Eryshae

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Sam

Then; light.

It slammed into him, too fast, too bright, a burst of white that swallowed everything. He tried to scream, but the sound was lost in the rushing, tumbling sensation, his body weightless, torn from the world he knew.

And then; he hit.

Hard. Flat. The breath was knocked from him in an agonizing rush, and his bones screamed with the shock. He lay there, gasping, blinking as the world slowly came into focus.

The ground beneath him was warm, solid, sun-dappled earth. But something wasn't right. Something felt wrong. A deep, throbbing pulse vibrated through the dirt around him, seeping into his skin, into his bones. He opened his eyes to see a tangle of thick, ancient roots wrapped around him; pulling him up from beneath, holding him in place. With a shudder, they released him, depositing him roughly onto the ground.

Sam's heart hammered in his chest, and he pushed himself to his elbows, shaking, wide-eyed. Where the hell am I?

He glanced around, his pulse quickening. The world was different. Everything was wrong. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and something floral; like crushed herbs. The sky was too blue, the light too bright.

He lay sprawled in the middle of a village square that looked carved from a fever dream. Above him, wooden homes grew like tumors out of trees. Vines wrapped beams, bones hung from doorways. Smoke curled from the nostrils of carved raccoon statues perched like sentinels on every roof.

Then he heard the snarls.

Saber-toothed raccoons; huge ones, horse-sized; reared on haunches at the perimeter of the square. One of them hissed low, fangs glinting. Others, smaller and quicker, chittered and darted for cover, weaving between legs and leaping onto woven awnings. All of them were looking at him.

Oh god.

Sam's arms shook as he tried to rise. His left hand throbbed from where he had held the Orb, a strange pulse like a second heartbeat just beneath his skin. He looked down; and froze.

Veins. Green. Glowing.

"No; no, what the hell; " he rasped, scuttling backward on palms and heels like a crab. The glow in his hand brightened once. The ring of roots around him crackled and slithered back into the ground, curling like worms in reverse. They vanished, swallowed by dirt that wasn't disturbed a moment before.

"What the fuck just happened to me?"

The villagers came next; tribesfolk in leathers, fur, dyed wraps in russet and ochre, all armed. All staring. Some with wide eyes. Others with knives drawn. One young man in bark armor spat something sharp in a language Sam didn't understand and started forward.

Sam raised a hand; then regretted it when several people flinched. "No; I don't; I'm not here to hurt anyone, I swear; " They didn't understand him. Or didn't care.

The saber-toothed raccoon closest to him padded forward, sniffing the air. Its massive head tilted. It made a strange sound; more birdlike than feline; and sat on its haunches.

...Not attacking.

The warriors hesitated. The tension didn't break, but it shifted. One of them; an older woman with braids of woven teeth; muttered under her breath. Another pulled back his spear.

The big raccoon walked up to Sam. He squeezed his eyes shut, heart hammering so hard he thought it might burst through his ribs. A wet snuffle grazed his face.

It didn't bite him.

It nuzzled his shoulder.

What?

When he opened his eyes, the creature was just staring at him. Silent. Watching.

The old woman barked a command. The warriors surged in, ropes in hand. They bound his wrists; rough; but didn't beat him. One of them looked down at the green glow on his hand and crossed themselves; or maybe cursed him.

Sam didn't fight. Couldn't. His body felt wrong. Like it wasn't entirely his anymore. The light had burned into his eyes, the root-tunnel still seared into his mind. His ears rang with echoes of cracking wood and whispering leaves.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

He didn't understand. He just wanted to go home.

They marched him through the village. Saber-toothed raccoons watched from rooftops and posts. None growled. One licked his hand in passing, as if curious.

No one else in the procession was treated that way.

They took him to a den beneath a massive totem pole, a shrine carved with snarling beasts and a woman's face wreathed in brambles. The chamber inside was earthen, lit by bio-luminescent moss, with bone-wind chimes that sang in the draft.

They threw him inside and shut the lattice of roots behind him. Sam collapsed to his knees. The glow on his hand had faded, but something was still there: a mark. Pale green, root-vein lines embedded in his palm.

He stared at his hand. "What's happening to me?" he whispered. Footsteps outside. Soft, purposeful.

She stood in the doorway, hips cocked, arms loose at her sides, like she feared nothing in the world, casual as sin.

Light spilled over her shoulders and caught in her hair: green, not the dull green of moss or grass, but rich and alive, like new leaves in spring. It was a wild cascade of curls, tangled with twigs, thorns, feathers, and tiny bone-and-bronze charms, as if the forest had woven them there.

Her eyes. Oh, god. Her eyes.

Dark as obsidian, rimmed in green, they glimmered with something sharp. Curious. Calculating. Her beauty gleamed like a naked blade. Close enough to touch, if he didn't mind bleeding. Not like someone who belonged to this place. More like someone who ruled here.

Her skin caught the mosslight like burnished bark after rain, gleaming where the shadows didn't dare cling.

Sam froze, breath ragged. His body answered before his mind could protest, drawn to her despite the emptiness of hotel rooms and fleeting faces, the hollow ache of being unseen. She hadn't spoken; and he was already caught. Hooked.

Like a moth circling a bonfire.

Now he was trapped outright, tangled in the promise of her stare and the weight of her presence.

"So. You're the Outsider," she said at last, stepping inside. Her voice was warm honey over broken glass; smooth, but jagged underneath. A quiet threat. A promise of pain.

The root lattice behind her curled shut on its own. Sam flinched before he could stop himself. Great. Just what he needed; root doors that closed themselves. No one else had spoken to him. Not the guards. Not even the saber-toothed raccoon handlers.

Just her.

"Is that what they're calling me?" he rasped. His voice came out harsher than intended, half-daring her to confirm it.

"According to the Elders, you emerged from the ground in a ring of living roots," she said, circling like a stalking cat. "The land spit you out like a seed, and the saber-toothed raccoons didn't tear you apart." Her eyes flicked to his glowing hand, now dim and veined with something unnatural. Her lips tightened, a flicker of caution in her gaze. A Druid? That shouldn't be possible. "The forest likes you. That makes you... interesting."

Which meant what? Protection... or execution? Sam snorted under his breath as he noted the sharpness in her eyes. Interesting. That was one way to put it. "So this is how Milton's Paradise Lost feels, minus the raccoons." He let the quip hang in the charged air, half-hoping wit would mask the unease crawling up his spine. Why the hell am I cracking jokes right now?

"I didn't ask to come here."

"No," she murmured. "You didn't."

She stopped in front of him. Too close. The smell of her hit him; sandalwood and pine smoke, wild underneath. His skin prickled. She wasn't armed, not visibly, but power radiated off her in waves. Instinctual. Royal.

His breath hitched. A spike of heat ran down his spine, but his mind raced, searching for danger in her calm. His instincts screamed at him to move, step back, put distance between them, but his legs obeyed slowly, like they belonged to someone else. The air between them hummed with something dangerous. Magnetic. A quiet warning he couldn't ignore.

He took a half-step backward, a small, almost invisible retreat, and felt the pull of the forest itself urging caution. Her eyes flicked to his movement, sharp and calculating. Then, without a word, her hand shot out, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, tugging him forward. The glow in his hand flared, answering her touch. The roots beneath his feet shivered, as if the forest exhaled.

The contact yanked the breath from his lungs. She was unbearably close now, heat radiating in waves he couldn't escape. His pulse spiked, a wild rhythm that matched the unspoken challenge in her gaze. His knees twitched toward retreat, but his chest locked in place, a body caught between fight and surrender.

But he was already ensnared by the promise in her stare and the undeniable weight of her presence.

"You're not one of us," she said softly. "And yet you walk unbitten through the heart of the Eryshae Tribe."

Sam swallowed hard. "Guess I should be grateful for small miracles." The words came out dry, a shield of humor he didn't quite feel.

Her eyes locked onto his, then slid briefly over his chest, scratched, bloodied, half-bare. The look she gave him wasn't just assessing.

Silence thickened under her gaze until his pulse was the only sound. Her lips parted, just slightly, as if she'd tasted something she didn't mean to admit.

"I'm not a threat," he said hoarsely.

Her lips curved. "No. You're a possibility."

She raised her hand, then paused as she watched him with unblinking stillness. Then, with slow deliberation, she lifted her hand to her mouth and bit down, harder than he expected. Blood welled thick and black, gleaming like ink under moonlight.

Her finger traced beneath his eye, warmth smearing across his skin. It smelled of earth after rain, metallic and alive. His breath caught as something inside him recoiled, something else leaning into the claim.

"There," she whispered. Leaning in, she pressed her lips against his.

His chest seized, heat and dread twisting into something he couldn't name. Every nerve screamed at him to pull back. But the lonelier, hungrier part ached to give in.

It felt wrong, a claim he hadn't chosen, but god, it also felt like being seen for the first time. Shame tangled with want, and the confusion hollowed him out, leaving only her lips, her blood, the searing weight of being wanted by someone who could ruin him.

"What… what is this?" he managed, breath ragged.

"A mark," she said. Her voice dropped to a murmur, dangerously close. "Now they'll see you. And know."

"Know what?"

"That I claimed you." Her eyes gleamed. "That you're my chosen Trenai."

He couldn't speak. Couldn't move. She turned then, her silhouette slipping through a curtain of ivy and root. Just before she vanished, she looked back. "They'll come for you now, Sam."

"Who?" His voice cracked, thinner than he wanted.

She looked over her shoulder. "My suitors will want to kill you." Then she left him in the dark, the root-lattice sighing shut, his heartbeat pounding like it was trying to escape.