The Severed Root

The war tent was silent, save for the crackle of the brazier and the faint rustle of maps. Valencia sat hunched over the table, her fingers tracing the jagged line where Feron and Pherr met. Xyrus stood at her side, his presence a steady anchor in the storm of her thoughts.

"We can't fight Nyssa and Lysandra at the same time," she said, her voice low. "Not without the vines."

Xyrus frowned. "Then we cut Nyssa off from them. Permanently."

Valencia's gaze flicked to him. "You mean destroy them."

He nodded, his expression grim. "If we can't control them, neither can she."

The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. The vines were Pherr's legacy, its strength—and its curse. To destroy them was to sever a part of herself.

But Valencia had no choice.

---

The plan was reckless, born of desperation. They would infiltrate Pherr's capital under cover of darkness, reach the heart of the vines, and burn them to ash. It was a suicide mission, but it was the only way to stop Nyssa and Lysandra both.

As they prepared to ride out, Xyrus caught Valencia's arm. "If this goes wrong—"

"It won't," she said, cutting him off.

"But if it does," he insisted, his grip tightening, "I need you to know something."

She looked at him, her heart pounding. "What?"

He hesitated, then leaned in, his lips brushing hers in a kiss that was as fierce as it was fleeting. "That."

Valencia's breath caught, but before she could respond, he was gone, his cloak billowing as he mounted his horse.

---

The journey to Pherr's capital was a blur of shadows and silence. They moved like ghosts, their footsteps swallowed by the night. The city was a fortress, its walls bristling with Nyssa's crow-feather banners.

But Valencia knew its secrets.

They slipped through a hidden gate, their path lit by the faint glow of the vines. The roots pulsed beneath their feet, their thorns twitching as if sensing their presence.

"This way," Valencia whispered, leading Xyrus through the labyrinthine streets.

The heart of the vines was in the palace gardens, a massive crystal entwined with roots that glowed with a sickly light. Nyssa stood before it, her hands pressed to its surface, her eyes closed in concentration.

Valencia stepped into the open, her dagger drawn. "Nyssa."

The rebel leader turned, her smile cold. "Valencia. I wondered when you'd come."

"It's over," Valencia said, her voice steady. "The vines are mine."

Nyssa laughed, the sound sharp and brittle. "Yours? They've never been yours. They've always been *mine.*"

Before Valencia could react, the vines surged, their roots lashing out like whips. Xyrus pulled her back, his sword cutting through the thorns.

"Do it!" he shouted, his voice strained. "Destroy it!"

Valencia hesitated, her gaze flicking to the crystal. To destroy it was to destroy a part of herself—but it was the only way.

She stepped forward, her dagger raised.

---

The vines screamed as the blade struck the crystal, their light flickering and dimming. Nyssa lunged, her eyes wild with desperation, but Xyrus intercepted her, his sword clashing with hers.

"You'll kill us all!" Nyssa screamed, her voice raw with panic.

"Better that than let you rule," Valencia said, her voice cold.

She struck again, and the crystal shattered, its fragments scattering like shards of glass. The vines withered, their roots crumbling to ash.

Nyssa fell to her knees, her hands clutching at the empty air. "What have you done?"

Valencia stood over her, her dagger dripping with the crystal's ichor. "What I had to."

---

The palace shook as the vines died, their power fading into nothingness. Valencia and Xyrus fled the gardens, their footsteps echoing in the silence.

As they reached the city gates, Valencia paused, her hand pressed to her chest. The bond was gone, but so was the weight of the vines.

"It's done," she said, her voice trembling.

Xyrus nodded, his expression unreadable. "Now we face Lysandra."

---