Hazel’s voice is becalmed when it comes, almost mournful. “Death is the seed that enables the Forest to live.” He raises his head and looks at Oaklyyn, his voice low and final when it comes. “The Circle is expanding. The Forest has deemed it so. Whether you want it to or not.”

“But the witch Mage has no kindred,” Flora puts in, splaying her dark green hand out toward me, a conflicted look on her delicate visage. A fog-hued heron hugs her side. “How can she be Guardian,” she presses, “with no kindred called to her?”

“III has warded her,” Sylvan counters. “Which means a kindred will manifest within moments.” His tone is rock-solid sure, but when he looks to me, I see conflict in his pine eyes.

“What of the Prophecy, Sylvan?” the lightning-bolt-marked soldier cuts in as she slices a hand toward Yvan and me, her silver-furred panther slinking around her legs. “The trees have foretold of the Black Witch’s war with the Great Icaral.” She gives Yvan a hard look. “She is prophesied to bring you down.”

“Do they look ready to cut each other down, Lyptus?” Sylvan bites out.

Yvan’s wings stiffen. “I don’t believe in your prophecy,” he says, his flame surging around me with rebellious heat. “I love Elloren.”

His fiery declaration sears through my battered heart, the yearning running through his fire so deep it prompts a pained flare of my emotion and affinity power.

Oaklyyn is gaping at Yvan, like he’s uttered the most heinous of blasphemies. Her wolverine bristles and bares its teeth. “This is impossible!” she insists, pointing her staff at me. “She’s ensorcelled both the Icaral and III in some way!” She swings her staff toward Sylvan, leveling it like an accusatory finger. “It will be the death of our Forest if we let her live!”

“Dryad,” Yvan says as he raises a gold-glowing palm. I pull in a shivering breath in response to the potent gathering of his power. “We are not your enemies,” he emphatically states, warning shot through his level tone. “Don’t force me to move against you.”

Oaklyyn steps toward Yvan, smiling viciously at him as two more wolverines emerge from the forest edging the clearing, dark fur bristling, and her staff takes on a pulsing green glow. “Take care, winged,” she warns in turn. “We don’t worship you as some savior.”

“Yet you’ve cast Elloren as the Prophecy’s demon?” Yvan sharply rejoins, his hot hand rigid around mine.

“Oaklyyn,” Sylvan puts down harshly, “III has marked her.”

“A kindred must come,” Lyptus insists, fixing me with a predatory look.