The oldest flowerbed had split wide open, and the root-heart pulsed under the black soil like something breathing.
Saoirse's face was scratched down one side, blood drying along her jaw. Her sleeve hung in shreds from the shoulder. One arm bled freely where a thorn had gone in deep enough to matter, and her breath came sharp through her nose, controlled but no longer easy.
Behind her, the last two veterans reset their weapons slow, the way people move when their bodies have already spent more than they had.
One limped. The other could barely lift his blade above his waist.
Neither of them looked at the root-heart like it was a way to survive.
They looked at it like it was the only thing left worth reaching.
Saoirse didn't waste a word on it.
"Root-heart," she said. "Go."
She moved first, straight at Lysandra, and the two veterans broke the other way toward the flowerbed.
