The fire in the council hall burned low, smoke curling lazily through the rafters. Rowan sat at the long table with the others, the smell of charred oak lingering on his clothes. Even three years on, he sometimes felt like the boy who had stumbled into Verdant Hollow, clutching a weapon he didn't know how to use. Yet here he was—seated among leaders.
Ashwyn rested heavily on his staff, his face more lined than it had been, but his eyes still carried the sharpness of a man who listened to things no one else could hear. Brenner sprawled in his chair, boots up on the table, one hand idly scratching behind Artan's ear. The bear rumbled softly, half-asleep but dangerous even in dreams. Ari leaned forward, Oriel perched high on the beams above, its keen eyes sweeping the room. Lyra, calm as ever, sat straight-backed, while Nyx lingered in the shadows, Pan's golden eyes flickering in the dark corner like two dying embers. Tamsin busied herself with a small pouch of herbs, though Rowan suspected she was only distracting her hands.
The room had grown heavy with silence. It was Nyx who broke it, her voice low but cutting.
"The Basin has fallen."
The words were as sharp as any blade. Rowan sat straighter. He had known, in his gut, that something was wrong—the trickle of refugees, the quiet rumors, the way merchants had stopped coming from that direction. But to hear it spoken so plainly…
"What do you mean fallen?" Brenner growled, boots thudding down as he leaned forward. "It was half a kingdom! Forts, rivers, cities—"
"All gone," Nyx said simply. "Swallowed. The corruption rose faster than anyone expected. Villages that stood for centuries are ash. The survivors say it came not as a slow creep, but as a tide. A living tide."
Ari's lips tightened, her bowstring-calloused fingers curling against the table. "And the people?"
"Those who could run are here now," Nyx replied. "Those who couldn't… became part of it. Or worse."
Silence again. Rowan felt the weight of the firelight on his face, hot and suffocating. He remembered his first fight, the wolves at Verdant Hollow, the soldiers waiting in the trees. How small it seemed now compared to this.
"The Basin…" Tamsin whispered. "I healed men from there, years ago. They were proud. Strong. To think it could all be gone…"
Ashwyn tapped his staff once against the stone. The sound echoed like a judge's gavel. "Do not think of it as gone. Think of it as claimed. The corruption feeds on the living and leaves nothing but hollow land behind. That is worse than death."
Rowan's chest tightened. He wanted to ask the question burning in him, but it was Nyx who pushed further first.
"There has been no sign of the Poison Witch," she said, her tone clipped. "But others have risen in her place. New generals. Strong ones. Different gifts, all carrying the taint. The islanders to the south even claim they killed one—at great cost."
Brenner snorted, though there was no humor in it. "Killed one? That's proof enough they can bleed. Good. That means they can die."
"Or," Ari countered, eyes narrowing, "it means there are more of them than we thought."
The bear shifted uneasily at Brenner's side, as though the tension in the room rippled through its massive frame. Rowan forced himself to speak.
"Where… where does it come from?" he asked, his voice breaking the silence. He looked around at them, at faces older, wiser, more scarred than his. "The corruption. Everyone talks of fighting it, of holding it back. But what is it? What are we even fighting?"
That was when the hall truly quieted. Even the fire seemed to dim. Ashwyn lifted his eyes, cloudy but piercing, and when he spoke, the room leaned in.
"Long before any of you were born," he said slowly, "this world was whole. Balanced. Flickers were rare, awakened rarer still. The gifts were tied to the world's heart. But then… something stirred in that heart. A fracture. Some say it came from beneath the earth, a wound in the soul of Sylvaria itself. Others whisper it was called here—summoned by greed or arrogance. What matters is this: it did not spread like a sickness. It was born as a will."
"A will?" Rowan asked.
Ashwyn nodded. "A living hunger. It does not simply consume land. It embodies it. The corruption is not just a force. It has form. It has mind. The one you call the Poison Witch is no witch at all, but a servant. A general. The true master has transcended beyond flesh. He is the corruption. The living embodiment of it."
The words sank like stones. Even Brenner had no boast left in him.
"So we're not fighting a sickness," Lyra said, her voice soft but steady. "We're fighting a god."
"No," Ashwyn said. His eyes flicked toward Rowan, and for a moment they burned with an intensity that made him look far younger. "We are fighting something worse. A god can be worshipped. This… only consumes."
The fire cracked, loud in the silence that followed. Rowan thought of the Basin—of rivers turned black, forests twisted, people he would never know screaming as their bodies betrayed them. His stomach churned.
Ari broke the silence first, her voice clear and sharp. "Then we need allies. No one can face this alone."
Nyx inclined her head. "There are allies. Some already resist. The islanders in the southern seas, their skin darkened by the sun, hands and feet webbed like seals. They've mastered the waves, and their soulkin dive deeper than any boat could follow. They are proud and fierce, but they fight."
Ashwyn added, "To the north, the people of Ivoryvale endure. Pale as snow, hair and eyes like the ice they live on. They are hunters, wrapped in furs, moving with the storms. They have kept the corruption at bay with spears and silence, though for how long, I cannot say."
"Stormrend too," Ari said, glancing at Rowan. "The mountain people. Tall and thin as pines, voices like thunder. They say the winds themselves obey them. I've never seen it, but I've seen their arrows fall from miles above."
"And the Dunes," Nyx said with quiet authority. "The sand people. Skin like bronze, eyes like fire. They can vanish in a swirl of grit, ride storms across the desert. They hate outsiders, but if the corruption spreads too far, even they will have to choose."
"And the peaks," Brenner said unexpectedly. He scratched at his beard, frowning. "Oblivion Peaks. I fought one of them once. Short, thick arms like tree trunks. They carve their homes under the mountains. They don't bend. Not for men, not for beasts. They'll stand until the earth crumbles beneath them."
"They are all fighting?" Rowan asked, hope flaring.
"Fighting, yes," Ashwyn said. "Winning, no. Each clings to survival in their own way. Some build walls. Some hide. Some bleed every day in battles no one else sees. But alone, none of them will last."
The weight of his words pressed down on Rowan's shoulders like a mantle. He looked around at the others—their scars, their weariness, their fire. He thought of Wraithborn, of the city that had risen from ashes into strength. For a heartbeat, he almost believed they could stand against anything. Then he remembered the Basin.
Nyx leaned forward, her golden eyes catching the firelight. "The corruption has been pushed back for now. But it is patient. It learns. And it grows. Every flicker it touches, every soul it twists, it becomes stronger. That is why they hunt. That is why they came for you, Rowan."
Her words struck him like a blade. He swallowed hard, throat dry. He remembered the wolf pressing him into the river, the water surging to his hand. He remembered thinking he would die. He remembered Brenner's axe saving him.
He drew a slow breath. "Then we can't wait. We can't hide in Wraithborn and hope it passes. If it spreads everywhere, then nowhere is safe."
Brenner grinned fiercely, though there was no joy in it. "Finally, something we agree on. Let it come. We'll cut it down."
"Not cut," Ashwyn corrected gently. "Root. A weed you cut will grow back. A weed you tear out from the earth will wither."
The fire burned lower still, its embers glowing like eyes in the dark. Rowan felt the truth of it settle in his chest. For the first time, he realized just how vast Sylvaria was. How many people depended on them, even if those people didn't know it yet.
The Basin had fallen. The corruption was spreading. And somewhere, at the heart of it all, a will waited. A hunger wearing flesh.
Rowan clenched his fists beneath the table. They couldn't fight it yet. But one day, they would.
And when that day came, he swore to himself, they would not stand alone.