The Blood Acorn in Ashlynn’s hand pulsed with a brighter and brighter light, cycling between emerald green, midnight blue, and deep crimson as the bond between the Ancient Oak and its seed grew even stronger.

Tears poured from Ashlynn’s eyes as she found herself caught between the Ancient Oak in the Vale of Mists and the tortured, wounded remnants of the one that had been shaped into the Lothian throne.

The chandeliers swayed above her head, and the flames of hundreds of candles flickered and died, plunging the Great Hall into a darkness that was only broken by the flames in the great hearths and the multi-colored radiance of Ashlynn’s ritual.

"I know it hurts," Ashlynn whispered as she found herself drowning in the Ancient Oak’s grief and rage. "And I know that nothing, nothing can ever replace what you’ve lost or make up for all the pain."

"But I need your help to free your child," Ashlynn said softly as she struggled against the torrent of emotions flowing from the Ancient Oak. "And to protect one not yet born. So, please... Can you help me bring an end to things and plant the seed of something new?" 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖

The Great Hall trembled, and the sounds of branches swaying and cracking in the wind filled the air. Dappled greenish-golden light spilled across the floor like sunlight through the branches of a tree. Here and there across the hall, those shafts of pure, sacred light fell on the faces of the people of the march, and no two of them reacted the same.

For Erling Fayle, the light on his face brought the warmth of a summer day. Tension melted from his shoulders as the faint sound of rustling leaves filled his ears. For a moment, he felt like he was home again, leaning up against a tree, overlooking the rolling hills of Fayle and smelling the earthy aroma of the vineyards as grapes ripened beneath the summer sun.

For Charlotte Otker, it felt like the bright light of a new dawn filtering through her lace drapes in the morning. There was an energy and a vibrance to the light that felt at odds with the ancient majesty of the sacred tree and yet... It felt almost as if it was calling to her, inviting the little girl who still slept with a giant stuffed bear to come out and play beneath the branches of the mighty oak tree.

For Baroness Sorcha, the light felt warm and nostalgic, and she found herself nestling into the crook of her husband’s arm as she remembered stolen autumn evenings spent on the hills overlooking her home, sharing kisses with the young lord who had conquered her heart before she’d even realized he was fighting for it.

For many of the people the light fell on, the feelings it invoked and the memories it stirred were pleasant ones, but not everyone had the same reaction.

Baron Valeri Leufroy trembled in his boots as the sound of rustling leaves gave way to the sound of clashing swords and dying men. For a moment, he once again stood beneath the canopy of the forest on Airgead Mountain’s eastern slope, and the stench of blood and death filled his nose. His blood ran cold as his heart pounded within his chest, and when the light shining on him winked out, he all but dropped to his knees in relief.

"I know," Ashlynn said as she heard a fresh groan from the branches of the tree. "I know it isn’t perfect. They aren’t perfect, and neither am I," she admitted. "But do you see enough to hope for? To be willing to take a chance? At the very least," she said, glancing over her shoulder at Samira.

"At the very least, can you help me save her child?"

The leaves of the Ancient Oak shook and rattled, and the light in the hall shifted yet again, this time falling on Samira, Riwal Saliou, Baron Onen LeGleau, and his seven children, along with many of the other children in the hall.

A soft, plaintive sound emanated from the Lothian throne, a faint creaking noise, as if someone of great weight had sat upon it, and Ashlynn felt a sharp outpouring of desire accompanied by a faint, ancient memory of a time before the tree had been cut down, when the children of the Vale scampered among its roots and climbed towards its crown.

There was a desperate, fragile yearning there that neither Ashlynn nor the Ancient Oak could ignore.

"Thank you," Ashlynn whispered as she heard the Ancient Oak’s reply. "I’ll do my best," she promised.

Gently, almost reverently, Ashlynn reached out and placed the Blood Acorn in the wound she’d carved in Owain’s chest.

For a moment, nothing happened, and the entire hall went still. Then, a loud -CRACK- filled the air as the Blood Acorn split open, filling the air with brilliant, scintillating light.

Roots stretched out from the acorn. At first, they were tiny, tenuous things, sinking into Owain’s flesh, but as soon as they did, the Lothian lord’s flesh began to sink, collapsing in on itself even as the roots grew thicker and stronger.

A green sprout broke out from the acorn next, stretching upward toward the light shining through the branches of the Ancient Oak tree. There wasn’t much to the young tree yet, but it was a thing born of fury and vengeance, and it hungrily consumed the last lord of the Lothian line until there was little left but the dust of decomposition and a few scattered flecks of bone.

A tiny sapling now sat upon the throne where Owain once had, not more than two feet tall with bark that was still tender and new and the barest scattering of bright green leaves stretching toward the light. At its base, the cracked core of the Blood Acorn pulsed again, this time shining with a deep, midnight blue radiance as it began to devour the twisted curse carved into the wood of the throne.

Wood cracked and split, and Ashlynn dropped to her knees as she felt the pain of the throne’s unmaking as keenly as she felt the pain of every injury she’d ever healed.

Hatred that was bone deep filled Ashlynn’s heart as her fury and need for vengeance against Owain melded with Nyrielle’s and the Ancient Oak’s, and for a moment, she was completely consumed by the desire to destroy the unholy ’miracle’ the Church had brought about.

She could see it, filling her vision like a sea of stars, and between them, bright lines that felt sharper than swords and stronger than steel. Just touching any one of the glittering beams of the Church’s ’miracle’ would be enough to slice through the flesh of her hands, but the rage boiling in her heart made it impossible to hold back.

"Aaahhh!" Ashlynn cried as she slammed a fist into the wood of the throne.

-CRACK!-

Blood flowed from her fingers as sharp lines of energy cut into them, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered besides destroying the curse that had tormented not only the innocent spirit of the fallen Ancient Oak but the whole of Lothian March, the Vale of Mists, Airgead Mountain, the Southern Steppe, and so, so many lives beyond the region...

-CRACK!-

More blood flowed from Ashlynn’s hand, but this time, the impact of her fist was followed by a sound like shattering glass as the bright lines broke apart into tiny motes of glittering dust.

The light emanating from the Blood Acorn shifted once again, this time glowing a brilliant, emerald green as Ashlynn reached out with her bloody hands to pull back on the rage and thirst for revenge that threatened to spill into the delicate, fragile life taking shape before her.

The roots of the sapling sank deep into the wood of the throne, wrapping around it and digging deep as it searched for the pieces of the tree the throne had once been.

"Goodbye, Ancient One," Ashlynn whispered as she felt the roots of the young sapling making contact with the battered, tormented spirit of the fallen tree.

This moment was neither a reincarnation nor a rebirth. The tree that had been chopped down would never live again. Such was the cycle of life, and no power of the Mother of Trees could defy that.

But from the death and decay of one great life, something new could be born. Something that could carry on pieces of what had gone before, even as it grew into something new.

The sapling was larger now, drinking in the strength of the Blood Acorn as it absorbed what remained of the fallen oak. It had grown to an impressive height of nearly eight feet tall, compressing years of growth into just a handful of minutes. Its leaves were lush and new, and their undersides glittered with an iridescence that seemed to shift colors from one moment to the next, appearing blue or green or even deep crimson.

Nothing remained of the ancient throne but a few rusted pins and nails, and of Owain Lothian, nothing could be seen at all...