Page 19 of The Bloodstone Oath

“Your plate, your crest. Malek hunts a prince in black steel. Let him chase the wrong target.”

Realization dawned. “You would wear it?”

Thorne shrugged. “I owe the priestess a future. If my life buys her healer, so be it.”

Kaelor gripped the other man’s shoulder. “You have my word, Varienna will save her. And I will come back for you.”

They swapped cloaks and cuirasses. In torch-glow Thorne looked every inch the Fireforged heir, broad shoulders gleaming with ember sigils. Kaelor donned a Fireforged traitor's black leather, a hood shadowing his face.

Renna protested. “Prince-”

“Chain of command stands,” Kaelor cut in. “You answer to Captain Bloodroot.” He pressed his hand into Renna’s palm. “On your life, do not let anything happen to that Rootborn.”

“On my life,” Renna bowed, her hand going to her heart in oath.

Thorne mounted Kaelor’s emberstallion. “Just save her,” were his parting words to the prince. With Renna at his side, Thorne led half the force eastward in noisy pursuit of Malek. The traitor’s scouts, lurking on the ridge, followed the decoy like moths.

Kaelor, Zaria, and two loyal spearmen slipped west under cover of the sulfur smoke, circling toward Emberhold’s back gate, the Smelter’s Span, where only trusted guilds passed. Varienna’sinfirmary was a mere hour beyond. If fate breathed kindly, they would reach her before dawn, before Selara’s blood veined deeper with crimson fire.

As hooves whispered over cooling slag, Kaelor glanced once at the horizon. A faint glow marked the direction Thorne rode, a single ember in the dark. “May root and flame guard you,” he prayed, and urged his borrowed mount into the night.

Chapter 11 – Selara

Selara drifted back to awareness on a breath that tasted of copper and crushed chamomile. For a moment she did not know where she lay, only that her muscles burned as though she had been branded from the inside out. She tried to lift her hand; scarlet veins spider-webbed her deep-brown skin from wrist to shoulder, pulsing in time with each rasping breath. The Bloodstone sat heavy on her breastbone, neither cool nor warm, simply present, as if it had become another organ.

A gentle touch brushed damp curls from her brow. “Easy, root-sister,” murmured Talia. The scout knelt beside the low pallet, braids dangling, silver ear-cuffs winking in lamplight. Candle-scent and moss filled the small chamber, her own priestess quarters, Selara realized, though someone had stripped the walls of ceremonial hangings in favor of plain linen drapes.

The second voice that answered carried the lilting authority of the regent but softened almost beyond recognition. “She is awake?”

Veyla stepped into view, robe of muted gold and juniper green belted loosely over a sleeveless shift. Dark eyes ringed by sleepless hours searched Selara’s face with raw worry, not judgment. “Thank Lyra,” she breathed, sinking to her knees. “I feared… I feared the rite had taken you too far.”

Selara managed a cracked whisper. “Kaelor? The escort?”

“Already on the road to Emberhold,” Talia answered. “A villager from Hare’s Crossing arrived at dawn with word they reached the ridge pass. No more border fires.” She flicked a glance to Veyla that Selara did not miss.A crisis awaits.

Veyla clasped Selara’s trembling hand. “Sister, I have been blind. When you blacked out in the roots, I realized I have watched the gem glow for years and never wondered what it costs the vessel.” Her voice, ordinarily smooth as polished walnut, quavered like wind through hollow reeds. “Forgive me.”

Selara tried to shake her head; pain lanced across her scalp. Her words were stilted. “No blame. We needed to do something to stop the war. The treaty was smart. And Bloomrest needs Solthorn.” She paused, shuddering at her own next words. “And Solthorn needs blood.”

“Bloomrest is nothing if I lose you.” Veyla exhaled, her eyes moist. “We will mend what I have ignored.” She motioned to the scout, who was hovering nearby. “Talia, help me.”

Together they eased Selara upright and guided her through a curtained arch into the hidden thermal pools beneath the palace. Steam coiled in luminescent ribbons across turquoise water. Starlight moss glowed along the stone rim, painting the mist in silver-green swirls.

Selara gasped when the warm water kissed her calves, every vein a lightning strike, but Talia’s steady grip kept her from collapsing. Slowly she settled into the pool until only her shoulders and throat remained above the surface.

Veyla unstopped a clay jar of golden salve. “Blossom-sap and moon-aloe,” she explained, voice steadier now. “Old orchard remedy for lightning burns.” She dipped two fingers and began to apply the ointment to Selara’s pained flesh.

The cool balm spread across the angry welts. Heat ebbed. Tension unclenched. Tears blurred her sight, not from pain, but from the gentle care she had feared was lost between them.

Soon, Rootborn healers arrived with poultices of dew-fern and cups of willow-tea. They worked in quiet coordination, speaking only to ask permission before swathing her forearms or smoothing tincture across her ribs.

Hours later Selara reclined on a cushioned settee wrapped in linen, the worst blaze of pain tamped to dull throb. Veyla, Talia, and the healers formed a semicircle at the foot of the couch. Elder Eidrian, leaning on his ivy-crowned cane, and Elder Ligren, his burn-scarred cheek flushed from hurrying, joined them.

“How could you not tell us earlier?” Elder Eidrian chided Veyla as if she were still the young girl he knew, playing in the fields.

“She was in the baths,” Talia shrugged. “Not a place for old men.”

“It is probably best if her condition is not known by many.” Veyla’s response was more restrained. “We do not want the Rootborn to know how the rites are affecting the Bloodstone Priestess.”

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