God's Tree-Chapter 140: Ash in the Wind

The wind had grown quiet again. Not because it had lessened—but because the chaos that had shattered the sky minutes before had finally passed.

Silence returned like a thief, sliding in behind the echoes of fire and steel, cloaking the world in stillness.

Thae'Zirak flew steady now, though his massive wings bore singe marks along the membranes.

Each beat of his wings stirred frost from the air, trailing ash from the aetherflame that had torn through the mercenary ranks.

Argolaith sat quietly, still gripping his sword, the tip stained with dark streaks. The metal vibrated faintly in his hand, humming with the last pulse of battle.

His blue eyes swept the sky behind them, scanning for movement, for stragglers. There were none.

"They're gone," Kaelred muttered, wiping a thin cut from his cheek. He hadn't even noticed the wound until now.

Malakar said nothing, violet flames in his eyes burning soft and low.

His focus wasn't on the horizon—it was deeper, inward, as if replaying the confrontation moment by moment, studying the spellwork the mercenaries had used.

"They were coordinated," he said at last, breaking the silence. "Too coordinated."

"They were after me," Thae'Zirak growled. "Not you."

Kaelred raised a brow. "Should we be flattered or offended?"

"They didn't expect company," Argolaith said, his voice even. "They didn't expect resistance."

Thae'Zirak banked slightly and began descending, his golden eyes scanning the ground below. "We need to land. Rest. There may be something worth salvaging from what remains of their strike."

They touched down in a cratered stretch of badlands—where frost-covered boulders jutted from black soil like broken bones, and cracks in the earth hissed with faint wisps of heat, evidence of geothermal veins beneath.

The ground bore scars of the battle above. Ash drifted across stone. Chunks of obsidian armor lay scattered, some still glowing faintly from the aetherflame. A few twisted remnants of gear smoldered in shallow craters.

Argolaith dropped from Thae'Zirak's back and moved with purpose, scanning the field. "We didn't see them fall, but something might've made it to the ground."

Kaelred landed behind him, eyes wide as he kicked over a cracked helmet. "I still can't believe they were after him."

"Believe it," Malakar said quietly, kneeling near a pile of scorched debris. "They didn't misspeak. They called him the Construct of Zolgrich."

Thae'Zirak's wings folded as he stepped heavily onto the ash-slick terrain. "That name hasn't been used in… centuries."

Kaelred knelt beside a splintered spear haft and picked it up. "I wonder how they even found us. You're not exactly giving off a giant target beacon."

Thae'Zirak's gaze was distant. "There are relics. Artifacts. Spells that can trace the runes etched into my bones. Only a handful would know how to use them. Even fewer would dare."

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Malakar stood, holding a charred fragment of cloth. The sigil on it had been mostly burned away—but not completely. A ring of iron thorns curled around an inverted triangle.

"I've seen this mark before," Malakar said.

Argolaith stepped beside him. "Who does it belong to?"

"A private war company," Malakar answered. "They don't serve kings. They don't work for coin." He looked toward Thae'Zirak. "They work for secrets."

Kaelred looked between them. "So we're being hunted by some underground cult of elite sky assassins who specialize in dragging ancient relics back into the light?" He pointed a finger at Thae'Zirak. "Because of you."

Thae'Zirak gave a rumbling breath. "Because of what I was."

"You're not with Zolgrich anymore," Argolaith said firmly. "You're not his construct. Not his hound."

Thae'Zirak's golden eyes flicked toward him. "And yet someone out there thinks I still am."

Silence returned, only the low moan of wind filling the gaps between their words.

Argolaith took a step toward the wreckage. "We'll find out who sent them."

Kaelred snorted. "You're starting to sound like me now."

Malakar's tone was quiet but direct. "If they tracked us once, they may do so again. We'll need to change our patterns."

Argolaith nodded. "We'll fly lower. Less direct paths. No long glides in open sky."

Kaelred grimaced. "So we're zig-zagging across the world in the cold with a bullseye painted on our dragon's back. Wonderful."

"I can handle it," Thae'Zirak said simply.

They camped that night near a stone rise that offered some protection from the wind. Argolaith prepared a meal—nothing elaborate this time, just fire-charred beast meat and preserved greens, with frostbane stew to fight off the chill.

The warmth helped, but not enough to quiet the tension.

They sat in a loose circle, each staring into the fire. Thae'Zirak rested nearby, half-dozing, wings slightly draped over his form like a leathery shroud.

Malakar sat cross-legged, turning the scorched sigil in his fingers over and over, watching how the firelight danced along its edge.

Argolaith's blue eyes stayed fixed on the flames, but his thoughts stretched further—toward Seminah.

Toward the town hidden at the edge of the Forsaken Forest. Toward what might be waiting for him there.

The frost-wind howled across the barren hills, echoing through the rock-spined landscape like a voice that had long since forgotten how to speak.

Snow fell in fine, crystalline sheets, almost too light to touch the ground. It hung in the air like a veil, shifting with every gust of wind as if resisting gravity itself.

Thae'Zirak soared low, wings outstretched, keeping beneath the cloudline. Since the ambush days before, they'd altered their path—no more straight lines, no extended flights across open sky.

They dipped low through valleys, followed the contours of cliffs, and landed often to scout terrain and listen for danger.

Still, the silence had returned.

Argolaith sat steady on Thae'Zirak's back, one hand resting on the scaled ridge at his side, blue eyes focused on the horizon. He hadn't spoken much since the attack. The others didn't question it. Not yet.

Kaelred, behind him, wrapped his arms tighter around himself and muttered under his breath, "I swear, this cold is becoming personal."

He exhaled and fog trailed from his lips. "If the next tree doesn't come with a tropical beach and hot stew waiting at its roots, I'm going to scream."

Malakar, perched calmly beside the saddle brace, didn't turn his head. "You complained less when we were fleeing sky mercenaries."

Kaelred scowled. "Because back then I was too busy not dying."

Argolaith tuned them out. He felt something—not the call of a tree, not the pressure of lifeblood—but something else.

The land below had begun to change.