30. Chapter 29
Chapter 29
V alorne is just as breathtaking as I remember, a tapestry of rolling hills and lush forests that seem to stretch endlessly. The sky above is a vibrant blue, unmarred and pure, with fluffy white clouds lazily drifting across its expanse. And the sun—there’s no warmth like it anywhere in the Sundered Kingdoms, not even in Pariseth. It bathes the landscape in a golden glow, making everything feel alive and vibrant.
In the distance, the town of Kale Harbour comes into view, but we won’t dock the Mordorin ship there; it would draw far too much attention. Instead, Arax deftly guides us into a sheltered cove, releasing the anchor with a splash that echoes against the tranquil water. His gaze sharpens as he scans the horizon, assessing the distance to the shore.
“Shall I carry you to land, Princess?” he asks, extending his hand to me.
Before I can respond, Zyphoro steps forward, her lips curling into a grin. “Family should have that honor,” she says. Her wings, dark and sleek, burst from her back with a snap, the black feathers unfurling like shadows stretching against the sky.
“Very well,” I say, but just before she lifts me into her arms, I catch her gaze. “Do not tell them.”
My voice is low and steady, though my heart is anything but. If I am carrying Daed’s child, I’m not ready for anyone else to know. Not until I’ve had time to make peace with it myself.
Zyphoro tilts her head, amusement flickering across her face. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she replies softly. “Such bonny news should come from your lips only.”
With ease, she lifts me into her arms. Her strength is both surprising and effortless. Her wings beat once, twice, and we rise into the sky. Below, Arax and Solena follow, flying low as we leave the ship behind and head inland.
As we near The Grove, nestled in the heart of Valorne, it unfurls before us, cradled in a deep valley and framed by mountains that stretch toward the clouds. Once, it was even larger—an endless expanse, until the Maledannan Fae burned half of it to ash and another third fell during the Betrayer’s Battle. Yet, the forest endures, resilient in its beauty, and in time, the trees will reclaim their former glory. They tried to destroy it for good, but the roots of The Grove run deep.
At the mouth of the forest lies an open field, where long grasses sway and wildflowers bloom in vibrant colors. To an outsider, it might seem a serene and pretty spot, but for me, it is forever stained by memory. It was here that the Mordorin made their final stand on the last day of the war. They emerged victorious, but at a tremendous cost, and The Grove bore the brunt of that battle.
That day still haunts me—the flames licking the sky, the echoes of screams, the acrid smoke that filled the air, suffocating me, burning my eyes and stealing my breath. It was the last day I saw my parents. So now, as I glimpse smoke rising from the mountains, my stomach tightens with dread.
“What is that?” I murmur, my voice barely audible against the wind. “It is not coming from The Grove.”
Zyphoro’s gaze follows mine, her expression unbothered, a stark contrast to the chill that runs through me. “No. It is just beyond the mountains. An army camp.”
“The Legion of Saints,” I say, more to myself than to her.
A wicked grin curls her lips. “A pleasure I missed out on from my cage. Perhaps if I had been free, we would have won that war.”
I frown, my thoughts turning. “You did win that war.”
She laughs, the sound grating against the reality that weighs on me. “Did we? Half the great houses destroyed, and barely enough Mordorin left to hold another uprising at bay. Sounds more like a delay than a victory. Who leads this pitiful army?”
“They call him the Golden Son,” I say. “As a boy, he was scarred by fire when his village was razed to the ground. Now he wears a mask of gold.”
Zyphoro chuckles, her grin widening. “How dramatic. I can’t wait to rip off that pretty mask and gouge his eyes out.”
The viciousness of her words sends a shiver through me, but I welcome her fury. We will need that fire if we are to defeat the Legion. After witnessing Zyphoro’s prowess in Baev’kalath, I know she will be a formidable weapon for The Grove.
As we soar above The Grove, the canopy below is thick, with ancient branches entwined and cloaked in dense leaves, allowing only thin slivers of sunlight to break through. We touch down at the mouth of the forest flanked by two massive boulders dressed with moss, and are immediately confronted by half of the Blades dispatched from Baev’kalath. They have come as part of the bargain, sworn to their oaths and blissfully ignorant of the chaos that has unfurled across the Untold Sea.
They remain unaware of the fragile alliances fracturing among the Fae, the bitter negotiations that have taken place, or the blood that has already been spilled. They do not know that I, a princess bound by a promise, have just clawed my way from the dark clutches of their queen—saved not by armies, but by a maid, a scarred warrior, and a void-wielding princess long forgotten.
As soon as they see Arax among us, their rigid stance softens, but only slightly. The captain among the Blades steps forward, his face like stone. “Reaper Arax,” he says, voice taut with formality. “Do you bring word from Baev’kalath?”
I swallow, a heavy dread settling deep in my bones. This isn’t the return to The Grove I imagined—not with the weight of the secrets I now carry.
“Your orders remain unchanged,” Arax replies, his voice steady. “You will defend The Grove from any threat, even if that threat comes from our own.”
The Blades exchange wary glances, suspicion clouding their eyes.
“Under whose authority?” the Blade asks, his jaw clenched tight.
“Mine,” Arax says, his tone brooking no argument.
But the Blade doesn’t back down. “A Reaper’s word isn’t enough to make us fight our kin. Where is Commander Rook?”
Arax’s resolve never wavers, though the truth he holds back teeters on the edge of spilling. His silence is a shield, protecting us from losing the allegiance of these elite warriors.
“He is indisposed. I assume command in his absence.”
The Blade’s loyalty to their prince is absolute, and his brow furrows in distrust. “These orders are unacceptable. We will return to Baev’kalath for clarification.”
“No,” a voice cuts through the tension, sharp and smooth. Zyphoro steps forward, her expression lazy, as if the conversation bores her. “If you require the word of Mordorin nobility, then you may take mine.”
The Blade’s eyes narrow. “We don’t know you.”
A slow, dangerous smile spreads across her lips. “Then your existence until now has been tragically meaningless.” She lifts her arms, her fingers curling like talons. “Allow me to enlighten you.”
Without warning, tendrils of smoke burst from her hands, dark and sinewy, snaking through the air before latching onto each Blade’s throat. They choke and gasp, but Zyphoro’s gaze remains as cold and detached as ever, her eyes flashing like a storm brewing on the horizon. Despite the violence, there’s a cruel playfulness in the way she toys with them, her lips twitching with amusement.
“I am Princess Zyphoro Phaedren,” she purrs, tightening her grip on their windpipes. “And you will serve me—or I will snap each of your necks until the sound becomes tiresome.” Her smile widens, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “And it never becomes tiresome.”
The Blades struggle, their faces growing pale as Zyphoro casually dangles their lives in the balance. She holds them there, savoring their helplessness like a predator toying with its prey.
One of the Blades struggles to speak, his hands clawing desperately at the tendrils coiled around his throat. His face turns crimson, veins bulging at his temples as he gasps for breath.
“What’s that?” Zyphoro tilts her head, her expression mocking, leaning in as if she might actually care to hear his reply. She flicks her wrist, and the smoke retracts, the tendril dissolving into the air. The Blade crumples to the ground, gulping in sharp breaths, his body trembling from the shock.
Zyphoro hovers over him, her eerie calmness more unsettling than her violence. “Who do you serve, Blade?” Her voice is soft, almost purr.
Through grit teeth, the Blade coughs, his voice a raw rasp. “You, Princess Zyphoro.”
Her smile is slow, deliberate, as if she hadn’t just dangled the lives of his comrades in front of him like puppets on strings. She releases the tendrils with a wave of her hand, and the rest of the Blades collapse to the ground, wheezing and choking, their strength sapped.
“Excellent.” She steps back with casual grace, not a hint of remorse on her face. “Now, show us to your lovely home, Amara.”
I nod, stepping around the fallen warriors who are still recovering, and with every step into the forest, a familiar warmth spreads through me. The moment my feet touch the soil, it’s as if the world shifts, as if I’ve passed from darkness into light. The earth beneath me thrums with life, and I am filled with a bliss that transcends words, that no tongue, either human nor Fae could ever fully describe. It’s more than just contentment; it’s a deep, undeniable sense of steadiness, of belonging.
It is home.
The scent of the trees, the feel of the soil, the distant hum of the forest’s heartbeat—it embraces me, wraps around me like an old friend. Here, the weight of Baev’kalath and all its horrors slip away. For the first time in what feels like forever, I feel safe. Safe and grounded. And if there is one thing in this world I can trust, it is The Grove.
“I will stay here and gather a report from these Blades,” Arax mutters, glancing down at them with a trace of disdain. Despite knowing the power that subdued them, he seems almost disappointed by how easily they had fallen, as if they had forgotten the elite warriors they were.
I nod, feeling the weight of his silent judgment, then turn to Zyphoro and Solena, who fall in beside me. The Grove is unlike anywhere else—alive in a way that must be felt, not explained. The ancient trees tower above, making us seem no bigger than ants, their thick trunks humming with age-old secrets. Vines twist upward, a chaotic tapestry of green and gold. Rivers thread through the landscape, their waters glinting under the dappled sunlight that filters through the branches above, the sound of their gentle flow soothing, as if the very air hums with peace.
The woodland creatures—rabbits, foxes, even the elusive hart—move freely, their paws and hooves barely making a sound as they dart between the trees. They move as though they are unbothered by the presence of Fae or human, as if they know they are the true masters of this place. Birds flit overhead, their songs filling the air with a harmony that blends perfectly with the sound of running water and the soft rustle of leaves. Even the sunlight here feels different, warmer, as if it carries with it a hum, a quiet melody that fills my head like wine.
The entire forest is thick with life, vibrating with magic, a pulse that comes from the earth itself. Every step I take, I feel it beneath my feet—a heartbeat, steady and strong, as if The Grove itself recognizes me.
Zyphoro remains silent at my side, her eyes sweeping across the lush landscape with quiet curiosity, while Solena seems more at ease, her steps lighter as we continue through the overgrowth. But my heart beats a little faster with every step, a tension tightening in my chest. Despite the beauty and serenity of The Grove, there is no ignoring the darkness that still follows us, a shadow that clings to the edges of this peaceful place, waiting for the right moment to strike.
Then suddenly, I hear them—the voices I’ve longed for, the ones I’ve missed more than anything in this world. Their absence has been a hollow ache, a bottomless pit that has widened with every passing day since the last time I heard them.
Amara. Jewel. You have returned.
I freeze, my breath catching in my throat, my heart swelling until it feels like it might burst. Tears well at the corners of my eyes, unstoppable. I press my hand against a tree, the rough bark warm and alive beneath my palm, and I feel them—the Souls of the Forest—coursing through the earth, through the air, through me. Every nerve in my body sparks to life, ignited by their presence.
Yes , I answer. You cannot know how much I have missed you .
Amara. You feel so sad.
That simple statement undoes me. The dam breaks, and the tears spill over. I crumble against the tree, my knees giving way as the weight of it all, the burden I’ve carried, comes crashing down. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, I let myself feel the fear, the despair, the brokenness that I have hidden away.
I have been so terrified—terrified to leave The Grove, terrified of what awaited me across the Untold Sea, terrified of Baev’kalath and the husband who waited for me there. But I buried that fear, locked it away beneath the facade of duty, telling myself that I had to be strong, that I had no other choice.
Admitting my fear would have meant admitting that I wasn’t as strong as I pretended to be. And that was the only thing that got me through any of it—the belief that I was capable of facing everything alone. But now, here, in my forest, within the embrace of the Souls, I feel stripped bare. Exposed.
When I remember that Solena and Zyphoro stand behind me, I fight to compose myself, wiping my cheeks with my sleeve and sniffling back the last of my tears. They look at each other. Anywhere but at me.
“We’re almost there,” I say, forcing my voice to steady despite the ragged breaks. I pull my hand away from the tree and continue forward, guiding them through the forest.
As we venture deeper, the air around us shifts, becoming thick with the scent of damp earth and lush foliage. Stone archways, etched with runes and draped in vibrant moss, emerge from the overgrowth, carving a winding path through the verdant wilderness. Then the sound of water reaches my ears—a gentle roar that grows louder as we approach. A waterfall tumbles gracefully over the edge of a moss-covered bank, cascading into a crystal-clear stream below. The water sparkles in the sunlight, a lively ribbon weaving through the underbrush, guiding us toward the heart of the forest.
We follow the stream to the vine wall, a massive curtain of living, writhing vines that serve as The Grove’s strongest and final defense. Wings snap the air, and I look up to see the remaining Blades walking the wall.
“Open,” I call. “I am Amara Tyne. Jewel of the Tenders. I have returned.”
I hear my name whispered on the breeze, spreading from one mouth to the next until the entire forest seems to herald my return. The gates of the vine wall part, the thick greenery unfurling to reveal The Grove. We step through, and immediately, I feel I am home.
Wooden steps wind around thick trunks to reach the dwellings nestled in their branches high above, where soft lamp light casts a warm amber glow through the windows. Rope bridges of vines crisscross between the treetops, swaying gently with the breeze while below, on the forest floor, smaller cottages sit cradled within between giant roots, their walls covered in moss, blending so perfectly into the landscape that you might miss them at first glance.
A deer passes by, moving lazily between the homes, and a pair of rabbits scurry underfoot. No one pays them any mind—this is their home too. The people of The Grove move in harmony with the animals, weaving between the creatures as naturally as they do each other. The scent of fresh earth and wild herbs fills my lungs as I take it all in. The sounds of daily life hum in the background: children laughing, tools working against wood, quiet conversations flowing as easily as the streams that run alongside the homes.
I pass a group of villagers sitting beneath an ancient oak, sewing and chatting softly, their clothes simple, woven from linen and dyed with the colors of the forest. One of the women looks up as I pass, her face lighting with recognition. “Amara,” she says, her voice filled with warmth, and the others soon follow suit, murmuring my name like it’s a song they’ve missed.
The further we walk, the deeper I feel the connection to this place, to its people. Every root, every leaf seems to pulse with life, and with each step, it’s as if The Grove welcomes me back, wrapping me in its steady embrace. The ache in my chest eases, but the weight of what I’ve seen, what I’ve escaped, lingers just beneath the surface.
Ahead, the center of The Grove waits—the great vine-covered hall where Keeper Tovar and the council reside. I glance at Zyphoro, whose gaze is already sweeping over the village with quiet interest, while Solena walks close beside me, her eyes flicking between the trees, wary but curious.
The vines that cover the doorway of the hall slowly untangle and pull back, parting with a soft, whispering rustle as Keeper Tovar steps forward. He is as much a part of the forest as the ancient trees that shelter The Grove, his tall, lean frame draped in a cloak woven from moss and ivy. His long, braided hair, a mix of silver and deep brown, cascades over his shoulders, blending with the natural hues of the woods. His skin, the rich tone of fertile soil, bears the lines of age and wisdom, each wrinkle telling stories only the forest itself might remember.
In his hand, he carries a staff of gnarled, ancient wood, twisted like the roots of the deepest trees. The wood is etched with faintly glowing runes, symbols of protection and knowledge pulsing with soft, emerald light. His sharp, oak-brown eyes widen in surprise as he takes in my presence.
"Amara," Tovar breathes, and I notice his throat bob.
“Keeper Tovar,” I murmur, bowing my head slightly.
His eyes search mine, as if to confirm that I am truly here, his hand rising to touch the vines around the doorway for stability. “You’ve… returned,” he says, his voice filled with wonder. “I feared… I feared we might never see you again.” His arms unfurl. “Come to me, child.”
I waste no time running up the stairs and throwing my arms around his waist, burying the side of my face in his chest. He wraps one arm around my shoulder, while his hand gently strokes my hair, his head resting gently above mine.
This man is not just our Keeper, he is our guardian, our guide, and the closest thing I had to a parent after mine perished in the Betrayer’s Battle. In fact, the entire Tenders Council became my family, but it was always Tovar I idolized the most.
Wise. Kind. Fair. Loyal. All the things I wanted to be.
Slowly we part and Tovar’s expression softens with relief, but it doesn’t take long before his gaze shifts toward the strangers at my back. His brow furrows slightly as he takes them in, his voice dropping lower.
“You carry more with you than when you left.”
“They are friends,” I say.
“Friends?” Tovar repeats, his tone laced with disbelief, startling me. He quickly softens, his usual composure returning. “Friends are always welcome, as long as they assure us no harm will come to The Grove or its people.”
Zyphoro shrugs, a lazy smirk playing on her lips. “Don’t mind me. I’m just along for the ride.”
Solena rolls her eyes, clearly annoyed by Zyphoro’s flippant attitude. Every word from her seems to grate on Solena’s nerves.
“This is Solena,” I begin, gesturing to her. “And this is Princess Zyphoro Phaedren.”
Tovar’s eyes widen in surprise. “Phaedren… you are the princes…?”
“Sister,” Zyphoro cuts in smoothly. “And Zyphoro is fine.”
“I did not know he had a sister,” Tovar says, his voice betraying a flicker of unease.
Zyphoro sighs dramatically. “You’re not alone. But don’t worry. I’ll fix that.”
Tovar forces a tight, polite smile, but his weariness is clear.
The Grove’s Keeper, always composed, is unsettled by Zyphoro’s presence.
“Amara, your friends are welcome to enjoy the hospitality of The Grove,” he says. “Our home is your home. Make yourselves comfortable.” He steps aside, motioning toward the entrance of the hall, his staff tipping slightly. The runes etched into the wood catch the light, glowing faintly. “Come, Amara. There is much we need to discuss.”
I glance back at Solena and Zyphoro. “I won’t be long. You’re safe here.”
Both of them look around, clearly skeptical. The serene surroundings, the towering trees, sunlight shimmering through the leaves, and rabbits bounding freely through the village—all of it seems to baffle them. I’m not sure whether they’re more perplexed by the idyllic scenery or the warm smiles from everyone who passes by.
Leaving them behind, I follow Tovar through the vine curtain and up the wooden stairs that spiral around the great tree at the heart of the village. His familiar scent, earthy and comforting, and the reassuring hand he places on my shoulder as we ascend, threatens to bring tears to my eyes again.
“You look different,” he says softly, studying my face with concern, as if trying to read the changes etched into my features.
“I feel different,” I admit, my voice quiet, burdened with the weight of everything I’ve endured.
Tovar nods knowingly, his sharp eyes never leaving mine. “The price we paid was great. But if the Fae sent you back, what does this mean for The Grove?”
“I wasn’t sent back,” I correct him, a flicker of nervousness in my voice. “I left. Ran away, actually.”
Tovar’s brow furrows deeply. “What? And those Fae helped you?”
I nod. “And one other, Arax. He’s with the Blades guarding the entrance.”
Tovar’s calm demeanor slips. His movements grow swift as he ushers me through the arch and into the hall, another vine curtain closing behind us with a soft rustle.
The hall is carved into the great tree, its walls intertwined with thick, twisting roots and blanketed in soft moss. A large, round window on the far wall offers a breathtaking view of The Grove. Tovar’s staff taps lightly on the floor as he leads me deeper inside, his expression tight with the questions that now hang heavily in the air.
Gathered around a recessed table are eight men and women, all draped in cloaks similar to Tovar’s, though less intricate. When they see me, they rise in unison, my name whispered like a prayer on their lips. Keeper Erania rushes to me, her arms enveloping me before I can even breathe, her hand smoothing over my hair as if she needs to confirm that I am real.
“Jewel,” she gasps, holding me so tightly I can hardly breathe. “You’ve come back to us.”
“She ran away,” Tovar cuts in, his voice sharp and disapproving. His demeanor, which was once warm and reassuring, has grown colder, harder and it startles me.
Erania stiffens, glancing at him with a raised brow. “If she did, it must have been for good reason.”
“It was,” I say quickly, desperate to defend myself. “Keeper, the things they had planned for me… You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I can barely believe it myself.”
Tovar shakes his head, his expression distant, as though my words aren’t even reaching him. “I must speak with King Kaelus. We must put things right.”
“Tovar,” Erania snaps, pulling me closer as if to shield me from his harshness. “Our Jewel has returned to The Grove. We should be welcoming her, not scolding her.”
“It’s not that I’m not happy to see you, precious child,” Tovar says, brushing his hand lightly over mine, though now his touch feels colder, more distant than ever before. “But you know the bargain to protect The Grove rests on you being in Baev’kalath, with your husband, the prince. No matter what drove you to leave, there will be repercussions—repercussions we are not prepared for. Even the twenty Blades at our gates, sent to protect us, could destroy The Grove if they so wished. Let alone the army that camps just beyond the hills.”
I swallow hard. “I saw them.”
“Then you understand. The Legion of Saints waits. If they learn you’ve returned, it could give them the reason they need to attack. You are the wife of their enemy. You being here without the prince puts us all in danger,” he says, and the weight of his words makes my heart sink. He pauses, realizing the gravity of what he’s just said, and his face softens, his hand pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t mean to sound so callous.”
“Then you are failing, miserably,” Erania snaps. “Come, Amara. There are those here who have prayed to the Souls every day for your return, who will celebrate that you are finally home.”
Erania guides me toward the council, her arm still wrapped around me protectively. She is right—their faces are filled with warmth and relief, not a hint of disappointment. They cup my face, press gentle kisses to my brow, murmuring words of love and welcome. But in the corner of my eye, I see Tovar, the man I would pretend was my father as a child, standing apart. His jaw clenched, his mind clearly spiraling with thoughts he hasn’t voiced. His silence, his distance, weighs on me, and suddenly, this homecoming feels like a wish gone wrong, far from the reunion I had hoped for.