The Verdant Maw loomed above him like a walking mountain, its body shifting with the groan of a hundred trees. Roots lashed at Aric, striking with the speed of whips, but his blade burned through them in streaks of molten light.
Each strike tore something from him—his breath, his blood, his very soul—but the scar across his ribs pulsed with terrible joy, feeding him fire where there should have been exhaustion.
The girl’s scream echoed behind him. Seraphel dragged her back, shielding her with one arm as he raised his staff with the other. Threads of light sputtered from its tip, forming a barrier that cracked under the assault of writhing roots.
“Aric!” Seraphel shouted. “If you keep this up, you’ll burn yourself hollow!”
Aric didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His world had narrowed to steel
