"All right," she said. "Lead on, maestro. Let's see what encore the demons left us."
Draven's answer was a quiet chuckle—quick, sharp, gone almost before she confirmed she'd heard it. He nodded once, pivoted toward the grove's unexplored heart, and walked, boots whispering over moss that seemed suddenly eager to bear his weight.
Above them, the towering branches let a single shaft of moonlight spear down, illuminating the path ahead like a beckoning ribbon.
And behind, at the base of the purged tree, the first healthy leaf in decades unfurled, green and fragile, reaching for an unstained sky.
"I found you," Draven repeated under his breath—not to the tree, not to the swords, but to something deeper, farther, waiting in the dark.
A promise laid out like a blade.
One sword twisted mid‑air, catching the faint glow of the rune‑lit stairwell and bending it across its polished length. For a breath it hovered—perfectly level, almost curious—then lashed forward with predatory intent.
