Eryshae

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Sam

Sam exhaled slowly, sinking onto the stone bench beside Corven, the Court's echoing grandeur still clinging to his thoughts like smoke. The torchlight flickered across the walls, casting long shadows between them. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, clasping his hands like he needed to tether himself to the moment.

"So," he began, voice low, "I walked into a cathedral built from living trees, lit by shafts of sunlight and dusted with golden pollen that looked like stars suspended in honey."

Corven arched a brow. "That sounds… dramatic." Sam huffed a half-laugh. "It was. Every Cardinal, all ninety-eight of them, standing in full ceremonial dress. Robes like a forest in bloom. And the Nine Elders; up high, silent as statues, like they were carved from time itself."

He shifted, glancing briefly at the floor before continuing. "Vael was the one who introduced me. Called me by name. She stood up there, in front of everyone, and somehow made the oldest traditions sound like they still mattered. Like they weren't just rituals, but… living things."

His voice dropped. "She looked at me like I wasn't a mistake. Like I belonged there." Corven said nothing, but the silence wasn't judgmental. It was patient.

Sam drew in a slow breath. "I stood there and thought, What am I doing here? I mean, me? In a hall full of centuries-old politics and sacred history? Wearing bark-leather boots and being introduced like I was anything other than the Outsider I am?" I am from Earth, and I am not so sure this is Earth. I mean, the map sure looked like the place I am from. So familiar, and yet so different.

He leaned back against the cool stone wall and looked at Corven for the first time. "But I stepped forward. I don't even remember moving, just… her voice, the way she said my name; it grounded me. Like maybe I didn't need to have the answers yet. Maybe showing up was enough."

A beat passed. Then he added, softer: "It felt like… the beginning of something. And not just the vote."

The clink of cutlery against wooden plates softened as the conversation lulled. The warmth of the midday light filtered through the high canopy, dappled across the table where the four of them sat; bowls half-finished, bread torn apart, steam still rising from the spiced broth.

Elowen set down her cup and leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table in that unhurried way of hers. "How did it feel, Sam?" she asked, her voice quiet but direct. Sam didn't answer at once.

Instead, he glanced across the table to where Vael sat, shoulders squared, her braid tucked behind one ear. She wasn't looking at him; she was pretending to focus on something in her bowl, but he could tell by the stillness of her that she was listening. Carefully.

His eyes lingered on her for just a second longer than necessary, as if trying to decide how honest he wanted to be with all three of them. Then he looked back at Elowen. "…Strange," he said, giving a small shrug. "Like standing in a place you've never been before and realizing you've dreamed it a thousand times."

Corven, beside him, gave a faint grunt of agreement; but said nothing. Sam picked at a crumb near his bowl. "It wasn't what I expected. I thought it'd feel like being judged. Or tested. But it wasn't that." He hesitated, then glanced at Vael again; this time catching her eye. "It felt like… something saw me. Not the version of me I've been shaping to survive. Just… me."

He looked down, then back up to Elowen. "It was humbling. And terrifying. And; " He hesitated. Vael's gaze hadn't left his. "Kind," he finished. A silence settled at the table. Not awkward; just full. Elowen smiled faintly, thoughtful. "Sometimes, the truth of something isn't in how it looks. It's in how it makes you feel." Sam gave a half-nod. "Then yeah. It felt like truth."

Corven sat in the silence that followed Sam's words, his bowl untouched, his thoughts unreadable behind that weather-worn face. The breeze stirred the edges of the tablecloth. A bird called somewhere high in the canopy.

Then slowly; deliberately; Corven lifted his gaze and locked eyes with Elowen across the table. Something passed between them in that look. Agreement. Memory. Resolve. He nodded once, and then turned to Sam. "You've walked into something ancient and didn't flinch," Corven said, voice low and steady. "You've honored it with your honesty. That matters."

He reached across the table; not with ceremony, but with quiet purpose; and placed a calloused hand over Sam's forearm. "You have my blessing, lad. Whatever comes next, you won't face it alone." Sam's throat tightened. He managed a small, grateful nod.

Across from him, Vael let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Her shoulders eased, tension draining from her like a taut string finally released. Sam saw the flicker of relief in her posture, subtle but unmistakable. And that; more than Corven's words; made something in him settle.

Then came a soft knock on the outer wooden post. A young guard leaned in through the open archway, bowing with a respectful dip of the head. "Chief Corven," the guard said, tone apologetic but firm, "Cardinal Serene Liri requests your presence. She says it is a matter of urgency."

Corven's eyes narrowed slightly, not in annoyance but calculation. He pushed back from the table with a grunt and stood, adjusting his belt and cloak with efficient movements. "She would," he muttered under his breath, then nodded once to the group. "We'll talk more soon." His eyes lingered a moment longer on Sam; then Vael; before he turned to go.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

Corven's footsteps faded down the corridor, and the quiet he left behind seemed to settle like dust in sunlight. For a moment, no one spoke. Then Elowen leaned forward, propping her chin on her palm, her violet eyes gleaming with curiosity. "So," she said, her voice light but laced with meaning, "how does it feel, Sam? Being bound to a myth and accepted by her family; all before finishing your tea?"

Vael snorted gently, and Sam glanced at her again. The ease in her shoulders hadn't left, but now it was joined by the faintest quirk of amusement tugging at her lips. Sam gave a slow, thoughtful shrug, his fingers tracing the rim of his bowl. "Feels... a little like waking up in someone else's story," he said. Then, after a pause, he added, "But I'm not trying to climb out of it."

Vael tilted her head, watching him with quiet pride. She didn't speak, but the way her eyes lingered on him said enough. Elowen smiled, something softer now blooming behind her mischief. "You two really are... something," she said, voice gentler than usual. "A storm and the root that holds it. It makes sense now." Sam blinked at that. "Which of us is the storm?"

"Oh, that changes," Elowen said, waving a hand. "You'll both get your turn." Vael chuckled softly, brushing a braid behind her ear. "She's not wrong." They lapsed into silence again, but this time it was an easy one; comfortable, like warm sun on skin. The world outside the table might be complicated, but in this moment, the three of them sat in something steady. Something real. And for the first time in what felt like ages, Sam didn't feel like a stranger in a strange world.

Elowen tapped her fingers once against the table, then rose with a rustle of skirts. "Well," she said lightly, "you two deserve a breath. I'm going to trail after Corven; see how he handles this new Cardinal with all his usual tact and subtlety." Vael arched a brow. "Don't get arrested."

"No promises." Elowen winked at them both, then turned and slipped out, her stride light and purposeful. The door shut behind her, leaving only the quiet clatter of distant kitchen work and the soft murmur of wind through the stone lattice. Sam shifted slightly in his seat. Vael didn't move at first, just watched him with an unreadable expression; then leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table. "Thank you," she said, her voice low, almost shy. "For how you handled my father." Sam looked up. "I wasn't sure if I should've said more. Or less."

"You said just enough," Vael said. Her eyes searched his face. "You didn't shrink from him. You didn't grovel. But you weren't... combative, either. You let him see you. That's rare." He hesitated. "I was terrified of messing things up."

A soft laugh escaped her; warm, real. "Good. That means you're sane." He smiled at that, small and crooked. "But I meant it, Vael. Every word. If I'm in this, I'm in. With you." Her gaze dropped to the table, then lifted back to him; sharper now, glinting with something fierce and unguarded.

"You make it hard not to hope for love," she said quietly. "And I've spent a long time learning not to." Sam reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers; tentative at first, then settling, grounding. "You can hope with me," he said. "I'll hold it with you."

Vael blinked, and for a moment her eyes shimmered, though no tears fell. She turned her hand under his, lacing their fingers together. "Then hold tight," she murmured. "Because this world isn't gentle. And neither am I." Sam's thumb brushed against her knuckles. "Good. I didn't fall for gentle." Silence wrapped around them again; but this time it pulsed with something deeper than comfort. A tether, growing stronger.

A sudden shaft of light poured through the high window, angled just right to catch Sam in the face. He squinted, lifting a hand to shield his eyes, and let out a surprised huff of laughter. "Alright, alright," he muttered to the ceiling, as if the light had issued a challenge. Then he stood abruptly, fingers slipping from Vael's.

She looked up, blinking. "Sam?" He turned to her, eyes alight with a new kind of determination. "Stay here."

"What; ?"

"I'm making you something," he said, already moving toward the kitchen archway. "Something sweet. Something good." Vael stared after him. "You bake now?"

Sam paused mid-stride, glanced back with a grin. "You're about to find out." He disappeared into the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, "Where's the cast iron skillet? And the flour? I need; uh; eggs, butter, vanilla… sugar… baking cocoa… salt…"

There was a muffled clatter, followed by a low ow as something knocked into his shin. Vael rested her chin on her hand, smiling as she listened to him rattle around like a man on a mission. "Stars above," she murmured, amused and touched. "He's really doing it."

From the kitchen, his voice echoed faintly; "This would go faster if you told me where you hide the good chocolate! Sam rolled up his sleeves and muttered under his breath as he reached for the ingredients, setting them out in an ordered row across the countertop.

"Two hundred grams of sugar… one hundred and fifteen grams of butter… melted," he murmured, scraping the butter into a small saucepan. He turned the heat low, swirling the pan gently as the golden mass softened.

He cracked two eggs into a small bowl, then gave it a soft stir. "Let 'em warm up a little. One tablespoon vanilla… flour, one-twenty grams. Baking cocoa, thirty-five grams. Quarter teaspoon salt…"

He lined up a second bowl and began measuring the flour with careful attention, leveling it with the flat edge of a knife, and then running it throughthe sifter. The scent of melting butter and sugar rose like a promise in the air.

Behind him, quiet footsteps padded into the kitchen. Vael leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her eyes bright with amusement. "You talk to your ingredients?" Sam glanced over his shoulder, caught sight of her, and grinned. "I thought I told you to stay."

"I don't take orders well," she said, stepping in. He laughed. "Never mind. Come stir this, please; my sweets." He held out a wooden spoon, and she took it, brushing fingers with his in the exchange. She stirred the golden mixture gently, watching it blend into a glossy, warm syrup.

Sam focused on his dry mix, adding cocoa powder to the flour, followed by a pinch of salt and the fragrant splash of vanilla. The scents mingled; rich, dark, and comforting. She handed him the bowl of butter and sugar with care. As he took it, he leaned in and kissed her cheek softly. "Perfect."

Then he tipped the wet mixture into the dry, folding it together with rhythmic motions, the batter turning thick and smooth under his hands. "There," he said, lifting his head. "Where's the eight inch skillet?" Vael gestured toward the counter. "Oiled and waiting."

Sam nodded, and she brought it closer as he poured the batter in, scraping the sides with practiced precision. When it settled in a glossy swirl, he exhaled in satisfaction. "Three-fifty," he muttered, glancing at the oven. "Thirty minutes."

Then he frowned, eyeing the peculiar design of the oven; its curved metal, runed dials, and small crystal embedded in the center.

"Uh…"

Vael smiled as she stepped in. "Let me." She opened the oven door and slid the skillet inside with practiced grace. Then she laid her hand lightly on the crystal, her brow furrowing in brief concentration. The crystal pulsed once, and the oven hummed to life, setting itself precisely.

Sam's eyes lit up. "That… was awesome." She turned, one brow arched. "It's calibrated to sense elemental heat signatures. Didn't think you'd want to fight a fire for thirty minutes." He grinned, walking over to her and gently pulling her into a side embrace. "Once that's done baking, it'll be the most delicious thing you've ever tasted, it's my personal recipe." Vael rested her head against his shoulder and murmured, "I already have a good feeling about it."