Page 24 of The Bloodstone Oath

Now the room seemed to press inward, heavy with the sick-sweet reek of poultices that could not soothe her. Selara lay half-propped on silken moss pillows, shivering though midsummer heat clung outside. Crimson veins webbed her throat and forearms, each pulse a sting of hot iron. Three healers knelt nearby, grinding star-thistle into paste, their faces drawn in helpless apology. Every balm they tried dulled the ache for a breath, even dimmed the blood-red lines that interlaced her body, then the burning returned, fiercer than before.

No one could yet name the hunger consuming her, whether it was the Bloodstone’s silent blaze or Solthorn’s root-deep thirst. They were still searching for answers, but Selara was quickly becoming too weak to care. It seemed she had been in this state forever and was only slipping with more ease into the embrace of the dark.

Her eyes were closed as she listened. Past the hush of healers and the steady drip of resin from sap-lamps, she could feel the city’s heartbeat, roots creaking under balconies, leaves sighing against one another like frightened children. The god-plant’sroots still thrummed, but faintly, as if each drop of her strength it drank left the tree more sated and the forest hollower.

A gentle hand brushed damp hair from her brow.

“Still with us, little sprout?” Veyla murmured.

Selara managed a smile. “Rooted, if wilting.”

Veyla’s formal poise had slipped these last few days caring for her ailing sister; emerald sleeves were rolled above her elbows, and worry smudged the kohl beneath her dark eyes. Seeing the regent, ever proud, ever perfect, thus unraveled tugged at a memory.

They had been girls of thirteen and nine, racing moonlit branch-roads after their mother’s appointed curfew. When Selara tripped, bark scoring her knee, Veyla had torn a strip from her own tunic to stanch the blood, scolding even as she fussed. “You cannot frighten me like that, Sel. I am the eldest; I must keep you whole.”

Now, years later, the same fierce tenderness glimmered in Veyla’s gaze, stripped of politics.

“The elders are back,” Talia said in a softened tone. She showed Veyla a hand full of black leaves. “They are everywhere on the ground now.”

Veyla frowned and motioned Talia to put them away. But Selara had seen. Solthorn was going unfed. His leaves were turning black. Her people were at risk. Pain shot through her core pressing a spasm through her body. She clenched her jaw, not wanting to show the pain. They had more important things to worry about.What would happen to the Rootborn if Solthorn fell? Their entire capital rested on its roots.

Elder Eidrian leaned on his ivy-sprouting staff, accompanied by Elder Ligren, whose scarred hands cradled a single dust-filmed tome.

“We found it,” Elder Ligren rasped. “An old folio from the Frostwillow Sanctuary archives. It records the First Root-and-Flame Concord, when Prince Auren wed Princess Elira, a century before the Great Famine and the awakening of Solthorn.”

Elder Eidrian presented the volume to Veyla. “What does it say?” Selara whispered.

Veyla stared at the words.

“Vrýthal na Rhiúth ’ar Pyrr’ra”

Her skin flushed pink. “It’s in ancient high-Fae. Not my best subject in tutoring.” She handed the book back to Elder Eidrian.

“It’s titled‘The Oath of Root and Flame,’” Elder Eidrian said, turning the delicate pages with reverent care. “It’s the high court’s record of the first and only attempt to create a marriage bond between the Rootborn and the Fireforged.”

“Read it to me,” Selara murmured, her vision swimming.

Elder Eidrian’s finger gently traced the lines as he slowly read the ancient script. “Be it recorded: In the reign of King Varek Flamewright of the Fireforged of Emberhold, a bride-price was tendered to King Corren Mossweaver of the Rootborn of Bloomrest for his daughter, Princess Elira of Bloomrest, to be bound in wedlock to Prince Auren of Emberhold. The Fire of Living Blood,” Elder Eidrian stopped reading and caught Veyla’s confused gaze. “That is the official name of the Bloodstone.”

“The Fire of Living Blood?” Veyla’s palm pressed against her heart, looking at her sister. “It was never meant for us. We have no fire in our veins.”

“It fell from the firmament like a crimson comet and was cooled upon King Varek’s own breastplate before any forge could claim it,” Elder Eidrian continued. “In presenting so priceless a relic, the Fireforged sovereign pledges not a mere alliance but his kingdom’s very heart, laying its living flame in the hands of House Mossweaver to seal an everlasting concord between root and flame. May this union begin a perpetual bond between our peoples, delivering the offspring of Flameforged and Rootborn to a single lineage of shared mysteries and mutual power.”

“King Varek meant it as a tether, an ember-anchor so their heirs would forever share root and flame magic,” Talia’s tone was full of cynicism.

“If it had worked, it would have been a gift to both clans,” Elder Ligren’s pragmatism came through. “We would have lived in a united land under one royal family.”

Selara’s voice rasped like wind through brittle vines. “Tell me, how did it all unravel? Why did the union fail?”

“It’s not in the parchment,” Elder Ligren stated, “According to Rootborn tradition, which is undoubtedly different from what the Fireforged believe, Elira was slain. Her body was discovered by Auren, whose cries brought the princess’s private guard, the Thornbound. They spirited Elira’s body and the Bloodstone back to Bloomrest under cover of volcanic ash and root-magic mists.”

“How did she die?” Selara asked, her fingers twitching towards the Bloodstone, burning on her chest.

“Not from the Bloodstone.” Elder Eidrian patted Selara’s leg. “Our spies told us it had been a member of the King’s own counsel, his daughter was meant to marry the Flameforged heir and become queen, but she was cast aside for a Rootborn. King Auren never wed again, and his brother took the throne when he died hundreds of years later.”

Selara’s pulse faltered. She pictured that ancient wedding; Elira veiled in moon-white silk, Auren in obsidian plate, vows whispered in front of still quarrelling courts. But Auren must have loved her if he never wed again. Then the murder, the loss of the Bloodstone, which Auren must have allowed as a private vendetta against his own councilor.

Elder Eidrian closed the folio with a sigh that seemed to rustle the very pages. “Ignis Vitae Sanguinis was never a gift. It was a wager for peace, and for power, that failed.”

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