Pain was an unrelenting torment, a creature of its own, gnawing through every nerve in Tabitha's shattered body. It seared her flesh and burrowed into her bones, a merciless demon intent on consuming her. Her lungs fought to draw air, each breath a jagged, wheezing effort as blood seeped from her wounds. The earth beneath her was stained crimson, and every heartbeat sent new waves of pain lancing through her—a vicious reminder of her mortality.
The silence around her was thick and oppressive, broken only by a voice that sliced through the darkness, a whisper barely louder than her agony. "Don’t worry, my ahuvati… I’m here." It was that voice, familiar and steadfast, that dragged her back from the precipice of despair.
With monumental effort, Tabitha forced her eyes open, the act alone feeling as if mountains rested upon her lids. Her gaze found him: a lifeline etched in worry, the embodiment of her love and the source of her strength. Baruch, his hand rough and calloused, cupped her cheek in a gentle gesture, his thumb brushing away blood she was barely aware of. This touch was a whisper of warmth against the ice of her weakness.
He leaned over her, his eyes searching hers, desperate to find some sign that she was still fighting.
“I was too careless,” she whispered, struggling to keep her eyes open. Guilt for her helplessness coiled around her heart, suffocating her more effectively than the blood in her lungs. Yet there was no strength left to fight it. With what little she had left, Tabitha drew herself closer to him, her fingers clutching weakly at his chest, and in a gesture of final surrender, her head slumped against his shoulder. She yielded to this frailty, each breath weaker than the last, her body betraying her, fragile and broken in his arms.
Baruch’s jaw clenched, his heart hammering in his chest as he saw the will fading from her eyes. His gaze darted upward, catching sight of the abomination above—a grotesque, winged monstrosity. It howled in agony, its taloned limbs clawing at its own face, ichor spraying in thick, black arcs that spattered across the ground. The beast’s cries were maddened, each shriek a raw, guttural sound that filled the air with a sense of impending doom.
For a moment, hesitation gripped Baruch. But then he looked at Tabitha, her broken form cradled against him, and his fear hardened into resolve—there was no time to hesitate. “Leave it to me,” he whispered, a promise no weaker than the one he once gave to the Heavens.
Tabitha’s condition was dire: blood seeped from her shattered body, her breath rattling in her chest. Her wounds were grotesque, savage gashes that would have killed anyone else outright. But she was a Prophet, chosen by the Celestial for a reason. Life clung to her with a tenacity that defied logic—the curse of her divine calling, now rather mockery than mercy, kept her alive.
Baruch knew they had to run, to flee from this nightmare given flesh. But fate, cruel and remorseless, offered no sanctuary. The sky darkened as a monstrous shadow unfurled above them once again. The creature descended with an awful, silent grace, its wings slicing the air like blades. When it hit the ground, the impact was like the hammer of a vengeful god, splitting the earth, turning roots and soil into shrapnel, and ripping through the grove with merciless power. Young, sturdy trees snapped like kindling, their splinters mingling with the dust and ruin, but this time, Tabitha could do nothing to protect them.
The druid clutched the prophetess to his chest, bracing for the violence, his body tense and ready to shield her from the oncoming impact. He waited for the crushing blow, the bone-shattering force—but it never came. Tentatively, he opened his eyes, astonishment widening them. A wall of roots, gnarled and thick, had surged up around them, a desperate shield conjured by the grove itself.
For a fleeting heartbeat, Baruch's lips formed a prayer of gratitude to the young king of this grove. “Thank you, Ha'Etz,” he whispered with relief, his gaze shifting to Tabitha, cradled in his arms. Behind him, Miguel and Carlos stood pale and stunned but miraculously unharmed. For now.
The reprieve was short-lived. A bone-rattling roar cleaved the air, a sound so dark and potent it seemed born from the nightmares of the bravest souls. The creature unfurled its jaws wide—a maw lined with fangs as long as daggers—and screamed its rage. For the beast above, this primal roar was as effortless as speech is to man, yet it carried the weight of annihilation, a promise of death. It was a harbinger of ruin, a sound laden with the weight of a thousand curses, each poised to tear the living world apart.
Then, an eerie stillness descended, so profound it seemed to choke the air itself. Baruch’s eyes flickered open, and he found himself and his companions enshrouded within Ha'Etz’s final act of defiance. The roots, thick and unyielding, had absorbed the monster’s wrath, but now they quivered, splintering under the strain. All around them, the young forest lay in ruins—a graveyard of blackened stumps and splintered timber where life had once thrived. The sanctuary, painstakingly nurtured by two druids for over a decade, was no more—a wasteland carved from their love and labor, now reduced to ash and memory.
At the heart of the devastation, the venerable druidic tree shuddered in its final agony. Its once-mighty branches sagged under the weight of death, trembling as the last of its strength ebbed away. The roots, those deep and steadfast sentinels, withdrew into the scorched earth, releasing their protective embrace.
As the last vestiges of its essence bled away, the tree’s spirit dissolved into the soil it had once cherished. It left behind no monument but silence—its final act both a defiant song of pride and a mournful elegy for what had been. The proud soul of the grove had given all, its sacrifice etched into the barren dirt where life had been extinguished.
Baruch felt the tree’s pain as if it were his own. A broken moan, raw and guttural, escaped his lips, leaving his soul laid bare. Tabitha’s fragile sobs mingled with the tree’s silent dirge, a lament for the dreams they had lost.
And then, once again, the creature loomed above them, its eyes gleaming with malevolent intelligence. It had not expected the defiance of the druidic tree, and for a fleeting moment, surprise flashed in its dark gaze. But that shock quickly twisted into cruel mockery. The abomination’s lips curled back, revealing rows of serrated fangs in a grotesque grin, as if it delighted in the futility of their struggle. It savored the moment, like a cat toying with a dying mouse.
He had known fear before—when the shadow of the Twilight Tyrant had fallen across his people—but this was something older, something crueler and more ruinous. The creature’s gaze pinned him where he stood, paralyzed, and he felt the weight of inevitable death pressing down upon him.
Carlos’s whispered prayers fell like ashes, scattering on the wind, lost in the desolation. Baruch felt his body betray him—muscles rigid, spirit numb. The abomination knew it too; its wicked grin, a slash of malice across its grotesque face, mocked him.
In the chilling stillness, Baruch and the beast shared a silent communion, an acknowledgment of the mortal dance they were about to perform under the indifferent stars. The creature’s sinister grin slowly widened as it prepared once more to unleash its devastating fury.
But before the sound could erupt, the night itself seemed to rebel. Something vast, winged, and full of fury collided with the abomination, cutting short its annihilating cry. The impact was thunderous, a deafening clash that sent the monster spiraling upward into the abyss of the sky.
Baruch’s mouth fell open as the sky was claimed by another terror: a bird of such magnificent enormity that it made the earth itself feel small and breakable. Its plumage shimmered like storm-tossed waves, a palette of grays and blues edged with a ghostly silver that glowed in the darkness. Molten gold eyes burned with an ancient, righteous fury. The bird’s wings churned the air into a maelstrom, a tempest that bent trees and rippled through the clearing. It was a living storm, a creature of the heavens, and it had come to challenge the abomination that dared to defile the Golden Alley.
24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡf64lSafJ36
