Page 1 of The Bloodstone Oath

Chapter 1 - Selara

The scent of crushed blooms and copper-tinged incense hung thick in the pre-dawn hush as Selara Mossweaver threaded the winding paths of Bloomrest, the forest bound capital of the Rootborn Fae. Tall and willowy, she moved like a reed bent by wind, deep-brown skin aglow in the torchlight, golden-green eyes wide but steady, and a fall of dark curls with honey-brown highlights loose against a robe of shadow-moss silk embroidered with tiny seed-runes.

Though she had walked this pilgrimage countless times, the ground seemed to shift beneath her sandaled feet, as if the ancient roots of Solthorn sensed her quaking resolve. All Bloomrest stood on those roots. Thick as river barges, the god-plant’s black tendrils coiled beneath every walkway, pulsing faint red where leaves met bark. Builders whispered that if you pressed an ear to any floorboard, you could hear Solthorn drink, its hidden vessels sucking moisture from all it touched.

A soft whistle cut through the hush, and Selara turned to find Talia Moonglow striding up the path at her side. The scout’s lithe frame moved with feral confidence; tight braids the color of raven wings brushed bronzed shoulders, and a trio of silver ear-cuffs winked in the torchlight. “You left before I gave you my finest escort,” she teased, voice edged with the familiar humor that always steadied Selara’s nerves.

Selara managed a faint smile. “As Bloodstone Priestess, I’ve trod this path many times, possibly too many… I believe I can manage it again.”

“Maybe,” Talia said, one hand resting on the curved dagger at her hip, “but who will keep you from tripping over your own royal holiness if I’m not here?” Her dark eyes softened as she glanced at her friend’s intrepid face. “Deep breaths, Sel. The roots require you calm.”

The gentle jab and the scout’s fiercely protective presence loosened the knot in Selara’s chest just enough for her to move forward with more ease.

Faint violet petals shimmered in torchlight, guiding her deeper into the sacred grove. Each blossom whispered duty, yet all Selara could hear was the frantic drum of her heart. Beneath her embroidered priestess's robe, the Bloodstone amulet nudged her sternum, its mineral chill pulsing like a second heartbeat that was not her own. You belong to the ritual, the pulse seemed to say. And the ritual belongs to the Bloodstone.

She steadied her breathing and reached for her practiced mask of serenity. The chosen one, the Bloodstone Priestess could not appear uncertain, not before Rootborn elders, and certainly not before her sister. With their parents, the Rootborn King and Queen attending the royal wedding, Selara was alone, without their comfort and support. She had never done this ritual before without their calming presence.

Selara had not expected the call for a sacrifice so close to the last one, but with her sister acting as regent and fresh scorch-raids on Rootborn farmland by the Fireforged Fae, she had been called forth to seal the wards. Again.

Far beyond Bloomrest’s emerald canopy, the volcanic citadel of Emberhold lay under a regency of its own. Queen ValeskaFlamewright had recently departed the north to also attend the royal wedding in the capital. With her husband, King Dragan Flamewright ailing, many Rootborn secretly hoped a treaty could be reached in the capital. However, it may not come soon enough with the heir, Prince Kaelor, left to govern the mountain realm. Many of the Rootborn whispered he was taking this opportunity to prove he was worthy of the crown his father’s failing health would soon place on his head. The war between the Fireforged and the Rootborn had been waged for hundreds of years, the Fireforged always seeking farmland the way a starving wolf stalks a fawn.

Selara sighed quietly. Even with Talia at her side, she felt the pressure of her position and the need to live up to the expectations of her parents, her sister, and the Rootborn. A task that seemed hopeless. The wards would only protect their lands for a short time. They would not end the war.

Footsteps scraped softly behind her, heavier than Talia’s. Thorne Bloodroot emerged from the shadows, broad-shouldered in simple training leathers. Midnight-black hair spilled loose around a face cut by sharp cheekbones and storm-gray eyes that softened only for Selara. He carried no ceremonial weapon this morning, only the practice spear he had used since boyhood.

“I thought you might want company.” His voice was a gravel-warm baritone that always reminded her of storm clouds over distant pines.

“You should be resting,” Selara chided, though the faint quiver in her hands stilled as he stepped closer.

Thorne’s mouth curved in a half-smile; one she had seen melt hardened recruits. “Hard to sleep when the person who protects us all is called upon to act. Selara, you never have to face thispath,” he hesitated, gaze dipping to the Bloodstone, “without friends.”

Heat flushed Selara’s cheeks, gratitude tangled with the unspoken feelings that had lingered between them since childhood. “Your faith is enough,” she whispered, and with a respectful nod he melted back into the gloom, leaving her steadier for his presence.

Veyla Mossweaver, Selara’s older sister and acting regent, materialized near the grove’s threshold. She cut a regal figure: gold-threaded emerald robes kissing the ground, obsidian hair coiled in a coronet, and dark eyes so calm they looked carved from onyx. At her right shoulder lingered her ever-present adviser, Cassian Thornmere, wiry, dark-brown skin and sharp hazel eyes half-hidden beneath tousled blond curls.

“Late,” Veyla murmured, offering no smile, only a cool, measured stare that skimmed Selara as though calculating how tightly her younger sister could still be tugged by unseen strings.

“I came as dawn bade,” Selara answered, praying her voice did not betray the tremor in her chest.

Elders and acolytes bowed as the sisters approached the living altar, Solthorn, an immense knot of ironwood smoothed by centuries of supplication. Up close the altar was alive. Leaf-blades edged in garnet unfurled between gnarled ridges; each tip beaded with sweet sap that could dissolve an iron nail. Small bone shards, gifts from prior offerings, dangled in fibrous webs near the base, a quiet reminder that Solthorn was as carnivorous as it was sacred.

Blood-amber torches hissed; their smoke curled around Veyla’s shoulders like serpents seeking warmth. Selara placed an obsidian bowl on the altar and felt the first prick of nausea. Shehad reread the rites last night, hunting for loopholes that might let blood be replaced by wine. There were none.

Veyla lifted her chin, voice polished and commanding: “Begin.”

Chanting rose, low, rhythmic, inexorable, a pulse that vibrated through the very trees that surrounded them. It was the Song of Binding, a ritual as old as the Firstborn, meant to tether the fractured spirit of their volatile world. Selara stood before the Solthorn, the altar their harvest depended on, the weight of generations pressing down on her shoulders. She drew the ceremonial blade, volcanic glass flashing with reflected flame, a shard of solidified sorrow. Each facet of the blade seemed to hum with a captured light, a silent testament to the sacrifices it had witnessed. Veyla's words echoed in her mind, clear as the chanting that echoed through the woods: "Compassion is a weakness, one must refine into resolve."

Her resolve felt brittle under the lightening sky. She could not forget the single autumn when drought starved the plant and sacrifices lapsed; whole orchards curled brown overnight and every Rootborn spell sputtered like a dying candle. The Fireforged had descended from their volcanic fortresses to wreak havoc on the already suffering population. That memory, more than Veyla’s steel, steadied her shaking grip.

Selara clutched the hilt, feeling the rough texture of the volcanic glass against her palm. She had spent years honing her resolve, hardening her spirit against the emotional tides that threatened to overwhelm her. Now, as the chanting reached a crescendo, a terrifying harmony of devotion and despair, she submitted to Veyla's teachings. They were not just philosophy, but the very essence of the Rootborn’s survival.

Selara dragged the tip of the blade across her palm. A single trickle of scarlet slid into the bowl. Against her cleavage theBloodstone flared, a shimmer all noticed, yet only she could see the mouth tasting the scent of blood in the air. Every hair on her arms raised.

Selara turned, her gaze falling upon the dark robed, hooded acolyte who stood with an unnerving stillness, the true sacrifice held carefully in his hands. The air already thick with the scent of ancient dust and a metallic tang, seemed to hum with an unspoken tension, a silent acknowledgment of the weighted moment. Every shadow in the forest appeared to deepen, clinging to the knotted trunk of Solthorn in anticipation. Selara's breath hitched, a faint tremor running through her as she met the acolyte's unwavering green eyes. They held a reflection of grim determination that she knew she had to mirror.

He lowered the young goat, wide-eyed and silent, onto the red stained flattened root of the ironwood tree that had been their clan’s sacrificial altar for as long as any living Rootborn could remember.

Selara leaned in, blade raised.

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