The jungle had swallowed them whole for hours, dense, humid, and unnaturally still.

  Moss smothered most sounds, yet every step Isabelle took felt too loud, the wet squelch of soil echoing faintly beneath the weight of silence. Beside her, Tunga moved with a predator’s grace, nostrils twitching as if chasing a scent that refused to settle.

  He shot her a look and grunted. “Sword on back useless.”

  Isabelle kept her gaze forward. “For the last time, Tunga, I’m not traveling as a soldier but as a messenger of peace. I won’t wear my blade at my hip like someone eager to strike.”

  Tunga’s lips pulled into something between a sneer and a smirk. “When Nakori see sword on back, they not think peace. They think you stupid. Should leave it in Rothmere.”

  She exhaled through her nose. “I don’t want them to see me as weak or unarmed. They must see that I carry a sword but choose not to use it. That’s the message.”

  Tunga scratched his head. “Don’t think they understand what you think. I not understand, even when you tell me.”

  She let out a slow, exasperated breath. “Fine. I’ll put it back where it belongs at the next stop.”

  Tunga’s nostrils flared again, sharper this time. His head tilted, eyes narrowing toward the trees.

  Instinct drew every muscle taut. Her hand went to her hip, searching for the hilt that wasn’t there. A silent curse burned on her tongue. “What is it?”

  “There’s smell… not belong here.”

  Her eyes swept the undergrowth. “What do you mean?”

  Tunga shook his head, frowning. “Don’t remember where I smell it before. But… smell like thing that should not be in this part of jungle.”

  The tiny hairs on Isabelle’s arms stood on end. The air pressed close around her, thick and heavy, as if the forest itself were holding its breath. “Should I be worried?”

  Tunga arched a brow. “We in jungle, near Nakori land, war coming. If you not worried, then you are stupid.”

  A wet, tearing sound, like roots being ripped from the ground, froze them both in place.

  Tunga’s grip tightened around his staff. Faint flames shimmered along the wood. “Better take sword now, young Warden,” he muttered.

  She didn’t need to be told twice. The strap came loose with a pull, and her sword flashed free in one smooth motion, the scabbard hitting the soil with a dull thud. “What’s going on?”

  Another tearing noise answered, fibers straining, something thick being pulled apart.

  “Two…” Tunga breathed.

  Isabelle lowered her stance, blade angled toward the sound. “Two what?”

  More rips followed, softer, layered.

  Some behind them. Others ahead.

  Tunga stepped back, his heavy brows drawing tight. “Not good.”

  Isabelle’s gaze swept the clearing. The jungle looked calm, almost asleep. Only that strange, intermittent tearing broke the silence. “What the hell is that sound?”

  “Jungle golems. Must be witch or warlock nearby.”

  Her pulse spiked. Jungle golems… creatures woven from roots and vines. The tribes forbade shamans from shaping the trees that way, calling it a corruption of nature. Those who disobeyed were branded witches or warlocks and cast into the deep wilds. “Why would one come back here?”

  Tunga’s growl rumbled low. “War. Tribes call them back. Want use them against Church.”

  Something flickered at the edge of her vision. She turned, sword raised.

  Only a low bush, barely moving.

  Her chest tightened. No breeze. It hadn’t moved on its own.

  The blade angled toward it, steady despite the pounding in her chest.

  A branch cracked behind her.

  She spun again, breath catching.

  Only dead wood and undergrowth.

  Then a laugh, sharp and shrill, cut through the trees. Female. High-pitched. Wrong.

  It came from everywhere at once, the sound sliding through the forest like smoke.

  “Come out, witch!” Tunga roared. Fire leapt from the tip of his staff.

  Isabelle scanned the thicket for any hint of movement. The jungle was a tangled maze. Fallen branches, vines, and bushes strangling each other in slow motion.

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  Hiding here would be child’s play.

  Something darted from a bush: small, fast, rustling as it moved.

  Tunga raised his staff. A blazing orb shot forward and burst in a white-hot flash. Leaves scattered into the air like sparks. When the smoke cleared, only a few blackened twigs and a scorched patch of soil remained.

  “What was that?” Isabelle asked.

  “Don’t let them near,” Tunga said through clenched teeth. “They jump on you, put roots in veins, drink life.”

  Her gut twisted. “Roots? That thing was—”

  “A bush,” Tunga snapped. “Witch made it golem.”

  Two more burst out from under a hanging vine. Barely larger than cats, they moved in jagged zigzags, a blur of leaves and motion. The only sound was their faint, rustling breath.

  Tunga fired again. Another burst of light and heat turned one into a rain of burning foliage.

  Isabelle moved without thinking. Electricity arced from her blade, striking the second creature mid-pounce. Lightning engulfed it, setting it ablaze. It writhed once, then collapsed into a heap of smoking ash.

  “That all?” she asked. “These golems don’t seem that tough.”

  Tunga’s jaw tightened. “No. Not all.”

  A towering tree—at least thirty meters tall—bent sharply to one side. Wood groaned and splintered under invisible force before crashing down with a thunderous roar.

  Tunga began chanting in the ancient tongue of his people.

  Isabelle swallowed hard. Whenever Tunga did that, it meant he was preparing something powerful.

  The tree slammed down across the path, throwing dirt and splinters into the air.

  Isabelle raised an arm to shield her face. “What’s happening?”

  Tunga kept chanting, unmoved, his voice rolling like distant thunder. He didn’t even glance her way.

  The fallen trunk sprawled across the path like a wall of moss-covered flesh. It was enormous, bark slick and cracked with moisture. Long, greenish vines draped from its sides, swaying gently like sleeping tentacles.

  A sweet, rotting smell wafted from the trunk. Thick, cloying, and foul.

  The moss covering it shivered, as if something beneath were pulsing.

  Isabelle’s throat turned to stone. Nothing about that tree was natural. The power radiating from it pressed against her aura, heavy, invasive, suffocating.

  The trunk quivered. Roots uncoiled like snakes, straining and twisting as they pushed the rest of the mass upright. They slid under the body like octopus limbs, hauling the thing forward. There were no joints, no grace, only wood bending, cracking, and reforming with every lurching step.

  And still, it came closer.

  The witch’s laughter rose again, high, hysterical, slicing through the jungle like glass.

  Isabelle braced herself. Energy surged through her chakras, flooding the blade. The metal flared with a vivid glow. She whispered a prayer between clenched teeth. “Orbisar, grant me the strength to drive this demon away.”

  The vines hanging from the creature’s body weren’t lifeless after all. They stirred, sluggish at first, then lashed forward like striking whips.

  Isabelle ducked low and met one with the flat of her blade. The impact jarred her arm, but she slid beneath the tendril and closed in on the trunk.

  At striking range, she released the energy. A blinding flash burst from the sword, slamming into the creature’s leathery bark. The whole trunk convulsed, its advance stalling for a heartbeat.

  Smoke curled from the scorched mark, but no flames caught.

  A heavy branch dropped from above. Isabelle rolled aside.

  The impact split the earth where she’d stood, leaving a jagged trench.

  Behind her, Tunga’s chant deepened, a steady rumble that made the soil tremble. The ground behind him swelled like a rising boil. His eyes were closed, completely entranced.

  The plant-thing hesitated, then began to turn toward him.

  Tunga couldn’t defend himself—he had to be protected.

  Isabelle stepped in front of him, blade raised. “Vile demonic thing. You strike at the defenseless rather than face me?”

  She drew deep on her chakras, channeling a torrent of light through her body and into the sword. Lightning arced from the blade, lashing across the jungle golem.

  The river of energy coiled around the trunk, spreading through every branch. For a heartbeat, the creature froze.

  Isabelle pressed the advantage. Her blade flashed, severing branches and tendrils in quick, brutal arcs. But the thing was vast. No matter how much she cut, it barely seemed to shrink.

  The paralysis broke. The faint flames clinging to its limbs sputtered out as the golem lurched forward again.

  Vines whipped toward her. Isabelle dodged, retreating step by step until her back nearly brushed against Tunga. He was still deep in his trance, chanting without pause.

  From the undergrowth, smaller creatures erupted. Masses of twigs and leaves animated by the same foul magic. They darted across the path, fast and erratic.

  There was no way to strike them all.

  Isabelle plunged her sword into the ground and poured every remaining ounce of energy into it. Lightning surged outward in a wide ring, burning through everything that crossed it. The lesser golems convulsed, stiffened, and burst into ash.

  Above the thunder and crackle of power came the witch’s laughter. High, sharp, and mocking.

  That damned woman was enjoying this. She’d keep sending her summons until they were drained dry. Isabelle had to find her.

  Behind her, the ground swelled once more and split open in a burst of fire. A chasm yawned wide, its depths glowing like a forge.

  A molten arm thrust out, claws digging into the rim, followed by a jagged head of rock, its eyes burning like twin embers and a molten fissure splitting its face.

  The fire golem hauled itself free of the crater and towered above the trees.

  Tunga’s voice thundered now, his staff leveled at the plant demon.

  The flaming colossus let out a roar that rattled the ground and sent leaves raining from the canopy.

  The tree-creature turned to face it and hesitated. Vines rose and twisted together, forming a dense lattice of branches like a shield.

  The fire golem lunged, moving with a predator’s hunger.

  The clash sent sparks and foliage flying in every direction.

  The tree loomed several meters taller, massive and thick, but the fire golem’s heat devoured it piece by piece, leaving blackened stumps where leafy branches had been.

  Apparently, fire was a natural enemy.

  Tunga ran up beside her. “We must find the witch, or she will not stop.”

  Isabelle nodded, scanning the chaos. Nothing hinted at where the witch might be hiding. They needed a way out of this, fast. She knew enough of Nakori culture to guess what might help.

  “We come in peace!” she shouted. “Stop! We only wish to speak with your tribal leaders!”

  Tunga shot her a glare that could have melted steel. “Do not ask a Nakori for peace. When you say peace, he hears weakness. Only the weak ask for peace.”

  “I know,” Isabelle said quietly.

  The fire golem raised its blazing fist and brought it down like a meteor. The impact exploded in a storm of flame and splinters. The tree-creature toppled backward, crashing through the canopy. The smell of burning sap and smoke filled the air.

  The golem struck again and again until the monstrous trunk was nothing but a heap of charred wood, its vines twitching once before going still.

  In the surrounding jungle, new rustles and low groans began to rise. Tunga had been right, the witch was already summoning more. Isabelle had no idea how many she could control, and she didn’t want to find out.

  “We come in peace!” she repeated, louder this time. She stooped to grab the scabbard from the ground, lifted it high so anyone watching could see, and slid the sword back into place.

  Tunga spat on the dirt. “You do not sheathe a weapon unless you mean to surrender.”

  The witch’s laughter cut off. So did the movements that had been creeping through the jungle around them.

  “Oh… but why spoil our lovely game so soon, Warden?”

  The voice came from the right. Isabelle turned sharply. Only dense foliage stared back.

  “I am not here to play,” she said. “I am here to stop a war.”

  A pause. “And how do you intend to stop it?”

  The voice was closer now. A bush rustled, she could almost feel eyes watching from behind it.

  “I carry a message for the tribal chiefs,” Isabelle said. “Escort me to them, and let me deliver it.”

  “A message, eh?” The bush parted, and a figure with long hair leaned out from the shadows. “Then I’d like to hear it.”

  Isabelle faced the silhouette directly. She held the sheathed sword close to her chest, using it as both shield and symbol. “We know the tribes didn’t send Kato to attack the Cashnar.”

  The woman’s tone shifted, soft but edged with bitterness. “Kato hasn’t lived among the tribes for a long time… The tribes would never have chosen him.” Her head tilted slightly, a faint sadness in her voice. “We haven’t been allowed to live with the tribes for a long time either. But now, because of war, we’ve returned.”

  Isabelle’s chest tightened. So the witches and warlocks had something to gain from this war. They would never help stop it.

  “War will bring only death and ruin. Is that worth more than your return to Narkhara?”

  The figure stepped forward, brushing aside a broad leaf. A shaft of light pierced the canopy and fell across her face. Her skin was painted gray and cracked like old bark; parts of her looked carved from it. Her reed-thin body was streaked with bright colors, with red the most vivid of all.

  She came no closer. This was Isabelle’s only chance.

  The witch laughed, the sound like shattered glass dragged over stone. “Death does not frighten my people as it does yours. The weak die so the strong may prosper. War will make us stronger!”

  Those same words. Kato had said them too. Could it really be coincidence?

  Isabelle shook her head slowly. “It will not make you stronger. It will only kill the weak and the unlucky. That is not the same thing.”

  With a single motion, she cast the scabbard aside and drew her blade. Light from Orbisar surged into the steel, wrapping her arm in a radiant glow. “And tell me,” she said, voice steady as tempered iron, “are you certain you will be among the strong? Or one of the sacrificed?”

  In the half-light, the witch’s smile was a pale, yellowed glint, like rot beneath the skin. “If that is the will of the Spirit of the Beast and of Nature,” the witch said, “then I will die.”

  Isabelle drew a long, steady breath.

  Orbisar, grant me strength.

  She guided the light along her arm, into the cords of muscle beneath her skin, until they hardened like forged metal. Raising her sword to the sky, she spoke in a voice that rang through the clearing.

  “Then when you lie on the ground, blood filling your throat and lungs, and the last beats of your heart fading, you will curse this war, your pagan god, and finally yourself.”

  With both hands, she hurled the sword.