I turned around and glanced toward the second group of Deathmist soldiers.
Azalea was already in the middle of them, cutting through their ranks like a scythe through grass.
Her roots surged from the flat earth—thick, thorn-covered tendrils that wrapped around the mist-formed enemies and crushed them with violent force.
Explosions burst through the ground as the glowing pollen from her roots ignited, blasting apart anything nearby in rhythmic bursts.
I looked away from the carnage and tilted my head up toward the sky.
The castle still floated high above, ominous and unmoving. Its shape was solid, its walls woven from Deathmist so dense it looked physical.
No more fingers. No more armies. It just hung there, pulsing quietly like it was breathing. Despite the battle we just fought, the amount of Deathmist swirling around it hadn't lessened—not even a little.
My brows lowered.
