Page 3 of The Bloodstone Oath

These were Rootborn fields, once lush now collapsing in greasy pillars of smoke. A prince of Emberhold was bred to glory in such victories, yet every pop of sap and crack of timber sounded, to Kaelor’s ears, like a plea. He schooled his face into the flat mask expected of the king’s heir, but the weight just behind his eyes was growing heavier with every blaze.

General Orik Ashenbrand barked commands beside him, his voice carrying easily over the roar of fire. “Sweep the vines! Leave no archer hidden!” Sparks glimmered in the scar that split Orik’s eyebrow, a relic of battle the general wore with pride. Kaelor respected Orik, but today even the old warrior’s certainty scraped like gravel in his ear.

Two of Kaelor’s most trusted comrades, Renna Stormcloaked, one of the most feared swords in Emberhold, and Zaria Ashenbrook, whose strategy was legend, waited just behind the command line, mounts restless under the heat.Renna’s emberstallion stamped, snorting cinders; Zaria’s blade glimmered with banked orange light. Both women had bled beside him often enough to read his moods, and when Renna, her black eyes dark with concern, nudged her horse closer, she needed only one glance at Kaelor’s expression.

“We have them running,” she called, half exhilaration, half query. Soot, matching her unnaturally dark gray hair, streaked across her freckles like war paint. “A cluster of huts still stands by the ridge, but they’re holed up with children. Orders?”

Kaelor’s stomach twitched. “Root out resistance and move on,” he said. “No needless cruelty.” Four simple words, spoken firmly enough to carry. Yet the phrase felt thin, more wish than decree, when flames already licked the thatch of distant roofs. His father’s council demanded results, not regrets.

Zaria caught his eye as she wheeled away, sympathy flickering in her glance before discipline shuttered it. She would see the huts cleared with no slaughter if it were possible; he trusted her for that. Still, as Kaelor watched them ride, guilt drummed beneath his armor, each heartbeat an echo of burning beams collapsing in the fields below.

A deeper scorch of heat heralded Malek Emberfist long before he spoke. The warrior strode from the smoke with the lazy confidence of a man certain the world would bend. His lacquer-black breastplate bore the stylized fist of his house; tiny sparks swirled around his boots, welcoming him like courtiers.

“Prince Kaelor,” Malek purred, false deference dripping from the title. “The Rootborn squeal and scatter. Perhaps we should press harder, be sure not one seedling survives to sprout revenge.”

Kaelor kept his voice level. “The king ordered a punitive strike, not a massacre. We’ve achieved our aim.”

Malek’s grin sharpened. “Mercy is a luxury Emberhold can ill afford. Soft earth grows weeds.”

“And scorched earth grows nothing,” Kaelor countered, allowing only a sliver of the frustration that gnawed his ribs to color the words. “Hold the line you were given, Lord Emberfist. Orik, signal withdrawal.”

The general’s horn cut across the plain, long and low. Soldiers doused torches, beat flames into compliance, and began the march home. Malek offered an exaggerated bow, but the threat in his parting salute was unmistakable: Princes who hesitate are soon replaced by men who do not.

As the column snaked away from the charred farms, Kaelor rode at its head. Ash drifted lazily, settling on his pauldrons like gray snow. Renna and Zaria kept pace on either side, a silent shield against the murmurs rippling down the line, murmurs that Malek would stoke into wildfire given the chance.

Renna finally broke the hush. “None of ours fell,” she said, as though checking a ledger. “The Rootborn defended with arrows and prayer. A victory hardly worth a song.”

“Though they will sing one in the hall tonight, undoubtedly,” Zaria muttered.

“Agreed. With both of you,” Kaelor admitted. Around them the land still smoldered, an open wound, miles wide. “Every blaze we leave behind kindles two more in their hearts. Eventually the flames will meet in the middle, and then what’s left for any of us?”

Renna’s gaze swept the horizon where smoke blurred forest into sky. “Some here crave that total burn,” she said, meaning Malek and those whispering his creed. “They’d rather rule a wasteland than share a border.”

“Especially if it means we starve,” Zaria added.

Kaelor’s answer was a silence weighted with exhaustion. He found his eyes wandering east, past the haze, imagining the city that lay hidden in green. Reports spoke of a Bloodstone Priestess who bartered her own life-essence to create wards that protected the Rootborn heartland. He envisioned her robed in leaf-shadow, eyes steady despite crimson-stained hands, and felt, stupidly, his pulse stumble. A stranger, unarmed, straining beneath duties as heavy as his own… Something in that half-formed image tugged at a place in him untouched by court wars and ember-steel.

He shook the thought away as the walls of Emberhold appeared: basalt towers spitting molten glow, lava flumes channeled into the city’s iron maw. Cheers greeted their return, but even the triumphant horns sounded hoarse to Kaelor. Victory tasted of soot.

In the royal courtyard he dismounted, handing his emberstallion’s reins to a groom. Servants scurried; sparks crackled in overhead braziers. Varian Duskflame, the king’s slim adviser, led Kaelor through hammer-loud corridors toward the War Council.

Basalt pillars ringed the council chamber, their surfaces veined with slow-moving fire. King Dragan Flamewright rested weakly at the central obsidian table, shoulders draped in black wolf pelt, eyes like banked coals. Queen Valeska sat poised beside him, every gem in her crimson gown catching torchlight like tongues of fire.

Kaelor delivered his report: farmland neutralized, no casualties among Fireforged ranks. Dragan nodded approval; Valeska’s expression remained unreadable.

Malek stepped forward. “The raid stopped short of effectiveness, fear only flowers when watered with despair.”

The queen’s raised hand silenced him. “We wield terror carefully. Break the Rootborn spirit too swiftly and you harden it instead.”

Still, the council’s undercurrent favored Malek’s fire-forward dogma. Young officers leaned toward total war to overtake their land; merchants anxious for new ore veins nodded along. Kaelor felt the tide shift and, for an instant, imagined himself swept away like slag in a lava stream.

When the debate ebbed, just long enough for everyone to feel heard, Dragan dismissed the nobles. Orik and most generals filed out, leaving only Kaelor before the throne. He bowed to make his exit.

“Son, wait,” the king said quietly as the forge-noise of the city softened behind the heavy doors.

“There are words you hesitate in battle,” the king said quietly. Not accusation, observation.

Kaelor met his father’s gaze. “I question what we are building if every foundation stone is set on ash.”

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