POV: ARAYA, HIGH PRIESTESS IRELIA, ADIRA The rogue fell to the ground in a pile of half-flesh, black smoke, and whispered prayers that no god heard. The Earth then answered. The black oak's roots moved. Not from the wind. Because of hunger. They slithered toward the rogue, curling around his legs, then his ribs. They pierced his flesh with eager rhythm - not to hold him, but to claim him. To devour. He moved once. Two times. A last shudder. Then the roots pulled him down, inch by inch, like a slow, planned death. The ground didn't fight back. It opened up for him and welcomed him. It was a grave without a ceremony. He gurgled, wet, and swallowed his last scream, not by silence... ...but by the dirt. The last thing he saw was The way she looks. Pale. Still. Not touched. The red light of the rising sun lit her up, but it seemed to hesitate, hanging low and not wanting to touch her skin. It was as if the sun was afraid of what she had become. Then, nothing. Not peac
Last Updated : 2025-07-24 Read more