The battle seemed to inhale and hold.
The golem's body was patchwork: heartwood beams knotted with sinew roots, armor of scabbed bark fused to quivering moss. Faces—dozens—pushed up beneath its surface, mouths opening in silent screams before sinking back. It towered a full two men above Vaelira. Each step snapped smaller trees like twigs.
The corrupted elves fell back—strings cut—clearing space, obeying a silent order. Raëdrithar screeched overhead, but even the storm chimera faltered, wings beating once, twice, before retreating to a safer perch.
The soul-wisps orbiting the glade pulsed, some retreating, some vibrating with agitation. One drifted low, hovering near Vaelira's shoulder. Its shape flickered—an elven warrior in older armor, face half-remembered. Recognition flashed in Vaelira's eyes—a breath, a name unsaid.
