Up close, the glyphs writhed—tiny iron spiders crawling over stone.
Her instincts recoiled; the script felt wrong, as if it named every forest spirit bound within.
She set her left palm against the stone and pressed Leaf-Steel's flat to the runes.
Jade light poured from the sword, a river of living emerald meeting charred sigils.
Stone hissed.
Heat surged, but she held the contact, channeling years of ritual practice—give the blade, take the taint.
A hairline fissure snaked up the pillar.
Then another, branching like lightning through marble.
Crack.
The obelisk split with a muted bang, shards tumbling into the grass.
A wisp of black smoke spiraled skyward, trailing a dying wail so thin only spirit-senses caught it.
_____
Inside the ragged dome of twilight, Draven's boots skidded on wet leaves as he arrested his advance, the sudden halt so precise it seemed the ground itself had agreed to stop him.
