He steps away from the fireplace and descends the dais. “There are some who will see your presence as a threat. The limitations of shamanic crafts begin to bend when shamans achieve a certain level of power. In the past, some continued to push until those limitations broke. Or until they did.”

“Like you?” Apparently, I have a death wish. My breaths quicken, and I wonder if it’s not too late to make a run for it. I don’t know what possessed me to say that, except that Ronin must have pushed against the limitations of his magic—and broken them—when he sought to defeat the Soulless and tame the Dead Wood.

He rests his hands against the edge of the table and leans forward. I stare hard at the tabletop, regretting my brash words.

He speaks softly. “Yes. Like me.”

At this, I look up. The sapphire of his irises and the black of his pupils seem to fracture, splintering into the many-eyed gaze of a spider.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and I stop breathing. Chills skitter across my skin like hundreds of tiny legs. I tear my eyes away, but fear spreads through me like venom.

He reaches for his neglected teacup and takes a languid sip as I try to recover the use of my lungs. The silence grows taut until he finally says, “The Dead Wood is growing.”

I imagine the branches breaking through the ceiling, wooden beams crashing on our heads as roots erupt from the floors. The trees would rip Spinner’s End apart.

“I’ve been able to slow its progress, but it’s no longer enough. This is a problem for which there is no solution, not even from the vast knowledge of the Nuvali. The trees cannot be harmed by magic lesser than what created them. They can be cut, but even their severed branches can cause harm. They do not rest. They do not burn.”

Every attempt to destroy the woods has failed, and yet I did something to them. The roots and the branches disintegrated. They can be stopped. But I’d rather crawl into a nest of wyverns than voluntarily step foot back inside that forest.

“There must be something else you can try,” I say. “You’re … Ronin the Spider King.”

“I have never called myself a king. That title was not of my own design. Still, there can be power in names. What will people say of soulguides a year from now? Or a decade? A century? You freed the souls trapped in those trees, and you must do it again.”

Before I can think better of it, my gaze shoots up to meet his. Thankfully, his eyes look normal again. “Me? I … but—” I pause to gather my thoughts. “Why are the trees growing at all? What’s keeping the spirits tied to the Dead Wood?”