Then suddenly in the space of a single, gasping breath, every tree, every root, every trembling leaf was unmade—not burned, or shattered, but inverted into something that should never have been. Branches twisted into screaming mouths.
Soil bled upward in black rivers that hissed with the voices of the drowned.
Morning light curdled like spoiled milk, collapsing into veins of sickly green that pulsed in time with a heartbeat that belonged to no living thing. What Sienna had opened behind her now was not something that belonged within the same set of rules as trees, soil, or morning light.
