The voices are so very close; the guards will round the curve at any moment, and I’ll be saved. I’m saved. I’m truly saved!

Torrent’s eyes meet mine.

“Please.” He reaches his one free hand towards me.

My stomach flips. His usually proud or laughing eyes are pools of fear and loss. He knows he’ll die, trapped against the earth. And he knows I’ll be of no help. I gather what remaining strength I can and drop low to speak to him.

“I knew the gods would not forsake the Verdanians,” I whisper sternly.

He sighs and grimaces as another spiny green rope latches onto his arm.

“May you finally find rest behind her mighty Shield,” I say, then stand to face my rescuers. I start to shout for help, but my throat tightens. Something down deep is blocked. A heavy lump forms in my throat.

My hands begin to sear with heat. I groan, trying once more to release a shout.

Nothing.

I only choke on the air.

I throw my palms up and vigorously shake them. Even if they can’t hear me, the guards will surely see my wild movements. I run towards their voices, but the heat rises with each step. What is this? Another trick of The Wood? A call from the gods?

The closer I get to the men, the more furious the burning, until I can no longer bear it. I stop and look back at Torrent. The plant has almost completely covered him. His large fingers still move, stretching towards the help he knows will never come. I step towards him, and the heat lessens by the tiniest amount.

Another step, then another, until as I reach the bandit, my palms feel a blessed relief like they’ve been dipped in cool water. As I drop to the ground next to his free hand, the feeling in my palms is no longer pain but a beckoning, as if I am being directed by an unknown force. Terror threatens to choke me, but I scramble to unravel him from the nightmare vines.

I claw at the sentient plant, and it thrashes against me. Thorns cut into my hands and arms as I pull, trying to untangle the man. The vines slash at my cheeks, chest, and back, but I don’t quit. I draw the short sword I stole off one of the guards from my cloak.

I swing at every long, twisted, curling piece of the hideous thing that also threatens to consume me. Finally, I reveal Torrent’s mouth.

“My right arm!” His voice is weak, but I can see hope in his eyes. “Free my right arm!”

I saw away until I see his skin. His hand launches up, tightly palms his small blade, and he begins to stab his captor. He’s now free except for the thickest bunch wrapped around his ankles. But we’re too late.

The guards are speaking directly behind us. I lift myself and turn to face them. They stand in formation, except one, who races to me.