"Devour," Draven said.
The syllable was soft, but the forest reacted like it had been struck by a gong. It did not echo; no tree dared repeat the command. The swords accepted it with hungry delight: their runes flared white‑hot, then shifted instantly to a deep, furnace red.
Mana flared.
The corrupted tree answered with violence. Scarlet and ebony tendrils shot from the ruptured trunk—dozens, then hundreds, each a serpentine lash of burning corruption. They writhed in erratic arcs, clawing for any life to cling to, shrieking in a voice that was felt, not heard—a banshee‑pressure inside the ear canal, an itch behind the eyes. Sylara reeled as the branches in front of her blurred, edges doubling like a bad reflection on oil‑slick water.
Crimson and black tendrils snapped out from the tree like writhing snakes.
And the swords drank it all.
