They made it to the first Spirit Glade by midday, and the sight halted the pair like a wall. The forest seemed to hesitate around them, branches wilting, vines recoiling.

Bedwyr felt his heart lurch. His hand reached instinctively for the strings of his lyre, the urge to play a song of mourning surging up unbidden. But he stilled himself. Even music felt too fragile here.

It was a landscape of rot and sorrow.

What should have been a sanctuary of blooming wonder, with ancient trees whispering songs of life and dryads dancing under flowering boughs, was now a stagnant grave. Pools of ichor gleamed black between roots. The air reeked of something sharp and chemical, burning the back of their throats.

Bedwyr had seen many horrors beyond Oberon's Wall. Yet this violation struck something deeper.

Gwyn stood frozen, her broad shoulders squared, fists clenched. Her aura roared inwardly, a storm seeking something, anything, to strike.

"How is this possible?" she whispered, pain laced in every syllable.

"I wonder that myself," Bedwyr murmured, stepping forward. His boots squelched against the wet ground. The stink rose with every step.

They advanced carefully. No birds sang. No insects buzzed. Death ruled here.

Bedwyr’s keen senses picked out the faintest pulse among the decay, a surviving Spirit Tree, flickering like a guttering flame. He made his way toward it, weaving through pools of filth, his hand outstretched.

When he touched the bark, a flood of agony ripped through him.

Tears rolled down his cheeks unbidden. His knees nearly buckled. He saw flashes, a glade once full of laughter and light, dryads sword-dancing among silver blooms, lovers entwined under the stars.

Then came the darkness.

A figure, cloaked in decay and scaled in black and gold, speaking words Bedwyr did not understand. A shadow spreading like a disease.

He steadied himself and began to hum, a low, soothing melody. The Spirit Tree responded, its pain easing fractionally.

Gwyn placed a steady hand on his shoulder. No words. No mockery. Just shared grief.

When he pulled away, he whispered, "We are in danger, fair lady. A Dread Drake walks these woods."

Gwyn’s jaw tightened. Her hands flexed at her sides. "We need to warn the Wall. Command will need to send hunters." She had never faced a Dread Drake.

Bedwyr shook his head slowly. "One party will not be enough."

Before she could argue, a noise slithered through the ruined glade. A wet, grotesque sound.

Emerging from the muck came a creature, a slug-like mass thirty feet long, covered in slime, sprouting countless hairy arms that funnelled decaying matter into its gnashing maw. Teeth like broken gravestones lined its rubbery mouth.

The pair exchanged a glance. No words needed.

Gwyn unslung her greatsword. Bedwyr drew his slender blade. They moved.

Gwyn struck first, a great cleaving blow that glanced off the creature's slick hide. Acidic slime splashed outward. She rolled aside, but not fast enough. A taloned appendage lashed out, tearing a ragged line across her back.

She roared, pain and rage mixing into something primal. Bedwyr darted to the side, his blade flashing, stabbing into the creature's flank.

The slug shrieked, a sound like a thousand cats screaming at once.

"Is this the Drake?" Gwyn shouted, dodging another swipe.

"I am not dignifying that with an answer!" Bedwyr called, his sword carving bright lines across the creature’s blubbery side. "But its intentions are similar!"

Gwyn, bleeding and burning, planted her feet and leapt.

The creature opened its maw to swallow her whole.

She obliged, driving her greatsword down through the roof of its mouth, pinning it to the earth. The beast writhed, unable to close its jaws around her.

With grim determination, Gwyn drew her axes and began hacking at anything she could reach, gums, tongue, and the spindly arms desperately grabbing at her.

Bedwyr sheathed his sword, gathering a ball of violet light between his palms, singing a sharp, broken tune. He flung the magic into the creature’s wounds. The light spread like cracks through glass, peeling the rubbery flesh apart.

The creature spasmed. Twisted. Gurgled.

Then collapsed, dead.

Gwyn didn’t stop immediately. She swung and swung, lost in fury, until Bedwyr’s voice finally pierced the haze.

"It’s dead, Gwyn!"

Breathing hard, covered head to toe in gore, she staggered back. Dropped to one knee. Fought off the urge to collapse entirely.

Bedwyr approached carefully, like one might a wounded predator. "Are you well?"

She glared at him. "A few scratches."

Her body betrayed the lie. Acid burns seared her skin. Her aura flickered dangerously low.

"You must learn to control your aura," he said softly. "Or it will control you."

"Don't tell me what to do," she growled.

He bowed with a smirk. "Merely a suggestion, fair lady."

The glade was deathly quiet now. Only the occasional pop of a sinking bubble broke the silence.

They could do nothing for the Spirit Trees. Only sing their passing.

Bedwyr walked among the dying trunks, touching each with reverent fingers, whispering thanks, whispering sorrow. Gwyn watched, something soft and aching blooming in her chest.

When it was done, they left the ruin behind them, stepping into the more forgiving embrace of the untouched forest. The air grew sweeter. The trees were less hostile.

"What now?" Gwyn asked, her voice rough.

Bedwyr pinched his nose theatrically. "First, fair lady, you need a bath."

Gwyn scowled. "Unless you know a bathhouse out here, keep your mouth shut."

He laughed, the sound bright against the heavy grief.

"We return to the Wall," he said. "And we find those who can hunt a Dread Drake."

Gwyn's pride flared. "The Rays of Dawn can kill it."

"Of course they can," Bedwyr said dryly. "I'm sure their lances will sparkle beautifully as they are devoured one by one."

She had no reply.

They walked in silence.

The forest respected their sorrow, parting for them as they went.

As the glass villages came into view, Bedwyr tapped Gwyn's shoulder.

"How many summers have you seen?" he asked.

She frowned. "Twenty. Why?"

"Because," he said, "if you wish to survive facing what’s coming, you’ll need more than strength."

She glared. "And you know just the person to teach me, I suppose?"

Bedwyr’s smile was infuriating. "Indeed. Galahad. Son of the Lancelord. Guardian of the Heart."

Her eyes widened.

He savoured the look of awe.

And for the first time since the Glade, he dared to believe they might just survive this after all.