Eryshae

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Sam

The city of Emberhold had become a firelit jewel. Banners snapped from every rooftop, dyed in green, gold, and deepest crimson. Silk lanterns bobbed like blossoms above the streets, casting petals of colored light onto the crowds below. Music rang from corner towers and drum circles, echoing through the stone like a second heartbeat. It smelled of sweet bread, singed rosemary, and excitement.

The Solstice had come. Sam stood tall in the chariot, hands clasped behind his back as it rolled slowly through the wide ceremonial avenue. The applause was like rain against a roof; constant, bright, oddly soothing. Children leaned from their parents' shoulders to catch a glimpse. Some waved little twig-bound figurines in his likeness. Others simply chanted.

"Vael! Vael! Vael!" And then; "Sam! Sam! Sam the Forest Prince!" He winced a little at that one, but Vael elbowed him lightly. "Don't make that face," she said under her breath, her lips barely moving. "You're the one who said the Solstice needed passion."

He gave a crooked grin, nerves buried beneath layers of silk, gold trim, and hours of rehearsed dignity. "I meant flower petals. Music. Maybe an impromptu poem. Not… public deification."

"Oh hush," she said, smiling through her teeth. "Wave." So he did. A little awkwardly at first. Then with a rhythm. A motion. A purpose.

The chariot creaked along the sun-marked path, its wheels carved with old glyphs. Behind them, dancers moved like fire through the crowd, their sleeves trailing smoke-colored veils. And walking alone just behind the chariot, steady and serene, was Mira.

She carried the ceremonial offering: a clay vessel wrapped in dyed linen and bound in woven oak-root cords. Inside the chalice; sacred earth, sacred flame, and sacred water, blessed in the threefold rite. The vessel shimmered faintly in the sunlight, almost humming with importance.

Sam glanced back; just once. Mira's expression was composed. Her footsteps were precise. But something tugged in his chest. A strange prickle. As if a thread had pulled loose in the tapestry of the moment.

She didn't falter. She didn't look up. But something about her posture felt… tighter. Like a harp string tuned too high. Sam turned forward again, swallowing thickly.

The breeze picked up, carrying the scent of pine ash and myrrh from the Temple Grove ahead. The drums changed rhythm; deeper now. Slower. As if the earth itself were exhaling in preparation.

The trees were waiting.

The RootStone was waiting.

And somewhere beneath the roar of the crowd, beneath the joy, beneath the beauty of it all; something was watching.

The cheers faded like a tide as the chariot crossed beneath the ancient archway of roots that marked the threshold to the Temple Grove.

Here, the world quieted. The trees stood impossibly tall, their trunks etched with old prayers and layered lichen. Their leaves shimmered with a faint silver dust, and their branches arched above like a vaulted canopy, letting in shafts of filtered light that felt… conscious. Watching.

The path ahead had been cleared and swept with flower petals, all in shades of crimson and gold. Offerings lined the base of the great oaks; bundles of herbs, carved runes, whisper-stitched cloth.

And in the center, at the very heart of the grove, the RootStone waited: a jagged altar of living granite, veined with faint light that pulsed like breath.

Sam's spine prickled. He tried to breathe deeper, but the air here had changed. Denser. Warmer. Aware.

And with every slow jolt of the chariot's wheel, something inside his skin responded.

He glanced down. The bioluminescence had returned. A soft, faint glow beneath the skin of his left arm, just beneath the fabric of his ceremonial sleeve. Barely visible. Barely there. But it pulsed; rhythmic. Subtle. Like a heartbeat not his own.

He shifted in place and adjusted the sleeve subtly, not out of vanity but instinct. The light wasn't supposed to be showing. Not here. Not now. Not in front of so many eyes. His fingers curled around the edge of the chariot.

He looked to Vael, who sat tall and radiant beside him, her expression solemn now, chin slightly lifted as if communing with something beyond sight. The strength in her was tangible. Ancient. But even beside her calm… the weight in Sam's chest deepened.

The Grove was beautiful, yes. But it also felt like stepping into territory he didn't own.

A hush passed through the gathered crowd; courtiers, elders, artisans, and warriors alike; as the chariot slowed to its final resting place at the circle's edge. From here, they would step down. Walk the final span to the RootStone. Together.

Mira stopped behind them, holding the ceremonial vessel with careful grace. Sam caught her eyes for a moment. Hers were unreadable; but focused. Controlled. The drums fell silent. A low chime rang from the northern arch, signaling the beginning of the rite.

Sam's feet hit the sacred earth. And the light beneath his skin pulsed again; brighter this time, just once; before fading to its slow, steady rhythm.

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No one else seemed to notice. But he did. The Grove was listening. And whatever lay sleeping beneath that stone had begun to breathe. He stepped forward with Vael, their footsteps falling into solemn synchrony.

The gathered crowd stood in respectful silence beneath the Grove's canopy. Some bowed their heads. Others raised small polished stones or prayer tokens. From the far end of the circle, robed acolytes stood beneath swaying banners, holding burning braziers of cedar, clove, and dried blossom. The smoke curled upward in threads that never drifted too far, as if the trees refused to release them.

Ahead, the RootStone gleamed like something ancient and alive. Its surface was gnarled and fractured, but veined with veins of gold-white light that flickered in and out of sight. It pulsed faintly in rhythm with the sacred drums; though Sam wasn't entirely sure the drums hadn't stopped.

He could feel the earth here. Like a vast presence beneath the grove. Not sleeping. Not entirely awake.

Waiting.

A slow chill wound through his spine, feather-light but persistent. His skin prickled. Beneath his sleeve, his left arm glowed again; just faintly, just once; but it was enough to steal his breath.

Vael didn't notice. Or if she did, she gave no sign. Her expression was solemn, serene. Her movements were graceful but precise as she stepped onto the circle of woven roots that ringed the stone.

A hush spread through the trees. And then the Seer stepped forward. She was bent with age, her back curved like a willow in winter, her hair draped in a cascade of tiny bone and shell beads that clacked gently with each movement. Her eyes were white with the fog of prophecy, but when she spoke, her voice was clear as river glass.

"Blood binds root. Root binds stone. Stone binds fire."

"The bark remembers the wound."

"The flame remembers the shadow."

The sacred words. Sam had practiced the response. He had memorized every line, rehearsed the tone. But as he opened his mouth to speak them clearly, the wind shifted.

And the RootStone pulsed. His voice caught but only for a second. The bioluminescent light beneath his skin flared in that exact moment; briefly visible through the fabric like fire seen through fog.

The Seer paused. Her blind eyes turned; directly to him. Sam forced himself to continue the rite. Voice steady. Steps precise. Heart hammering. They stepped forward together, he and Vael, each placing a hand atop the stone. The warmth of it startled him. Not just warm; alive.

The moment their skin touched it, a deep thrum reverberated through the grove. Faintly audible. Felt more in the bones than the ears. From behind them, Mira stepped into the ring, holding the sacred vessel. Her footsteps were soft. Almost too soft.

The air was thick now. Heavy with incense. With presence. Sam could feel eyes on him. Not from the crowd. Not from the Seer. From beneath.

Something… knew he was here. Knew what he was. Knew he wasn't one of them. And still; the ritual had to be finished. Vael's voice rang clear across the grove.

"Guardian of Root and Flame, we return what was promised."

"We place our hands upon the root."

"We honor the flame that does not consume."

"The root that does not wither."

"The shadow that does not rule."

Sam echoed her final line, his throat dry: "The shadow that does not rule."

Mira knelt now between them, her head bowed, and placed the sacred vessel at the foot of the RootStone. The flames within it flickered once; then burst upward with a bloom of light, like the last breath of a dying star.

The crowd exhaled in awe. Sam closed his eyes, trying to steady his heartbeat. But his arm still pulsed. The glow hadn't stopped. And somewhere beneath the root-woven floor of the Grove… something stirred.

The flames in the sacred vessel settled; no longer bursting, but burning low and steady, casting a golden sheen across the roots and stone around them. The scent rising from it was unfamiliar: like honey and ash, sharp blossoms, iron soil. It smelled like memory. Like something from before.

The Grove held its breath. Sam stood beside Vael, both still with one hand on the RootStone. Then, slowly, she stepped away and knelt before the vessel. Her fingertips hovered over the chalice's rim for a moment; then closed around it. She stood tall, turning to face the Grove. Her voice rang clear:

"By root and fire, I remember the vow."

She lifted the chalice to her lips and drank. Only a sip; but the silence it met was total. Sam's breath caught as he watched her. Her eyes fluttered shut for a brief instant, and a faint warmth rose in her cheeks. When she opened her eyes again, they gleamed; not with power, but with serenity. With presence.

She turned to him. Extended the chalice. Sam took it. His fingers brushed hers, and a jolt of heat went up his arm; not from contact, but from the vessel itself. The carved petals were warm. Breathing.

He raised it.

"By root and fire," he said, the words slower on his tongue, "I remember the vow."

He brought it to his lips. The taste struck him at once: citrus and clove, a bright edge of something floral chased by an earthy finish, like springwater running over old stone. It wasn't unpleasant; just unfamiliar. Like a memory someone else had left in his mouth.

He drank a single sip. And beneath the taste, beneath the ceremony, beneath even the Grove's ancient hush…

His arm pulsed with light again. Stronger this time. He lowered the chalice and caught Vael watching him. Just for a heartbeat. Her brow furrowed; not concerned exactly, but something searching. Mira remained just behind them, her head bowed low, her expression unreadable. Motionless.

The drums began again; soft, like a heartbeat. The ritual had been sealed. Sam handed the chalice back to the Seer, who accepted it with reverence and turned to place it back at the base of the RootStone.

The people would cheer soon. The celebration would spill into the streets with light and laughter. But Sam felt none of it. The glow in his arm hadn't faded. The roots beneath the Grove still felt too aware. And the taste on his tongue… Was shifting.

The Seer stepped back with the chalice, vanishing into the ring of acolytes like a figure dissolving into mist. The Grove began to stir again; soft murmurs rising from the gathered crowd, distant applause, the warm hum of approval.

Sam stood in the center of it all, rooted beside Vael, his body still, his smile measured. But something inside him was moving. The taste still lingered on his tongue; now slightly bitter. Metallic. Like the moment just before lightning strikes.

His eyes drifted down to his left hand. The faint bioluminescence now shimmered just beneath the skin, a slow rhythm; pulse, fade, pulse; that no one else seemed to notice.

No one but Mira. She stood to the side now, eyes flicking toward him with a trace of unease, her hands clasped too tightly in front of her. She didn't move. Didn't speak.

But she was watching. The hair on the back of Sam's neck stood up. He looked toward the Grove's outer ring, where the old roots met the newer trees. He had studied the history and he had practiced the vows. He had learned every custom, every step.

But now, in the quiet after the rite, with the warmth of the chalice still in his chest… He wasn't sure he belonged here at all. He reached up to adjust his collar; but paused. His hand was shaking. Only slightly. Vael noticed this time. Her voice was low, close to his ear. "Are you alright?"

Sam blinked. Swallowed. "I don't know," he said. And then; a strange pressure gathered beneath his ribs. Like the drop before a plunge. A deep, cold blooming beneath the warmth. Not pain; just wrongness.

He took one step back. The trees shifted. Light bent. The roots beneath his feet seemed to twist. And the last thing Sam registered before the world began to tilt was Mira's eyes widening in horror.