Ashfall and Echoes (2)

Morning seeped into the grove in hesitant strokes, silver light collecting first on frost-rimmed ash before creeping up the blackened roots like forgiveness arriving too late. Where the heartwood titan had stood, a crater yawned—charred soil veined with brittle lacework of iced sap. Thin mist curled from the depression, ghosting through candles that still burned at the periphery. Their flames dotted the battlefield in miniature constellations, each barely a thumb's width high, yet together they suggested a sky stubborn enough to rise from the ground.