Eryshae

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Vael

The grove did not stir for footsteps. It waited for breath. Vael moved beneath boughs older than dynasties, her slippers soundless on the root-woven path that led into the heart of Emberhold's sacred grove. Light streamed down in pale columns through the emerald canopy, turning the moss-laced earth into a mosaic of gold and green.

Behind her, the city exhaled; festive, bustling, sweet-scented with Solstice preparations. But here, in the hush of consecrated air, all of that faded. The only sound was the soft rasp of her incense striking stone.

She knelt at the foot of the Guardian shrine; a towering column of carved oak, its bark darkened by centuries of burnt offerings and rainfall. Tendrils of ivy curled up its base like forgotten prayers. She lit the coil of jasmine and cedar incense, letting the smoke rise in slow spirals, each twist a whisper to something older than language.

"Guardian of Eryshae," she murmured, palms open in offering, "I come not for favor, but balance. As it has always been." The smoke curled over her hands and touched her cheeks like the breath of memory.

Sam would have come, she thought, if not for the sugar. She almost smiled, remembering the way he'd collapsed into a lounge chair after Marzi's; hands folded over his stomach, eyes glassy, muttering something about going blind from lemon zest.

Mira had helped settle him, quiet and efficient. But her eyes had lingered on Vael then; with something unreadable in their depths. Now, in the hush of the grove, Vael closed her eyes and centered herself in the offering. She let the scents of cedar and blossom root her. Let the breath of the forest speak.

But it was not the forest that spoke first. "Stillness becomes you, child of Eryshae."

The voice came from behind, quiet as bark splitting beneath frost. Vael rose without turning. "Elder Mareyth," she said, recognizing the voice even before the scent of damp oak leaves confirmed it.

The seer emerged from the mist beyond the shrine; her robe a patchwork of muted greens and browns, as though stitched from the very shadows of the grove. Moss clung to her sleeves. Her bare feet made no sound.

Her eyes, filmed by age, shimmered like wet stone. Vael inclined her head respectfully. "I did not know you were near."

"I am always near," Mareyth said, "when the earth remembers." The seer bent slowly to touch the incense smoke with her fingers, drawing a symbol in the air that did not linger, but left an ache in its wake.

"You carry too much fire in your spine," Mareyth said. "And you let it burn through silence. But silence is not absence. It is waiting." Vael didn't flinch. "I carry what I must. The Rite draws near."

"The Rite is a mirror," Mareyth murmured. "Not all who look into it will see only themselves." She moved past Vael, brushing a hand along the carved bark of the Guardian column. Her fingers paused on a scar in the wood; old, twisted, a lightning mark. "The bark remembers the wound," she said. "The flame remembers the shadow." Vael frowned. "Is that a warning?"

"It is a truth," Mareyth replied, tilting her head. "A seed beneath a stone still grows; but what shape does it take in the dark?" Before Vael could respond, a soft rustle came from the grove's edge. Mira stood at the threshold of trees; watching.

Mareyth smiled faintly. "Some roots find new soil," she said, more to the trees than anyone. "Some fires wait to be fed." Then she turned and vanished between two ancient trunks, as silently as she had come.

Only the incense remained, and the weight of words that didn't vanish with the smoke. Vael let out a slow breath, then glanced toward Mira. "You didn't have to follow."

"I didn't plan to," Mira said quietly. "But… I couldn't leave you alone in this place." Vael blinked. She hadn't expected that.

Mira stepped forward, just enough to stand within the incense's reach. "You speak to the old ways like they're alive." Vael nodded. "Because they are." Mira's eyes lingered on the Guardian shrine. "I never believed in things like this."

"Belief isn't required," Vael said gently. "Only presence." And for the first time, Mira didn't offer a reply. She simply stood beside her. Silent. Present. And strangely moved. Mira lingered a few steps from the shrine, her arms crossed; not defensively, but like someone trying to hold in more than breath. Vael glanced toward her. "You've never asked about the Guardian before."

"I've heard things," Mira said, voice soft. "Rituals. Fire. Sacrifice." She hesitated. "Devotion that tastes like debt." Vael turned back toward the shrine and let her palm hover over the incense smoke, eyes thoughtful. "It's older than devotion," she said. "Older than even loyalty."

A long silence stretched between them before Vael spoke again; quietly, but with weight. "There are three tenets we keep, those of us born Eryshae. They bind us to the Guardian, as our ancestors once bound their blood." She turned to face Mira fully now, the smoke curling behind her like an old breath.

"First," Vael said, "is Balance. That no power is taken without something returned. That we walk the line between root and flame; not favoring one, not denying the other. Even in war."

Mira nodded once, slowly.

"Second is Remembrance." Her tone sharpened slightly. "That the bark remembers the wound. That we honor the scars that bought our peace. We are descendants of bloodbound warriors; not because we wanted power, but because the world bled for it. To forget would be to let it bleed again."

Stolen novel; please report.

The incense hissed softly in the bowl as a new coil burned through. Vael's eyes didn't leave Mira.

"And the third," she said quietly, "is Offering. Not just of herbs and ash, but of the self. The Guardian gives nothing freely. We give of ourselves not because it's demanded, but because it's chosen. Our strength has always been sacrifice made willingly."

Mira's throat bobbed as she swallowed. Vael turned back to the shrine, reaching forward to touch the ancient scar on the carved bark where Elder Mareyth's fingers had lingered before.

"Long ago," Vael murmured, "when the Eldritch things came pouring into our skies, the Eryshae Tribe turned to the Guardian beneath the Rootstone. Not for salvation; but for kinship. They cut their palms and pressed them to bark and flame. The pact was not made in submission. It was made in unity."

She paused. "We did not ask the Guardian to save us. We promised we would fight beside it. Bleed beside it. And we did." Mira's voice was quieter than ever. "And the Guardian answered?" Vael's hand dropped to her side. "It never stopped."

The grove fell silent again, the weight of centuries echoing between roots and branches. Then Mira whispered, almost to herself, "You really believe in it, don't you?" Vael didn't hesitate. "With every breath." Mira looked at her a long time.

And for the first time since she had read the message from the Eberflames, since her hand had trembled just once behind closed doors; Mira found herself wanting to believe, too. Not in the Guardian. But in Vael.

Mira didn't answer right away. She looked at the incense smoke curling through the branches, her brow drawn in thought. The silence wasn't cold this time; it felt like breath held for something meaningful.

Then, finally, she spoke her lie. "My people; those from the coast of Ni; we were taught to revere a different Guardian. Not one bound in root and flame, but in salt and current."

Vael tilted her head slightly, listening. Mira's voice was steady, but distant. "The Guardian of Ni is the Crab. Not a beast of war, but of watchfulness. Four eyes. Four claws. Four paths. It looks in every direction at once; always prepared, always braced for the tide to shift. It doesn't root itself. It moves with purpose. And when it latches onto something…" She gave a faint smile. "It doesn't let go."

Vael nodded thoughtfully. "And what do its four directions see?" Mira answered without hesitation. "Aundrelmere. The city of anchors and admirals; old knowledge. Virelyn Port, the forges and fisheries; makers and repairers. Caerwyn Hold, cold-walled and steady; keepers of the inland gate. And Caldrith Spire…" Her voice slowed. "Caldrith Spire burns with silver teeth and smiles. The capital of masks."

"And yet," Mira added after a breath, "they are still one. Four limbs, one shell. A city of trade and tide, not conquest. We worship through motion. Through what we carry and what we let drift." Vael was quiet for a long moment. "That's beautiful," she said softly.

"It's survival," Mira replied. "The sea doesn't care if you burn incense or bleed on stone. But it will remember how you move. And whether you learned to move with it." Another silence passed, not uncomfortable.

Then Mira added, quietly: "But… we didn't fight beside our Guardian. Not the way the Eryshae did. We bargained. Negotiated. Paid for every favor in tides and treaties."

"And did it answer?" Vael asked gently. Mira's eyes met hers. "It still does. For a price." The two women stood at the edge of history; two Guardians, two bloodlines, two kinds of faith.

Mira didn't say what else her people sacrificed. Vael didn't ask. But something passed between them, ancient and unspoken; an understanding neither had expected to share.

Vael let Mira's words settle like sediment in the air between them. The Guardian of Ni; the ever-watching Crab, bartering with tides and teeth, pulling unity from drifting shores.

So unlike the Eryshae Guardian. Ours asks for balance, she thought.

Theirs asks for trade

Ours fights.

Theirs watches.

But both remembered. Vael turned back toward the carved trunk, where incense still curled in slow, spiraling ribbons. She felt the press of something sacred and ancient in her chest; a question without answer.

Perhaps there was no right way to walk with the divine. Only different compasses, different pacts, different paths through shadow and flame. She drew a breath, then exhaled deeply through her nose.

And with two brisk claps; sharp, ceremonial, and final; Vael signaled the end of their time in the grove. The smoke snapped gently in the breeze. "That's enough meditation," she said with a dry smile, turning to Mira. "Let's go check on Sam before he becomes one with the floorboards."

Mira blinked; startled by the sudden shift in tone; but then her lips curved faintly. "Do you think he actually passed out?"

"No," Vael said, already walking. "But I wouldn't put it past him to pretend if it gets him out of more fittings." They walked side by side through the grove's arching boughs, the incense thinning behind them like old prayers left to drift. And just beyond the sacred silence, the world waited; colorful, flawed, and undeniably real.

The halls of Emberhold shifted as they walked; no longer ancient groves and curling incense, but sunlit stone corridors filled with drifting festival music and the scent of roasted almonds. The Solstice was days away, and the palace thrummed like a sleeping beast beginning to stir.

"I still can't decide if his theatrics are deliberate," Mira murmured as they rounded the final corner. Vael smirked. "Oh, they're deliberate. But that doesn't mean they're exaggerated."

As they entered the private antechamber just beyond the guest wing, they heard it first:

A groan.

A long, tragic groan; followed by the unmistakable thump of a pillow hitting the floor. Inside, Sam lay sprawled half-on, half-off a silk-covered lounge, one arm draped over his eyes, the other clutching what remained of a fruit-glazed tart. A trail of crumbs led from a low table to the sofa like a scene of pastry-based ruin.

"I regret nothing," he mumbled into the crook of his elbow. Vael folded her arms. "You ate six different kinds of cake, Sam."

"Seven," he corrected weakly. "Marzi had packed me an amber-honey truffle. It betrayed me."

Mira stifled a laugh behind her hand. Sam tilted his head to look at them, eyes heavy with sugar crash. "Is this… what divine punishment feels like?" Vael arched a brow. "No. Divine punishment involves far less marzipan."

He made a sound halfway between a sigh and a whimper. Mira stepped forward and picked up the crumpled napkin that had fallen to the floor, shaking her head with a soft, amused exhale.

"You should have paced yourself," she said gently. "I did pace myself. I just… accelerated near the end." Vael laughed, the sound bright and unburdened. "Come on, sweet fool. Sit up. We've still got ceremonial rehearsals in the morning."

Sam groaned louder, but Mira had already moved to help him up, her hand slipping under his arm with quiet efficiency. Vael joined in, and together they lifted him like some ridiculous, overfed war hero.

He grinned between them, crooked and a little dazed. "Remind me to never trust a woman with a cake knife again."

"You say that like you didn't ask for extra slices," Vael replied. Mira rolled her eyes. "You're lucky all it cost you was a nap and your dignity."

Sam's grin faded just enough for something real to flicker in his eyes. He looked at them both; his anchor and his storm; and whispered, "It was worth it."

Vael looked at Mira.

Mira looked at Vael.

And for a moment, neither said anything. Not because they didn't know what to say; but because, somehow, this; even this foolish scene; felt like a kind of magic all its own. Then Vael snorted. "Get some water in him before he ascends." They led him toward the washbasin, laughter following like sunlight through the palace windows; soft, human, and wholly alive.