Liska’s gaze, blurred with her own tears, snapped from Stellan’s pallid face to Vorlag. The silver pendant. *Her* mother's keepsake, torn from bleeding collarbones in the raid. A cold dread, far deeper than any chill in the air, settled into her bones. Vorlag advanced slowly, his boots crunching on fallen branches, his eyes never leaving Liska. He gestured to the surrounding chimeric troops, who regrouped through the haze, their monstrous fused forms distinct against the trees. One bore the gnarled hide of a horned beast, another the multi-jointed limbs of a Skitter-spider. “Such a peculiar power you possess, little herbalist,” Vorlag purred, stopping a few paces from Liska, who shielded Stellan’s body with her own. “The blood of the Veridian line, they called it. Not just healing, but a life-force exchange. Imagine, an entire army, regenerating, self-sustaining. Invincible. All thanks to a single, delicate source.” He held up the locket. “Your mother thought this trinket would protect you. A foolish sentiment.” He scoffed, tossing the pendant carelessly into the wet loam near Liska’s feet. “But she was right about one thing: your tears are a treasure. A pity I had to sacrifice so many of your kin to find you.” Liska’s fists clenched, her nails digging into her palms. The sheer, audacious cruelty of the man stole what little breath she had left. He was not just a murderer; he was a desecrator of memories, a purveyor of suffering, and he spoke of it all with the casualness of discussing the weather. She wanted to scream, to lash out, but the words still caught in her chest, a physical obstruction. “Take her,” Vorlag commanded, his voice sharp now, the silk replaced by steel. Two horned legionaries, broad and plated in iron, lumbered forward with outstretched gauntlets. Their steps were heavy, confident, shaking the damp earth. Liska instinctively pulled Stellan closer, her body rigid with defiance. Just as the foremost attacker's shadow fell over them, a sharp shriek tore through the air. It wasn't Grit’s usual annoyed chirp; it was a battle cry, filled with a righteous, ancient rage. From beneath a tangle of roots, a section of mossy turf began to ripple. A sickly, green-brown ooze erupted, spreading rapidly in a circular patch around the two advancing brutes. The air immediately filled with a smell so horrendous, so utterly putrid, that it made the very leaves on the trees curl. It was the scent of fermenting swamp gases, decaying fungi, and something vaguely resembling curdled milk left in the sun for a month. “What in the blazes is that reek?” one of the horned brutes grumbled, wrinkling a snout. His companion, however, had already taken a step into the expanding patch. His heavy boot slipped with an almost comical *splat*. He windmilled his arms, his armored body swaying precariously, before tumbling backward with a mighty splash into the reeking slime. His horned helmet struck the mud with a dull thud, pinning him flat beneath his own iron plate. The second beast-fused fighter tried to pivot clear of the slime. But the moss was deceptively insidious. It looked like ordinary, if incredibly foul-smelling, bog moss, but it was slicker than raw oil. His other foot slid out from under him, and with a yelp of surprise, he followed his comrade, landing face-first in the malodorous puddle. His heavy breathing gear gurgled as he struggled to right himself, his massive frame floundering in the thick, viscous muck. Vorlag stared in disbelief. His elite, mutated line, humbled by sludge? He spun, looking for the source of this bizarre assault. That’s when he saw Grit. The little moss golem, no bigger than Liska’s fist, was standing at the edge of the expanding bog, his tiny mossy chest puffed out with pride. He gave another shrill cry, then darted toward Vorlag, a tiny green blur. “Incompetent fools!” Vorlag snarled, kicking at the air in frustration. He didn’t notice Grit until the moss golem was already scaling his leg, moving with surprising agility for a creature made of moss and rock. Grit was a fury of green, his little arms and legs scrambling up Vorlag’s polished leather boot, over his knee guard, and up his thigh. Before Vorlag could react, before he could even register the minuscule attacker, Grit launched himself upward, aiming for the most prominent feature on the commander’s face. Grit snapped his moss-covered jaw directly onto Vorlag’s aquiline nose. It wasn’t a human bite, but the impact, combined with the sheer audacity and the sudden pain, was enough. Vorlag howled, a sound of pure, unadulterated shock and agony. He stumbled backward, flailing his hands at his face, trying to dislodge the infuriatingly persistent moss golem. Grit, having delivered his blow, released his grip and dropped into the ferns, scurrying away with a muted chirp. This was Liska’s opening. Her eyes, still stinging from her own tears, swept over the chaos. Her traumatized mind, usually slow to react in a crisis, sharpened. Grit had bought them precious seconds. She remembered the small vial tucked into her belt, one of the emergency concoctions she’d prepared for the Glade’s more troublesome, pollen-sensitive weeds. It was meant to incapacitate, to cause a violent, localized allergic reaction in plants, but it would work on people too, given the right target. Vorlag, still clutching his bleeding nose, was staggering, cursing loudly. His eyes were watering, his face contorted in a comical mask of pain and humiliation. He was distracted, vulnerable. Liska snapped the glass vial from her belt. She uncorked it with a practiced flick of her thumb, then, with a primal cry that was more a guttural sound of desperation than a word, she hurled it. The vial spun through the air, a tiny glass projectile aimed with terrifying precision. It shattered against Vorlag’s cheek with a sickening *CRACK*. A cloud of fine, golden-green powder exploded, clinging to his face, his open mouth, his eyes. For a moment, he froze, a look of pure confusion on his face. His eyelids flared, the whites turning bloodshot as sneezing wracked his chest in violent spasms. He gasped for air, his throat closing, his face turning a mottled red. His hands flew to his neck, tearing at his collar, his breath coming in ragged, wheezing coughs. His perfectly combed dark hair, usually so precise, fell into his eyes as he doubled over, shaking uncontrollably, completely incapacitated by the sudden, overwhelming allergic reaction. The remaining chimeric line, still trying to drag their floundering comrades from the bog, hesitated. Their commander was reduced to a gasping, red-faced wreck by an alchemical blast and a chunk of animate turf. Imperial discipline buckled. Morale evaporated. One of the Skitter-spider soldiers, seeing Vorlag clutching his throat and Liska standing over a collapsed Stellan, decided retreat was the better option, scrambling awkwardly over the ruined barricade. Vorlag, gasping for breath, finally managed to force a few words out, his voice hoarse and raw, filled with a desperate, venomous fury. He stumbled upright, swaying, his eyes fixed on Liska, now gleaming with a maniacal rage despite their swelling. “You can save him, girl, or yourself. You can’t do both! I poisoned the Heartwood!”

The Commander's Choice