Across the small clearing, Sir Gavin stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his newly healed arm resting comfortably against his ribs in a way that still felt both strange and wonderful. His eyes weren't on Ollie or Milo, but on the devastation that surrounded them.
The trees were dead or dying. Every single one of them. The evergreens that should have been green and vibrant even in winter had shed their needles in brown carpets across the frozen ground. The oak tree that had sheltered Lady Cerys had lost almost half of its branches, its massive limbs scattered like the bones of some great beast. Even the undergrowth, the bushes, vines and small plants that had filled the spaces between the trees, looked brittle and lifeless.
