A Divine Intervention

A memory returns. We see Selia—commanding, resolute—sharpening her uniform’s lines before the induction of new cadets. It is the calm before Hither falls. Greg watches quietly from the doorway. There’s gentleness in his posture, in the way his hands do not reach for her. They talk. We learn what he would never speak aloud: Greg is a pacifist. In their bond, it was always Selia who made the hard decisions. She wore the steel for both of them.

Greg stands alone on the cobbled streets of Revillon, the swamp still fresh in his lungs. He left the others behind—teleporting mid-chaos, pulled not by fear, but by fracture. General Taylor awaits him. Old and tired, but not yet finished. In their conversation, Taylor does not command; he reminds. Of resolve. Of duty. Of the party still in the mire. Greg listens. And Greg returns.

South of Revillon, the Woodwalker stirs. Greg crosses its path—and barely escapes. His flight leads him into the fortified outskirts: the Harengon barracks encircling Elminster’s Tower. He tries to vanish, to fold into the grass, but they see him. Dozens—hundreds—of Harengon warriors charge. There is no way out. So Greg kneels. Desperate, he casts his prayer into the roots of the world. Silvanus answers. Blinding light blossoms like petals in spring. The horde reels, eyes seared white by divine bloom. Greg runs. And survives.

Meanwhile, in the swamp’s lingering shadow, the rest of the party gathers their thoughts after their encounter with the Knowledge Tree. Echoes of memory still cling to them, sticky and bitter. They head north in search of the Woodwalker. On the path, they find Greg. He speaks of what happened—of Taylor, of the barracks, of the light. Together, they follow the Woodwalker’s trail into a strange, hushed grove. Trees hum in odd rhythms. The forest is wrong. Or perhaps, only dreaming. The chase continues. The roots go deep.