# Chapter 564: The Green Wave
The green light faded, leaving behind a silence more profound than any that had come before. The air, moments before thick with the stench of rot, was now clean, carrying the scent of fresh earth and rain. Talia Ashfor lowered her spyglass, her mind struggling to process the impossible. The blight was gone. Purified. Healed. In the center of the camp, where the wave had originated, a single patch of obsidian ground now pulsed with a soft, gentle green light. It was a beacon. A sign. And from the direction of the wastes, where the Ashen Remnant fanatics now stood paralyzed, a new sound began. Not a chant of praise, but a unified scream of pure, unadulterated terror. Their god had failed them. Their holy apocalypse had been undone. And now, they were face to face with the resurrected.
Talia's hand, still gripping the spyglass, trembled. The brass felt cold against her skin, a stark contrast to the warmth spreading through her chest. She had been a spymaster for the Sable League for two decades, a woman who dealt in secrets, probabilities, and cold, hard facts. Miracles were not in her lexicon. Yet, she had just witnessed one. The wave of energy had been a physical thing, a tangible pressure that had washed over her, leaving not destruction, but a sense of profound, life-affirming peace. It had felt like the first breath of spring after a century-long winter.
"Commander," a voice beside her rasped, laced with disbelief. It was Kaelen, her captain of the guard, a man whose face was a roadmap of old scars and whose cynicism was legendary. He stood with his sword half-drawn, his eyes wide as he stared at the transformed landscape. "What… what was that?"
Talia finally lowered the spyglass, letting it hang against her chest. "I don't know," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "But it's not over."
Her gaze swept across the camp. The scene was one of surreal, chaotic rebirth. Where moments before there had been a black, necrotic slough consuming everything, there was now dark, rich soil. The crystalline growths that had erupted from the victims' bodies were gone, dissolved into shimmering dust that now settled on the ground like morning frost. The air, once a miasma of decay, was clean. The very ground beneath their feet felt different, more alive.
And the people… the people were stirring.
A groan drew her attention. A man, a Gifted fighter she recognized as a brawler named Grak, lay on the ground where he had fallen. His skin, which had been turning a sickly grey and splitting to reveal pulsing black veins, was now flushed with a healthy, if pale, color. The veins had receded, leaving faint, silvery scars. He coughed, a wet, ragged sound, but it was the cough of the living, not the dying. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, his eyes blinking in confusion.
"It… it's gone," he stammered, looking at his hands, which were now whole. "The pain… it's gone."
He was not the only one. All around the camp's central plaza, the victims of the Bloomblight were rising. They moved like sleepwalkers, their bodies weak, their minds clouded, but they were alive. They were healed. The gift of life had been returned to them in the most impossible of ways. A woman clutched her child, weeping with joy as the black corruption faded from the girl's cheeks. A young man, his arm once twisted into a blackened talon, flexed his fingers, tears streaming down his face. It was a resurrection on a mass scale, a miracle that defied all logic and all known laws of the Gift.
The Sable League guards, who had been moments from being overrun, stood frozen, their weapons lowered. They looked at the healed, at the purified land, and then at each other, their expressions a mixture of awe and terror. They were soldiers, men and women of action, but this was beyond them. This was the stuff of legend, of myth.
And then, the screaming started from the wastes.
It was a sound of pure, existential dread. The Ashen Remnant, who had stood triumphant, their faces alight with the joy of their holy mission, were now collapsing. Their leader, the First Penitent, a man whose eyes had burned with righteous fire, fell to his knees, his hands clutching his head. The chant died on their lips, replaced by a chorus of horrified shrieks.
"No!" the First Penitent screamed, his voice cracking. "It cannot be! The final cleansing! The holy return to ash! It is undone! Blasphemy!"
He looked at his hands, then at the ground, as if expecting to see the corruption he had wrought. But there was nothing. Only clean, brown earth. The power he had channeled, the divine force he believed he was serving, had been nullified. Erased. Wiped from existence by a power so much greater than his own that it was not a contest, but an erasure.
His followers were in a similar state of collapse. They clawed at their own faces, their bodies writhing on the ground. Their faith, the very core of their being, had been shattered in an instant. They had come to deliver the world from sin, to be the instruments of a righteous god. Instead, they had become witnesses to a miracle that proved their god was either a lie or impotent. The psychological break was absolute, a total and complete system failure of the soul.
Talia watched them, her mind racing. This was more than just a counter-attack. It was a statement. A declaration. The source of this green light, this healing wave, was not just a power. It was an ideology. A force of creation pitted directly against their force of destruction. And it had won. Effortlessly.
Her eyes were drawn back to the center of the plaza, to the patch of obsidian ground that still pulsed with a soft, green luminescence. It was the epicenter. The source. She had to know what it was. What it meant.
"Kaelen," she said, her voice now firm, the spymaster reasserting control over the stunned woman. "Form a perimeter. No one gets in or out of this camp without my say-so. And get our healers to the plaza. These people are alive, but they're weak. They'll need food, water, and rest."
Kaelen snapped to attention, the familiar orders grounding him. "Yes, Commander. And the… the Remnant?"
Talia's gaze hardened as she looked at the screaming fanatics. "Let them scream. For now."
She started moving, striding through the stunned crowd of guards and the dazed, newly-healed refugees. The air was still clean, still fresh. The scent of rain and earth was a constant reminder of the miracle. She pushed past a guard who was staring at his own hands, as if checking to see if he had been healed too. She moved with purpose, her eyes locked on the pulsing green light.
As she got closer, she could feel the energy radiating from the spot. It was a gentle, thrumming hum, a vibration that resonated deep in her bones. It felt… ancient. And familiar. It was the same energy she had felt from the obsidian flower, the artifact Nyra Sableki carried. The same energy that had flared with such violent alarm just minutes before the attack. The connection was undeniable.
The flower was a sensor. It had screamed a warning. And something, somewhere, had answered.
She reached the edge of the obsidian patch. It was about ten feet in diameter, a perfect circle of black, glassy stone that seemed to drink the light. But in its center, the green light pulsed, a steady, rhythmic beat like a heart. It was beautiful. And terrifying. This was a power that could heal a continent-wide plague in seconds. A power that could unmake the Bloom itself. What else could it do?
A groan from beside her pulled her from her thoughts. It was Grak, the brawler. He had managed to stagger to his feet, leaning heavily on a makeshift crutch. He looked at Talia, his eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and fear.
"You saved us," he said, his voice hoarse.
Talia shook her head. "It wasn't me."
Grak followed her gaze to the pulsing green light. "Then what was it? What *is* it?"
"I don't know," Talia said again, but this time, it was a lie. She had a theory. A dangerous, world-altering theory. "But I intend to find out."
A sudden shift in the atmosphere made her turn. The screaming from the wastes had subsided, replaced by a new, more menacing sound. The Ashen Remnant was getting to its feet. Their terror was hardening into something else. Something ugly. Fanaticism, when faced with the death of its god, did not simply die. It curdled. It turned into a desperate, murderous rage.
The First Penitent stood, his face no longer a mask of ecstasy, but a twisted snarl of pure hatred. His eyes, once burning with holy fire, were now cold and dead. He raised a hand, pointing a trembling finger at the camp, at the healed, at the symbol of their failure.
"It is a trick!" he shrieked, his voice raw. "A deception of the Gifted! The final poison! They seek to deny us our sacred oblivion! They must be purged! All of them! The blight must be finished by our own hands!"
His followers, their faces contorted with rage, took up the cry. "Purge! Purge! Purge!"
They drew their weapons—not the ceremonial daggers of ritual, but rusted axes, jagged swords, and crude clubs. They were no longer priests. They were a mob. A lynch mob driven by the absolute certainty of a failed faith. They began to charge, a wave of ragged, screaming fanatics rushing toward the camp.
Talia's blood ran cold. They were exhausted, disorganized, and many were wounded. But they were fueled by a rage that transcended pain or fear. They would not stop. They would kill everyone in that camp, or die trying.
"Kaelen!" she yelled, her voice cutting through the chaos. "Shields up! Form a line! Now!"
The Sable League guards, shaken but disciplined, snapped into action. They locked their shields, forming a wall of steel and wood just inside the camp's perimeter. The healed refugees, still weak and confused, scrambled behind them, their faces pale with fear.
The first of the Remnant hit the shield wall with a sickening crunch. The impact was brutal, a tide of flesh and steel crashing against an unyielding barrier. The guards grunted, their muscles straining, but they held. The fanatics clawed at the shields, their faces twisted with hate, their eyes wild. They bit, they scratched, they slammed their bodies against the wall, their screams a constant, piercing assault on the senses.
Talia drew her own sword, a slender, elegant blade that was more a tool of precision than brute force. She was not a front-line fighter, but she was a survivor. She had been in more tight spots than she could count. This was different. This was not a battle for territory or resources. This was a battle for the soul of the world.
She watched as a Remnant fanatic managed to climb over the shield wall, his rusty axe raised high. A guard went down with a cry. Before the fanatic could strike again, a figure moved from the crowd of refugees. It was Grak. He swung his crutch, a heavy piece of wood, with all his might. It connected with the fanatic's head with a sickening thud, sending the man sprawling.
Grak stood over the fallen fanatic, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with a new light. It was not the light of a healed man, but of a man who had been given a second chance and was damned if he was going to lose it. He looked at Talia, a grim determination on his face.
"We're with you," he said, his voice firm.
And he was not alone. All along the line, the healed Gifted were picking up whatever they could find—rocks, broken pieces of wood, their own bare hands. They were weak, they were scared, but they were alive. And they were not going to let the people who had tried to kill them take that away.
The tide was turning. The Ashen Remnant, expecting to face a terrified, broken rabble, were now met with a wall of defiant, vengeful survivors. Their charge faltered, their rage meeting an unyielding wall of resistance. The Sable League guards, bolstered by the unexpected support, began to push back, their shields moving forward, their swords finding their marks.
Talia watched the battle unfold, her mind a whirlwind of calculations. The immediate threat was being handled. But the larger picture was terrifyingly clear. This was not an isolated incident. The Ashen Remnant would not stop. They would try again, and again, until they succeeded, or were destroyed.
And the source of the green light… the power that had saved them all… it was out there. Somewhere. And it was the only thing that stood between the world and the abyss. Her mission was no longer just to find Nyra Sableki and the flower. It was to find the source. To understand it. To control it. Or, if necessary, to destroy it before it fell into the wrong hands.
She looked at the pulsing green light in the center of the plaza, a beacon of hope in a world of ash. It was the key to everything. The future of the Crownlands, the Sable League, the Radiant Synod, and all of humanity rested on the answer to a single question.
What was the green wave?