The moment the doorway sealed, the world tilted.
Not in sound or movement, but in presence. It was as if the forest itself leaned in, holding its breath. The Rootwell shimmered faintly beneath Quinn's boots, pulsing with a rhythm that didn’t belong to it anymore.
It belonged to Rowan.
Jace stared at the closed arch of vines, his fists clenched so tightly his claws had pierced his palms. Blood dripped, unnoticed. His breathing came shallow, measured, but barely restrained.
“I should have stopped him,” he muttered.
“No,” Quinn whispered, still on his knees. “You would have robbed him of his choice. You know that.”
Jace said nothing. The silence was answer enough. Beside them, Kaelen remained still, listening—not to them, but to something beyond. Something far older than even he.
“The
