Page 17 of The Bloodstone Oath

“She needs help!” Selara could hear the plea in Kaelor’s words.

“We will help her,” Talia insisted, stroking sweat-damp hair from Selara’s brow.

“Is this what you wish, Priestess?” Kaelor choked the words out.

Selara lifted her head, looking at him through strands of hair that fell in front of her face. “Yes,” she admitted, even though every drop of blood in her heart screamed no. Solthorn had won. The god-plant owned her. It was impossible for her to travel with the pain surging through her body. She watched as Thorne and Kaelor squared off against each other. “Just… go,” she groaned.

“You heard the priestess,” Thorne said. “Don’t you have a Fireforged rebellion to stop?”

Selara’s eyes locked with Kaelor’s, both brimming with agony. “I can help you,” Kaelor pleaded.

“Go,” Selara insisted as the world grew dim.

Kaelor spinning on his heel as he stormed away was the last thing Selara saw before darkness, as black as the ebony of Solthorn’s trunk overcame her.

Chapter 10 – Kaelor

Mud and wind lashed Kaelor’s face as his emberstallion devoured the root-road. Branches blurred overhead, a green tunnel lit by dawn’s first embers; yet every stride felt too slow, every breath a reminder of red veins spidering across Selara’s cheek when the Bloodstone had flared. Guilt clung to him like soot. I touched her and cursed her, he thought, heels nudging the stallion harder. I will not fail her again.

Renna, Zaria, and four ember-plated spearmen thundered behind him, their mounts snorting sparks. Close on their heels rode six Rootborn warriors in leaf-mail, Thorne at their point. Veyla had delivered the order, Rootborn eyes would travel with the prince “for balanced accounting.” Balanced shackles, Kaelor corrected bitterly. Still, he’d accepted. Better a wary ally than no ally at all.

They did not stop to rest, water, or pray. Noon found them racing past hop fields where farmers froze at the sight of Fireforged armor beside Rootborn cloaks. Kaelor lowered his visor against the stares. He could almost hear the whispers: There rides the man who bled our priestess.

The thought spurred him faster.

By nightfall they reached Hare’s Crossing, a market village that marked Bloomrest’s northern edge. Or rather, the charcoal skeleton that remained. Crooked timbers smoldered, and thesweet-rot scent of burned rootgrain fouled the air. Villagers sifted ash with bare hands, some coughing blood-flecked phlegm, others rocking in silent shock.

Thorne dismounted first, spear reversed as a walking staff rather than a weapon.

“We’re here to help,” Kaelor stood in the remnants of the town square, sadness aching in his bones at the destruction his once loyal subjects had wielded.

A gray-haired man, trying to nurse an orchid back to life, spat at Kaelor’s boots. “Help? Your flame crests did this.”

Kaelor forced calm. “Not mine. A rogue lord named Malek Emberfist. Point me to his trail and you will have justice.”

The orchardist’s lip curled, but an older woman tugged his arm. “He speaks true. The raiders bore black gauntlets, no royal crown.” She raised a shaking finger eastward. “They took our seed stores at dusk and chased north, toward the basalt flats.”

Kaelor pressed a pouch of gold seed-coins into her palm. “For lumber, for roofs,” he said. “Renna, leave two spear-men to guard them until Rootborn patrols arrive.”

Thorne’s gaze flicked to the coins, his brows lifting in surprise at the prince’s concern.

“My father has a code,” Kaelor shared with Thorne. “Proof, not promises.” He only prayed that it was enough to repair some of the village and help the people.

They crossed the border at midnight, the warm loam of Rootborn soil giving way to gritty pumice slopes. Fireflies vanished; magma vents glowed faintly in the distance. Kaelor’s lungs tightened with the familiar tang of sulfur, home and threat in a single breath.

“Tracks split here,” Zaria murmured, studying prints by emberlight. “Malek drives wagons east but leaves riders’ marks toward Scoria Bridge, northwest. Two-prong feint?”

“Or bait,” Kaelor answered. “He wants me chasing ghosts.” He felt Malek’s presence like a constant ember under his ribs, cousin, rival, hungry for a throne not yet vacant.

Thorne nudged his mount abreast. “Rootborn ride where you lead, prince. Choose.”

Kaelor weighed. Wagons held stolen grain, a blow to Bloomrest if lost. But Malek’s cavalry held swords and oil. “We split,” he decided. “Zaria, take the wagons with three spears and two Rootborn bows. Thorn-” He caught himself, amended. “Captain Bloodroot walks with me. We intercept the riders.”

Thorne gave a short nod. Not friendship, but recognition of necessity.

Scoria Bridge spanned a ravine of cooling lava, its iron chainworks older than Kaelor’s grandfather. They found Malek’s riders waiting on the far side, thirty men bearing the clenched-fist banner, torches guttering in the wind. Behind them, a cage wagon held a handful of bruised Rootborn captives bound with ember-chain.

Malek rode to the midpoint, obsidian gauntlet raised in mock salute. “Little cousin,” he called, voice echoing off basalt walls. “Come to surrender your virgin bride’s dowry?”

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