Chapter 52. Warpath

The path ahead bloomed into being beneath their feet as if the forest itself willed it so. At the margin where brambles tangled in wild defiance, green shoots unfurled, clearing space underfoot. Trees arched aside—not recoiling, but bending in solemn greeting—trunks curving like custodians revealing a corridor of living jade. Vines, once choking walls of underbrush, recoiled from unseen chambers, sinewy ropes sliding back into dim hollows. Bark rippled as though breathing, trunk-wounds oozing resin that gleamed like amber tears in the dappled light. Overhead, branches curved low in regal salute, bowing toward Aeryn as though she were queen of some ancient dominion. The Wild was no mere place; it was a heartbeat, and now it throbbed in sync with her own.

Aeryn led the way. She bore no standard, sounded no horn, carried no gilded title. Her authority was etched into the very air: a faint, pulsing sigil—crimson filigreed in obsidian—hovered above her spine, flickering like a hear