Page 14 of The Bloodstone Oath

In her chamber she brewed willow-bark tea for the headache, then settled beneath woven vines, muscles pleasantly sore in places she had never known could ache. Sleep tugged, but thoughts tumbled first: Kaelor’s vow, the ritual he wished to attempt, Veyla’s likely schemes, her broken vows, and the way desire had folded into something deeper when pain hit and he stayed, gentle and fierce.

Chapter 8 – Kaelor

Bloomrest woke beneath a pearl-gray dawn shot through with drifting spores, the forest capital exhaling the warm loam scent that reminded Kaelor of hearth ash after rain. Every balcony, every winding bridge of living wood seemed to murmur stay… even as the morning sun, the goddess Lyra worshipped by the Rootborn, shouted go. Couriers hurried past bearing reed-scrolls; vine lifts creaked with crates of travel rations; somewhere above, song-vines chimed the seventh hour. In less than a night, after a single reckless joining that still pulsed through his blood, Bloomrest had become tangled in his heart, and now he had to leave.

He crossed the final archway into the outer courtyard. Embersteeds stamped there like chunks of sunrise hammered into muscle and bone, coal-black hides filmed with ember-orange light, manes that flickered when they breathed. Fireforged riders were tightening girths, their steel-and-obsidian tack sparking against the damp air. A matching cluster of Rootborn scouts waited beside saddled dusk-elk, refusing the flame-horses with polite smiles; Kaelor admired their stubborn grace. One slip of that grace, the wrong word, a clumsy gesture, and the truce they had forged would collapse under its own newborn weight.

Selara stood between the two groups, palm stroking the wide forehead of his war-stallion. Even in a plain moss-greentraveling robe she drew every eye. He saw at once the welts the Bloodstone had burned across her collarbone were hidden, yet its heat still leaked through the fabric, beating against her throat in silent accusation. Her gaze lifted, and he searched her face for last night’s soft wonder. Instead, he met cool composure, the kind a bladesmith quenches into steel.

“Prince Kaelor,” she greeted, voice even, too even. Not a light in her gold-green eyes showed any recognition of the passion they had shared just the night before. “The contingent gathers, but Regent Veyla requires me to make a sacrifice to Solthorn before we depart.”

Behind her, Thorne stepped from the ranks of Rootborn guardians, tall, stone-jawed, eyes storm-gray and unreadable. He met Kaelor’s look without flinching. His pledge to the Bloodstone Priestess, Kaelor realized, was not just a pledge. She had captured his heart as she now held Kaelor’s. Kaelor’s eyes squinted as he sized up the guard. But she had given herself to Kaelor last night, her betrothed. This hulking man was not a rival; he could never break the vow they had pledged in front of both clans.But what if… what if the passion of the previous night had been the Bloodstone’s doing? Thorne and Selara most likely grew up together and clearly had a close bond. What if he had her heart and her attraction to Kaelor was forged by the stone? Did she regret her actions?

He drew a steadying breath. “Of course, you must honor the regent’s wish,” he said, motioning for Selara to lead the way. She walked past him without a glance, Thorne and Talia flanking her. Kaelor walked behind, with Renna and Zaria at his side.

The red leaves of Solthorn’s crown shimmered ahead, blood-bright, unsettling in the clean light. Kaelor felt, rather than saw, Rootborn archers materialize among the branches, their bows half-drawn, thorn-fletched shafts pointed not at flesh but atpossibility.They could loose their arrows,he thought,and a heartbeat later ember-lances would answer, and peace would drown in a single crimson breath.He prayed the moment never came.

A veil of vines parted to a private hall hollowed in living trunk. Veyla awaited before a banked fire, emerald robes tracing light across polished root-floor. Cassian lounged beside her, quill tucked behind one ear, hazel gaze sharp as a rapier’s point. Veyla’s eyes flicked over the party; Kaelor could feel her disappointment in his marrow.Did she know? Would Selara have dared to tell her?

It took all his willpower to not glance at his betrothed to see if she gave anything away.

“I see Bloomrest’s guests are prepared to go,” she said, tone satin. “Solthorn has not yet broken its fast.”

Selara’s shoulders stiffened. Kaelor stepped forward. “The longer we delay, Regent, the longer King Dragan waits. His health,”

“, is precisely why haste requires caution,” Veyla cut in, voice like polished cedar, hiding grains that could splinter the careless hand. “What safeguards do you have in place for my sister, Prince?”

Kaelor’s skin flushed with anger. “Do you not think I can care for my future wife?”

With a slight rise and fall of her shoulders, Veyla ignored the question. “This is a brand-new treaty and neither of us can be too cautious in ensuring its success. If I’m not mistaken, both of our positions rely on it.”

With a sharp intake of breath, Kaelor realized Veyla had every expectation of ruling the Rootborn and saw Kaelor as her equal;the heir of the Flameforged. This arranged marriage was, for her, a way to seal him as an ally with no consideration for Selara’s health, safety, or desires. He chose his words carefully, understanding Veyla was not one to be taken lightly. “She travels with her own people and will be shown the same hospitality in Emberhold as I have received in Bloomrest.” He gave a brief nod of his head to emphasize his commitment. He glanced at Selara who was quietly watching the interaction but looked away quickly. “She will be cared for there.”

Maybe more than she has ever been cared for in her entire life. What pain has she been through making sacrifices to this blood feasting tree of yours? She will be safer in Emberhold than here and perhaps we can even heal her and rid her of this Bloodstone that saps her very life.

A memory came back to Kaelor of his tenth summer. He had stood with his tutor in Emberhold’s Hall of Flames, when a coughing miner staggered before the obsidian dais. The man’s pickaxe, cursed by vein-stone that had been tainted with wild ember, had fused to his palm, High Healer had sprinkled powder from her pouch on the handle of the axe, murmuring words that slowly pulled the curse out. It rose like smoke drawn up a chimney. There was no blood, no agony, only relief as the iron cooled to gray and the fusion released. The miner sobbed his thanks as she had rubbed resin on the wound; young Kaelor vowed that day he would ensure there were always healers in Emberhold who knew that rite. It was the only way to ensure power never clung to flesh. As he grew older, he had realized how hard it was to learn, but if none other could help, perhaps Varienna would still have the power she once wielded. Enough to remove the Bloodstone from Selara’s neck and free her from its power.Which would, of course, create accusations against the Fireforged…

But Kaelor had seen enough to know that the Bloodstone contained no ordinary magic. It reminded him too clearly of the cursed pickaxe that had wielded itself to the miner.

“But who will care for us here?” Veyla’s voice cut deftly through Kaelor’s realization. “Solthorn’s strength cannot wane while its priestess roams the volcanic peaks of our shores. We require one more rite before she leaves, Prince, or the roots you tread will sour before you return.”

Kaelor saw Selara’s knuckles whiten around her robe.

“Selara-” his plea was cut off by the priestess herself.

“Prepare the altar.” Her tone was subdued, but her words firm.

Kaelor quelled the angst thrumming through his body. One more rite and she would be safe under his care.

“The Fireforged may not witness what is not of your concern.”

Kaelor swallowed the anger rising in his chest. “We will wait.”

A nod settled the matter. Cassian scribbled a note faster than a leaf fell. Thorne guided Selara through a side arch, Talia at their backs. The vines closed. Kaelor was left with Renna, Zaria, and the low growl of logs settling in the hearth.

Minutes crawled. He paced the corridor, leather boots creaking. In his mind rose the memory of her body arching beneath his, the gasp that had broken like dawn across her lips. An echo of that now hammered inside his ribs: what if Solthorn sensed her broken vow and devoured her strength? What if last night’s gift became her undoing?

Renna touched his elbow. “Worrying digs no ore, my prince.”

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