"The demon didn't just sabotage the Grove," Draven said at last, his voice pitched low so it would not echo among the warped trunks. "It didn't smash gates or shatter seals. It learned. It studied the syntax of every blessing carved into these roots, then rewrote the sequence like a composer taking shears to a hymn."
A faint pulse of sickly violet shimmered through the bark behind him in silent confirmation, as though the forest itself flinched at the indictment.
Sylvanna adjusted the grip on her bow, knuckles white. "That's not instinct," she muttered. "That's—"
"Strategy." Draven finished the thought without looking her way. His gaze traced the ridges of a nearby pillar‑root, following invisible fault lines only he seemed able to read.
He took a slow breath, tasting the air in the back of his throat. Resin, loam, and a copper sting that did not belong. "It's not feeding on bodies," he continued. "It's feeding on belief."
