Chapter 2

Arthur didn' t wait for my consent.

The next morning, he found me in the Redwood grove, near The Patriarch. The air was cool, smelling of damp earth and ancient wood.

"Give me the amulet, Willow," he said, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth.

Evelyn was not with him, but her influence was a heavy presence.

"Arthur, please," I begged, my hand instinctively covering the Heartwood Amulet at my throat. "It' s part of me. Its destruction... it would be like destroying a part of my soul, the pact..."

"I don' t have time for your dramatics," he cut me off, his face hardening. "Evelyn needs this. The doctor said its essence could be the cure."

He stepped closer, his eyes cold.

I backed away, shaking my head. "No, Arthur. It doesn' t work like that. You' ll harm it, harm me, harm everything."

His patience snapped.

He lunged, his hands grabbing for the amulet.

I cried out, trying to twist away, but he was stronger. The delicate chain bit into my skin.

With a sharp tug, the chain snapped. The Heartwood Amulet, warm from my skin, lay in his palm.

"No!" I screamed.

He ignored me. He looked at the smooth, dark piece of petrified wood.

"If its essence is locked inside," he muttered, more to himself than to me, "then I' ll release it."

Before I could react, he raised the amulet high and smashed it against a large, exposed root of The Patriarch.

The sound of the ancient wood shattering was like a crack inside my own chest.

A searing agony ripped through me.

I screamed, a raw, animalistic sound, and collapsed to my knees.

My vision blurred. I felt my strength drain away as if a plug had been pulled.

My hair, once the color of rich soil, felt instantly brittle. I could almost see strands of grey appearing.

A phantom pain pulsed where my heart was, echoing the amulet's destruction.

Arthur stared at the broken pieces in his hand, then at me.

He frowned, a flicker of something – annoyance? – in his eyes.

"Stop being so theatrical, Willow," he said, his voice sharp. "It' s just a piece of wood."

He kicked the fragments aside, his attention already turning away, presumably back to Evelyn and her "cure."

The irreversible loss settled upon me, cold and vast. His dismissal of my agony was a fresh torment, a confirmation of how little I, or my truth, mattered to him anymore.

The air around The Patriarch seemed to grow colder.

Later that day, Evelyn, looking artfully pale on a chaise lounge on the veranda, made a new suggestion.

"Arthur, darling," she murmured, her voice weak but clear enough for all to hear. "The doctor mentioned... perhaps the smoke from burning some of its boughs... or a tea from its bark... might offer some... incremental relief."

Arthur, completely under her spell, didn' t hesitate.

"Of course, anything, Evelyn."

He turned to the groundsmen. "Cut some lower branches from The Patriarch. And bring some of the bark."

I was sitting on a stone bench nearby, too weak to move far, a shawl clutched around my shoulders despite the California sun.

Each thud of the axe against the sacred tree vibrated through my bones, a sickening echo of the amulet' s destruction.

Arthur saw me watching, saw the tears streaming down my face.

He strode over, his expression contemptuous.

"Still with the theatrics, Willow? Trying to guilt me? Or manipulate Grandfather with your superstitions?"

He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging in, and pulled me closer to the magnificent Redwood.

"Watch," he commanded, his voice cruel. "Watch as your precious tree helps someone who truly needs it."

He forced me to witness the desecration, each cut branch, each strip of bark removed, sending fresh waves of pain through my weakening body. The scent of raw, wounded Redwood filled the air, a perfume of sacrilege. My connection to the tree was a screaming nerve, and he was deliberately, publicly, severing it piece by piece.