“You thought promising peace between our kingdoms would earn you immunity.” Her hair begins to whip about her as her power rises, the floral scent now mingling with the cloying smell of rot. “You—thought—wrong.” Mara screams, and a hundred different roots and vines shoot toward us. Des steps in front of me, and shadows blast out from him, snuffing out the fairy lights and blocking out the heavens above. The roots wither and die away before they can do more than caress my skin. Everything is inky darkness.
