Wren.

Nausea swelled as she strained for her magic, clutching the dagger. A sliver of her weaving trickled through. Her skin burned with the effort. It wasn’t enough—it disappeared like smoke.

The Witherborn closed in. Too many to avoid. Her eyes darted, looking for a path around them, but rotting bodies lumbered from every direction. The air tasted like decay and sap, thick enough to choke the breath from her lungs.

She screamed as claws seized her limbs. She drove the dagger into rotting flesh again and again. No matter how much they bled, they did not stop. She thrashed, shouted, and shoved with all her strength, but the blade barely bit. Finally, it lodged in one’s shoulder, snapping when she tried to wrench it free.