Eryshae

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Sam

Author's Note:

Fear not, traveler.

Though the winds have shifted and the skies may seem unfamiliar, Eryshae still breathes beneath the soil of this tale. This moment; fleeting and strange; is but a ripple upon the greater river. The roots run deep. The fire still burns.

We will return to the realm of Eryshae.

Soon.

Very soon.

The first thing Sam felt was cold. Not the sacred stillness of the Grove. Nor the golden warmth of bioluminescence and sunfire. But sterile cold; metal and chemical and something almost... fluorescent.

Then came the buzz. Faint at first. Rising like a wasp's wings behind his temples. His eyes snapped open.

Above him: white ceiling tiles. Flickering light panel. The low hum of an HVAC vent purring through recycled air. The smell of isopropyl alcohol and plastic. Not incense. Not moss. Not firelight.

He blinked hard. A figure leaned over him; hoodie, gloves, a buzzing tattoo gun clutched in one hand. "Whoa; dude," the artist said, voice muffled under a surgical mask. "You blacked out. I told you that was gonna sting."

Sam sat bolt upright. The movement was wrong. Everything was wrong. His limbs were flesh again. Human again. Heavy in a way the Grove never was.

"You okay?" the artist asked, stepping back warily. Sam's hands shook. His eyes darted around the tiny room; the metal tray of ink pots, the poster of vine knotwork, the faint neon glow from the parlor window outside.

But Vael.

His breath caught. His throat burned. A thousand memories collided in his skull like stars collapsing into each other. "I thought you stroked out on me." the artist said. Sam blinked rapidly, heart pounding, ribs aching with breath. "Where…?"

The question died on his tongue. He already knew. He was back. He looked down at his arm. The fresh ink snaked down his left bicep in curling vines, the style he'd drawn himself; half tribal, half organic. His skin around it was red, welted, but normal.

No glow. No bark. No sunflowers with burning eyes. No magic. The artist pulled his mask down to sip a water bottle and gave Sam a once-over. "You good, man? You looked like you saw a ghost."

Sam didn't answer. Because ghosts didn't cover it. What he'd seen wasn't death. It was everything else.

He flexed his hand. Still five fingers. Still flesh. But the memory of vines lashing out… of light bursting from his chest… of Vael's hand on his face;

It was real. And it was gone. He sat up slowly, ignoring the ache in his spine. His eyes caught on the mirror across the room. His reflection looked pale. Sweaty. Mortal. But behind his eyes… Something ancient still smoldered.

The artist capped the needle and set the machine down with a faint clatter. "Seriously, man. You good?" Sam opened his mouth. Closed it. "I… I think so."

The artist gave a slow nod, clearly unconvinced. "You blacked out for like ten seconds, then started whispering something; sounded like a name?" Sam's eyes snapped to his. "What name?"

"Vael," the artist said, brow furrowed. "Like, over and over. Real soft. Weirdly tender, actually. Thought it was a band at first, but... no. Sounded personal." The word hit Sam like a punch to the sternum.

Vael.

Not a dream.

Not a dream.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "What's going on?" he asked hoarsely. "Who are you?" The artist blinked. "Uh, Ryan? I'm the guy you called like three days ago to book a last-minute appointment?" He gestured toward the wall, where a calendar hung with a sloppy skull doodle on today's square. "You said you'd just come from that exhibit at the Natural History Museum. The one with the relics? Sounded all excited about it. Said you wanted something inspired by those vine-carved effigies."

Sam stared blankly. "I don't remember that." Ryan rubbed the back of his neck. "Okay… well, you sent over the sketch. Real clean lines. You even called back to change the angle of the vines so they'd curl down the arm instead of up." He gave a half-hearted laugh. "Said it had to 'look like it was reaching.'"

Sam's mouth felt dry. "Wait," he said slowly. "What day is it?" Ryan pointed. "It's Tuesday. June 24th."

Sam paled. His stomach lurched. That wasn't right.

It had been the summer Solstice. Warm air and lanterns in the trees. He looked down at his arm again. The vines gleamed, ink still wet. Ordinary. But something beneath them hummed; a phantom echo of power, not physical, but present.

He clenched his fist. "Dude," Ryan said, voice breaking into the silence. "I know it's not my business, but… are you okay? You seemed totally fine before we started. We even talked about that girl; your college prom date? You said you were finally gonna ask her out for drinks this week. Wanted the tattoo to impress her."

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

Sam blinked. "What?" Ryan shrugged. "Said you wanted something bold, but not cocky. Said she was into myth stuff. Thought vines would show… I don't know. Depth."

He laughed nervously. "You sure you didn't get zapped at the museum or something? 'Cause dude, you are white as salt." Sam didn't answer. The world felt wrong. Too clean. Too linear.

But the ache in his chest… That was real. Vael's face. Her scream. The moment his hand touched hers. Not a dream. Ryan handed him a mirror.

"Tattoo's done," he said gently. "Honestly? It turned out beautiful." Sam looked down again. The vines curled perfectly. But beneath them… His soul felt like soil that had been stirred.Like roots had taken hold. "Yeah," he whispered. "I like it."

Sam stepped out of the parlor and into the evening haze of the city. The air was heavy. Summer-warm but wrong somehow; too metallic, too loud. Horns blared. Neon signs blinked above storefronts. People passed by on their phones, headphones in, worlds closed to one another. A dog barked. A bus coughed exhaust.

He flinched at the sound.

Too much.

Too bright.

Too linear.

The buzz of the city didn't fit in his bones anymore. He stood on the sidewalk for a long moment, staring down at his arm. The vines still shimmered with a slight wetness, the skin beneath red and raw. But that wasn't what unsettled him.

It was the way the light didn't touch them. A sliver of shadow clung unnaturally to the inked lines; like the sun, even in this world, knew not to trespass.

He turned suddenly, catching his reflection in the glass of a storefront.

For a split second, it was not his face. Not entirely. Something older looked back at him. Bark lining the curve of a cheekbone. Gold flickering behind one eye. Roots threading down from his scalp like hair.

The moment blinked. Gone. Sam staggered back. What the hell is happening to me? He lifted a hand, trying to slow his breathing. But his fingers twitched. The memory came unbidden;

Firelight.

Screams.

Vael's hand cupped in his.

Sunflowers blooming from his chest.

The moment before collapse.

Then:

The voice.

Soft as ash.

"Deus… we had a bargain."

Sam pressed his palms into his eyes. Hard. As if pressure might stop the bleeding between worlds. When he looked up, a yellow cab rolled past. He raised a hand. It slowed, then pulled up to the curb. The driver barely looked at him. "Where to?" Sam hesitated. Home? What did that even mean anymore?

"…Rowan and Pike," he murmured finally. "Corner building. Third floor." The cab pulled into traffic. Sam sank back into the seat, city lights flickering across the windshield. His arm throbbed. But it wasn't pain; it was presence. A quiet awareness, as though the vines inked on his skin were listening to something he couldn't hear. He stared out the window, watching the skyline blur.

The cab rumbled to a stop in front of a narrow brick building just past a shuttered café and an old laundromat with flickering signage. Sam paid the fare without looking at the total. His fingers moved on muscle memory, but his mind was far, far behind.

The vines on his arm itched beneath the fabric of his sleeve. Not from healing. From stillness. He climbed the stairs slowly. The hallway smelled like lemon cleaner and radiator heat. Every door looked the same, but his hand moved automatically to the third on the right. His key turned.

The lock clicked. He stepped inside. Darkness. Only the city glow slanting in from a narrow window lit the apartment's single room. A low couch. A coffee table stacked with unopened mail. A kitchen that hadn't been used in weeks. His bed, half-made, clothes piled beside it. The faint hum of a fridge.

Nothing out of place. But everything felt wrong.Sam stood in the doorway, listening. Not for sound; but for presence. There was none. Just… silence. He shut the door behind him. Clicked the lock.

And leaned back against the wood, staring into the dim, familiar space that now felt like a stage set from a life he couldn't fully remember inhabiting. It smelled like detergent and takeout. Not incense. Not moss. Not firelit garlands. No wind in the trees. No Guardian watching from above.

No Vael.

Sam's throat tightened. He crossed to the window, staring out at the street below. A couple walked past, laughing. A dog barked at a pigeon. Music thumped faintly from a passing car. All of it felt like watching strangers through glass.

His eyes drifted to his reflection. In the dark window, his face stared back. Pale. Hollow. Unchanged. But not untouched. The vines on his arm shimmered faintly under the light. Alive. Waiting. His lips moved without meaning to.

"…Vael."

The word was a breath, a prayer, a bruise. And the silence after it felt final. He turned away. Kicked off his shoes. Let his coat slump to the floor. Sam dropped onto the couch, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. He wasn't dreaming. But he wasn't awake either. Something had shifted. Something had snapped.He was back but not the same. And for the first time since his eyes opened in the tattoo parlor, Sam let himself feel the weight of that truth. He was alone. And Eryshae was gone.

The silence in his apartment pressed in like fog; thick and unmoving. Sam dropped his keys in the dish by the door, the familiar clatter sounding strangely distant, like it had traveled across water.

The air didn't feel right. It wasn't cold. Not warm either. Just… off. Like someone had left a window open to a world that didn't quite belong.

The city beyond the glass hummed its usual life; muffled horns, an ambulance in the distance, someone laughing two floors up. But here, inside the walls he was supposed to call home, nothing felt settled.

Then his eyes fell on the desk. His steps slowed. The clutter was familiar; college mailers, a cracked mug, a pen bleeding into a takeout menu; but nestled just left of center, half-hidden beneath a stack of receipts, lay something he didn't remember leaving there.

The Orb.

Split.

Not shattered. Not broken. As though it had unfolded itself. As though something inside had finally decided it was time. Sam stepped closer.

The desk creaked under his weight as he leaned in. The Orb's halves were slick with a strange amber sheen, faintly iridescent in the dim apartment light. Like tree sap left out too long under the sun, but with depth. Memory. Purpose. His fingers hovered above it, not quite daring to touch.

A pulse. Not a sound. Not a flash. Just a feeling; like a breath held just behind his ribcage that wasn't his. Something tugged at the edge of his mind. A voice half-remembered. The weight of vines. A scent like ash and lavender and the sunlight in her hair.

Vael.

His breath caught in his throat. And then. Knock knock. Sam flinched. The sound was abrupt. Not loud. Not urgent. But it snapped through the quiet like a blade drawn slowly. He straightened slowly, gaze still on the Orb.

Another knock. Heavier this time. Measured. Rhythmic. Knock… knock… knock. Not a neighbor. Not a friend. No voice followed. No footsteps retreated. Whoever stood on the other side of that door was waiting.

Sam turned toward the entryway, his footsteps measured now, each one echoing slightly louder than it should have. The hallway felt longer than he remembered. His own apartment felt foreign beneath his feet.

He reached for the doorknob. Paused. His pulse ticked fast against his wrist. The tattooed vines along his left arm prickled. Not with pain, but with awareness. A thin sheen of sweat had formed at the base of his neck.

He leaned in slightly. He could hear breathing. Just barely. Not heavy. Not frantic. Just… calm. Patient. Like the knock hadn't been a request. But a summons. Sam took one last breath. Let it settle. And opened the door.