I'm still processing what that might mean when Fleur's hands begin to glow.
"I can't keep this contained any longer," she says to no one in particular, her tears returning, making tracks down her narrow cheeks. "I must let it return to the place it belongs."
Graldor's face pales, Vosh lurching forward, both looking frightened enough by her statement and illuminated hands my own terror ratchets upwards. But neither has time to stop her, the elf's head falling back, her voice lifting in song that feels like a knife blade to my heart while light bursts from her in a rush of rustling leaves.
The glowing amber of the shield spell she absorbed turns green then a sickly gray before plunging toward the floor, cascading in leaf shapes toward the roots curving into the stone. They land softly, al
