Page 18 of The Bloodstone Oath

Kaelor’s temper sparked, but he held it. “Release the prisoners. Stand trial for illegal war.”

Malek laughed. “The king is dead. The queen fled south as your sister fled west. No crown remains to judge me, only a throne where I sit.”

The words pierced like shrapnel. Father dead? No courier had reached him, yet the dread felt plausible; Dragan’s cough had worsened before Kaelor left. He forced steel into his voice. “Until royal seals prove otherwise, you face treason.”

Malek’s smile widened. He snapped his fingers.

Hidden archers loosed from the ravine walls. A volley hissed toward Kaelor’s column. Renna shouted, raising her shield; Thorne’s warriors flared vine-nets that snared shafts mid-air. An embersteed shrieked as one arrow escaped and struck it deep in the heart, the dying beast burst into flames just as its Rootborn rider jumped free.

“Hold the line!” Kaelor roared, his sword flaming to life. The bridge became chaos, sparks, arrows, twisting vines, and Malek carving forward like a living furnace.

Kaelor met him blade to blade. Heat blistered the air; basalt underfoot sang with each clash. Around them Fireforged loyalists and Rootborn lancers fought shoulder to shoulder, confusion dissolving into shared urgency when Malek’s men tried to cut down the prisoners.

Thorne blocked a hammer-swing aimed at Kaelor’s flank, spear butt smashing the attacker’s jaw. “Your left, prince!”

“Debt owed,” Kaelor gritted, parrying Malek’s downswing. Flames licked along his sword’s edge; he let them surge, a tide of molten orange that forced Malek two steps back.

In that moment an arrow struck Kaelor’s pauldron, fired not from Malek’s line but from behind. A traitor among his own? He spun, saw one of his spearmen, Jorek, lowering a bow, fear and fanatic fire warring in his eyes.

Kaelor reacted without thought. He thrust his free hand, channeling the pure furnace heat of First-Forge. A jet of white-gold flame engulfed Jorek; the man crumpled, ash before his scream ended.

Silence rippled, a heartbeat in which friend and foe both stared at the prince crowned in fire. Even Malek paused.

Thorne’s eyes widened, but understanding flashed. “Not parlor tricks,” he murmured. “You would burn your own to stop treachery.”

Kaelor lowered his smoking hand. “Honor first.”

A horn sounded uphill, Zaria’s signal. Wagons secured, her banner flashed. Kaelor seized momentum. “Forward!” he shouted. Loyalists stormed; Malek’s shaken line faltered. The rogue wheeled, calling retreat, and his men fled into the sulfur steam that lined the ravine, leaving prisoners and burning torches behind.

While Renna’s unit freed captives, Kaelor and Thorne dragged Malek’s wounded warriors from the field, binding those still breathing. Ash drifted like black snow; the lava river below pulsed dull crimson.

Kaelor sheathed his blade, turning to the Rootborn captain. “I need Healer Varienna. She alone perfected the binding circlet to draw curse-flame without blood. It is Selara’s best chance.”

Thorne wiped soot from his cheek. “So, you claim. But if Varienna severs the Bloodstone, Bloomrest loses Solthorn’s warding and fertile growth. Our crops will die; our people will go unguarded and eventually starve or be murdered by that mad man cousin of yours.”

Kaelor met Thorne’s storm-gray eyes squarely. “I love her, Thorne. I would see her live even if it costs my throne.” He gestured to the carnage. “Malek hunts me because I will make astand for that choice. He cannot stand the idea of a Rootborn on the throne beside me. But I will not abandon her.”

Thorne studied the prince, who stood open and vulnerable, silently praying Thorne’s own love for the priestess would guide him to help. Finally, Thorne planted his spear. “One healer, prince. And if she harms the priestess, I cut you down before sunset.”

“Fair wager.” Kaelor extended a gauntleted hand. After a breath, Thorne clasped it, root and flame sealed in ash and blood.

They made camp in a crater valley two leagues from the capital ridge. Fireforged traitors slept under vine tethers, loyalists took watch. Kaelor sat at the fire’s edge, mapping tomorrow’s route, when Renna hissed, “Incoming!”

Flare-arrows arced overhead, igniting scrub. Malek’s reserve force, fifty riders this time, thundered from the dark, led by the rogue himself, armor scorched but unbroken.

Battle exploded anew. Zaria’s shield wall met the charge; Rootborn vines surged to trip mounts. Kaelor leapt into the fray, sword blazing.

Malek barreled straight for him. “Father is ash,” he snarled, his blade whistling. “Mother fled. I hold Emberhold.”

“You hold nothing but graves,” Kaelor replied, driving Malek back. Sparks burst; pain flared in Kaelor’s shoulder, but he pressed, flame wreathing his blade.

A javelin, Thorne’s, whistled past Kaelor’s ear and pierced Malek’s pauldron, staggering the traitor. Loyalists closed in, but Malek’s troops dragged him clear, retreating under covering fire. They vanished into the night, leaving crackling brush and groaning wounded.

Kaelor’s strength flagged. He leaned on his sword, breath ragged. “He won’t stop.”

“Neither will we,” Thorne said, retrieving his javelin. His gaze settled on Kaelor’s singed armor. “Give me your suit.”

Kaelor blinked. “What?”

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