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The twins split to help with the excavation. He’d join them, but first he wanted to check in with Leora. She’d taken to her new role well, directing the Gladeans where they were most needed. She’d worn the mantle like a grief shroud since it had been placed on her shoulders—a quiet proclamation that Velhya was gone but not forgotten.

“We’ll need to study them,” Leora was saying to Aelori when he arrived. Leora’s dark chestnut hair was braided and pinned around her short horns. It gave her a regal look she hadn’t had before. Perhaps it simply came with her authority.

Aelori nodded, and when she turned to greet him, Orzen saw what they’d been puzzling over. The massive trunk—wider than most of the cottages in the Glade—was cracked but mostly flat now. Atop it sat two items, covered in a film of dust from the broken tree.

His eyes caught on the sword first, a greatsword far finer than any he’d wielded—certainly nicer than his own. The cross-guard was fashioned to look like the sun’s rays, and the pommel itself was a sun fully ablaze. It was ancient, but he’d recognize that symbol anywhere—a Dawnblade sun rising from the hilt—the symbol of Elaren’s followers and fiercest champions.

Beside it sat a wooden quarterstaff, bark polished to a dark shine. At first glance, it could’ve been mistaken for a fallen branch, save for the runes winding along its length. The wood split near the top, twisting around a rough-cut green gem that glowed faintly in the daylight.

Aelori saw him studying them and said, “We must make sure they are safe to be handled before anyone tries to use them.”

Leora whistled, and one of the guards trotted forward, bowing before her. She waved the gesture off but said, “Have these taken to the grotto for safekeeping.”

The guard, an elven female with short, cropped blonde hair, nodded and carefully wrapped them in the canvas, carrying them in her arms back toward the Glade.

“I haven’t spoken to Jessa today. How’s Wren doing?” Leora asked quietly when the guard left.

He realized how tight his shoulders were and tried to drop them, but they wouldn’t fully relax. “She’s…about the same.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not sure what I need to do.”

“I think you’re doing it, unfortunately.” Leora looked back toward the Glade like she could see Wren from there and sighed. “I fear what’s bothering her is something my Water weaving can’t heal either. I’ll try to find something she can help out with. Maybe it’ll distract her?”

He’d take any suggestion at this point if it might help Wren. He was used to moving, doing things when his mind wasn’t settled, but that wasn’t her way, and he didn’t want to push her. He simply hated seeing her this way—like something had fundamentally broken, something he had no hope of fixing.

“Maybe something simple that doesn’t require her magic.” He thought back to the way the tears welled in her eyes when she’d tried to weave the day after they returned to the cottages. “I don’t think her Spirit is working for some reason.”

Aelori leaned against the large stump. “Grief affects us all differently. Wren will find her way. You must simply be there.”

Her words sounded like the truth, but they still left him feeling helpless. The image of the Avatar of Voryx reaching out to her, of her reaching back—the acceptance in her face of a fate he’d dreaded—had bored itself into him and refused to leave.

She’d almost given herself up to the god, and Velhya had saved her. For that alone, he owed the Arboradin his loyalty—even after her death. Still, he’d pay good coin to know what it all meant.

Easier to fight when you knew what you were up against.

“Have you figured out what happened here?” he asked Leora.

She shook her head, eyes scanning the work still being done. Her gaze followed the carts hauling debris away. It landed on Velhya’s sapling and stayed there.

“My best guess is that the Rootflesh, the one you knew as Silas, was not worthy to be a vessel for Voryx, for whatever reason. At least Velhya thought it important enough to stop him at all costs.”

“He’s dead, then?” Orzen asked hopefully.

“I believe so.”

His chest constricted painfully. He hadn’t feared the Rootflesh, certainly not the man Silas had been. But the way Silas had rifled through his memories, his feelings—Orzen pushed the thought aside before the panic set in again.

Silas was gone. That was all he cared about.

“Voryx, on the other hand…” Leora sighed deeply, rubbing her temples with ink-stained fingers. “It’s too much to hope that he was destroyed. If Wren’s Spirit weaving were stable, she might be able to tell us more. I won’t put that burden on her now. Not until she’s feeling…more herself.”

Orzen swallowed the lump in his throat.

“So if Voryx was not destroyed…”

Aelori spoke now, her voice smooth and ancient, though she looked no older than Garin. “A god cannot be eliminated so simply. It would be a violation of the Cycle to do so at all. We need both halves to maintain balance. Wren must’ve understood that. Voryx doesn’t yet have the strength to become fully corporeal, but with another vessel…”

“He’ll be back,” Orzen said quietly. “Somewhere, with someone willing to take him.”

He hoped Voryx would choose a place far enough away he wouldn’t be a problem for them anymore.