My Dearest Oddo,

Your letter has reached me, and though it warmed my heart, it also brought a pang of disquiet. The chaos at home—Kliutchi erupting, Kalinniskov’s plight, and Natasha’s unfortunate incident with your time-distance tables—is a vivid testament to how lively things remain in my absence.

However, your mention of Natasha cannot be ignored. It seems her presence still looms large in your life, and I cannot help but feel there is unfinished business between you. Her name comes up too often, her actions too intertwined with yours, and even the mere suggestion of comparing her predicament to a future we might share unsettles me deeply.

I cannot return under these circumstances. Not until I am certain that your affections are undivided, your intentions clear, and your heart fully committed to the future you propose.

Take care of yourself and our tumultuous corner of the world. For now, I will remain where I am, waiting for the dust to settle.

Yours with reluctance,

Wade, paralyzed by fear and pain, could only watch as the figure turned to him, its gaze like the weight of eternity. He tried to retreat, his legs faltering in the rotted muck, but the figure was upon him in an instant. Its blade arced through the air, and for a brief, agonizing moment, he felt the cold bite of steel before the world faded to black.

The figure stood over their lifeless forms, its shoulders heavy with the burden of yet another grim task. It gazed up at the Haligtree, its corrupted branches swaying in the foul breeze. The Scarlet Rot claimed all, and even the brave who ventured here were not spared its embrace. With a weary sigh, the figure turned and disappeared into the crimson haze, leaving only silence and decay in its wake.

The figure’s head tilted, a moment of silence passing like a final breath. Then, it spoke, its voice a solemn dirge that echoed with regret. “There is no salvation here. Only death.”

Before they could react, the figure surged forward. A great blade, corroded yet impossibly sharp, cleaved the air with the force of a storm. Lydia, though ravaged by the rot, raised her sword in defiance, her scream a hoarse roar of determination. Their blades met in a burst of sparks, but her strength was no match. With a sickening crack, she was thrown backward, her armor splintering as the figure’s blade struck true, burying deep into her chest. Blood pooled beneath her as she slumped to the ground, her fingers twitching in one final, futile effort to rise.

“Miquella has abandoned us,” it spoke, its voice low and filled with mourning. “Turn back, or you will join us in the curse of eternity.”

The Great Haligtree, once a symbol of hope and sanctuary, offered no answer. Its radiance had dimmed, its beauty eclipsed by the spreading corruption. The roots seemed to pulse with rot, veins of crimson crawling upward as if the tree itself was being devoured. And there, at the base of its massive trunk, a lone figure waited—clad in golden armor tarnished with rot, a shadow of majesty shrouded in sorrow and despair. The figure raised its head, its gaze heavy with the weight of countless battles and unending suffering.

By the time they stood at the roots of the Haligtree, the agony was unbearable. Lydia fell to her knees, her sword driven into the earth to keep her upright, her body shuddering as if every breath was a war she could no longer win. Wade, barely conscious, clutched a withered branch for support, his voice a hollow whisper. “What… what is left for us here?”