A Bargain of Smoke and Vines

33. Chapter 32

Chapter 32

T he days that follow are fleeting, each one slipping away faster than the last as The Grove transforms from a peaceful sanctuary into a place bracing for war. Knowing that we will receive no aid from Baev’kalath, Arax and Zyphoro take charge of training every able man and woman, their approach to teaching wildly different but equally effective.

Arax, with his calm and methodical precision, focuses on the basics—how to hold a sword, how to block, how to strike without wasting energy. His patience is endless, though the frustration is palpable in the set of his jaw whenever a trainee fumbles or hesitates.

“You’re holding that blade like a broomstick,” Arax growls at a young man, stepping behind him to adjust his grip. “If you swing like that, you’ll cut your own head off before you even reach the enemy.”

Beside him, Zyphoro grins wickedly as she demonstrates far more... unorthodox techniques. Her voice is smooth, almost teasing, as she whirls through the air with her daggers, her agility and precision something so instinctively naturally that it’s entrancing to watch. “Forget blocking,” she tells a group of wide-eyed recruits, most of whom are still struggling to keep their balance. “Your enemies will be faster, stronger, and crueler than you. So instead, be unpredictable. Be crueler. No one ever won a battle by fighting fair.”

She spins around one of the more timid trainees, whispering as she slashes her blade through the air mere inches from his ear. “See? Terrifying, isn’t it?” She laughs as the man stumbles back, pale-faced, while Arax rolls his eyes.

“Maybe try not to kill them before the battle,” he mutters under his breath. When he sees the concern plaguing my face, he straightens his broad shoulders, solid as a mighty rock, shattering anything that dares break upon it. “They will be ready, Princess.”

It’s a fragile reassurance, and we both know it, but it's enough to keep us moving forward.

Meanwhile, Solena has taken on a different task, one suited to her more practical mindset. She spends her days fortifying an underground shelter hidden deep within the forest, gathering whoever isn’t training to help her shore up the walls with thick wooden beams and stone reinforcements. Her work is meticulous, ensuring that if the worst happens, there will be a place for the children and the elderly to hide.

“I didn’t think it would come to this.” I mutter to her as the Tenders carry water, dried fruits, nuts and seeds into the sanctuary. “Maybe I should have stayed in that castle.”

“Don’t do that to yourself, Amara,” Solena says. “You would have died in Baev’kalath.”

“But The Grove would have been safe,” I reply quickly, a breath hitching in my throat.

“But for how long? You have seen how the houses quarrel. The Fae are holding on by the thinnest of threads. There is nothing to say your sacrifice would have saved The Grove. It is better off with you here, alive, to fight alongside them.”

“And if I fail?” I ask. An impossible question to put on Solena’s shoulders.

She answers it with the spirit I’ve come to expect from her. Strong and resilient. “Then we fail together, and I will consider that an honor if it is by your side.”

I reach out and grip her hand and when she squeezes back, it is all the reassurance I need. But there is one last thing I can try before I meet the Legion on the battlefield. One last attempt to spare innocent Tenders’ lives.

“I must speak to the Golden Son,” I say, and Solena’s hand loosens.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Amara. He will kill you on the spot.”

“He met with me once to discuss the terms of The Grove’s surrender. Perhaps he will meet again.”

“So now we are surrendering?” Solena says with mocking disbelief. She gestures to the sanctuary. “Do not tell me I have been digging in the dirt for nothing.”

“We are not surrendering,” I say firmly, “and that is an oath I take with every measure of my being. Instead, I will ask him to spare us from his war on the Fae. I have returned alone. I am no longer a part of their conflict.”

“You have returned with three Fae, including a princess and a lieutenant of the Ebon Flight, and still have a small company of Blades serving you,” she frowns. “I do not know this Golden Son, but if he leads an army as large and well organized as the Legion, I assume he has some common sense.”

I furrow my brow. “You are supposed to be on my side.”

Solena shrugs. “A true friend would tell you when you’re teetering on the edge of madness.”

My hand slips free from Solena’s and she releases a heavy breath. “I’m going, Solena.”

“Then I am going with you.”

“No,” I protest. “I need you here to take care of these people if things do not go as planned…”

“Which they won’t,” she mutters under her breath.

I pretend I didn’t hear. “I will take Arax.”

“And leave me with Princess Zyphoro?” Solena rolls her eyes. “If you want us all dead, I’d prefer you get it over with now and spare me being alone with her.”

“I’m trying to save lives,” I say, working to soothe Solena’s ire. “Before it’s too late.”

“I know,” she grumbles. “But if you don’t survive this, I’ll kill you.”

I nod. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

I turn my back, heading towards the council hall, already planning what I will tell them.

“Amara,” Solena calls to me, and I look over my shoulder at her. “If the opportunity presents itself. Kill him.”

Her words slam into me, leaving me disorientated. But when my mind slips back into focus, I realize she is right. Without the Golden Son, the ranks of the Legion would fall into disarray, and The Grove would be safe, if even for a short while. Long enough for us to prepare for the next onslaught. I nod and Solena returns to her work while I tramp through the dirt to the council hall.

“You’re sure?” Enaria asks, her dark eyes wracked with uncertainty.

The council all have their chins against their chests, muttering amongst each other.

“I’m sure. If I am to lead The Tenders, then I must lead in a way fitting of our people. War is not our philosophy. We must strive to make peace first, avoid bloodshed at all costs.”

“That is what Keeper Tovar attempted to do, and look what came of it,” Enaria growls angrily.

Tovar’s actions still strike a pain in my chest. My outrage mingled with a lifetime’s worth of favored memories. I briefly wonder where in Valorne he is right now. If in his exile, he is lost or scared with no voices to comfort him in his darkest moments.

“We are outnumbered and barely have enough swords to put in hands. Even we sisters are not the warriors we once were. We are for mending and guiding now, not battle, and we have the aid of a handful of Fae, but they are no match for the share size of the Legion army.” I knew all this before I came to the council hall, but saying it out loud allows it to truly sink in, leaving my chest hollow and my blood cold. “I must try, Keeper Enaria.”

She nods. “Very well. We will continue preparations and if you return unsuccessful, Jewel, we will be ready to fight.” A half smile trembles on her mouth. “Just return, alright?”

As I leave the hall and walk through The Grove, watching the training sessions, the fortifications, the preparations that hum beneath every conversation, it’s a strange feeling—being surrounded by so much activity, so much focus—while knowing the storm that looms on the horizon.

I find Arax on the training field, and we go back and forth on my decision for far too long. He growls and scorns me like a child, but then immediately apologizes after each scathing remark.

“Are you coming with me or not?” I ask him with finality.

“Of course I bloody am,” he groans, as if my asking only infuriates him more. “I’m your bodyguard.”

“Have you forgotten? King Kaelus released you from that duty.” I say it almost jokingly, but the severity of his face hints he does not feel the same way.

“No one, not even a king, will keep me from protecting you, Es…” His voice cuts off, his breaths ragged with his realization and I feel it too, the pain and regret that scars him. “Princess,” he finishes.

I take a step towards him, reaching out and clasping my hand over his and when his weathered eyes meet mine, the understanding between us is more than words can convey.

“Let’s leave now,” I say.

He nods. “As you wish.”

I choose not to fly to the Legion camp.

I want to arrive on my own two feet, not in the arms of the Fae whom this rebel army despises. However, they are still two days' ride from The Grove. Arax's solution is simple in theory but complicated in execution. We will void walk there, but the distance is too great to cover in one leap. Instead, as he describes it, we will “leapfrog” through the void, jumping from portal to portal until we reach the Legion camp. He warns me that it will hurt and that even the oldest Mordorin Fae struggle not to get lost in the void. I tell him I trust him.

Arax's hands tighten over the reins as he leads the stag through the overgrowth. The creature is powerful beneath me, towering over Arax with its eight feet of earth-brown fur, patched with green and gold. Its antlers branch out before me, twisted like tree roots and adorned with glowing moss and vibrant flowers that bloom in a riot of color.

My green robes trail behind me, the gold stitching glinting in the afternoon sun as we emerge from The Grove and step onto a field of wildflowers—such beauty sewn with the blood of a battle long ago. A battle that not only took from me but from Arax as well. I can see it in the way he surveys the long grass swaying in the breeze, recalling bodies falling as steel clashed and screams echoed through the air.

I touch his hand on the reins, stirring him from his memories, but he does not dwell on them. He is a man of action, and there are things to be done.

“Are you ready, Princess?”

When I nod, Arax shrugs off his cloak. The runes on his back pulse just before his black wings, streaked with gray, burst forth with a sudden snap. He narrows his eyes on the horizon, where the approaching Legion sets up camp, then thrusts his hand forward. Ribbons of smoke soar through the air before stopping abruptly to form a swirling circle. Slowly, the smoke gives way to a vast emptiness—a black, endless maw that I have seen in my waking nightmares. The void. A place of untold power and endless despair.

With a beat of his wings, Arax rises into the air, hovering beside me, waiting for me to make the first move. I take a deep breath, exhaling any doubt or fear. There is no room for that here. I place my hand flat against the stag’s muscular neck, feeling the warmth of its body beneath my palm. Run , my mind whispers.

The stag's powerful legs spring into action, its hooves pounding against the ground with a sound like war drums echoing through the air. Arax pins back his wings, flying alongside me as we charge toward the portal. I grip the reins tightly, my heartbeat syncing with the stag’s, our minds merging as we near the encroaching darkness. I feel both of us hold our breaths as we leap blindly into the void.

It’s like plunging underwater—eerily silent and all-encompassing, with no way to breathe. The emptiness wraps around us, an eternal abyss, but I refuse to surrender to its calm. I know what lurks here. This is the domain of The Father Below, and he always hungers.

Before the darkness can settle into my bones, we emerge on the other side, transported miles from where we entered, The Grove now a distant memory. Arax releases another series of smoke arrows, and a new portal bends into existence before us. We charge into that one as well, emerging further away, the Legion camp growing closer with each leap.

Arax clenches his jaw, the strain evident on his face as we void walk yet again. Despite his warnings, I find I’ve managed to remain composed, enduring only a few sharp jolts of pain that force me to grit my teeth and tighten my grip on the reins until my knuckles turn white and my nails dig into my palms.

Though I’m relieved not to be sick, a nagging worry lingers. Is my resistance to the void a sign of the part of it that grows within me?

With one final jump we appear at the foot of the Legion Camp, and the wall of guards release a collective gasp, the ring of their swords almost deafening.

I quickly raise my hand as I gasp for breath, my stomach churning. “Wait,” I say with urgency before they attack. “I am Amara Tyne. Jewel of the Tenders. Guardian of the Grove. I wish to parlay with the Golden Son.”

The soldiers in their gilded armor exchange glances through the visors of their helms, each adorned with a sharp steel crest. Embellished on their chests is the image of crossed swords framed by praying hands, a motif that also appears on their heavy-scaled pauldrons and gauntlets and flowing behind them are their heavy red cloaks.

Their ranks part, allowing me a pathway into their camp, and with a thought, the stag takes a step forward. But when Arax tries to walk alongside us, the soldiers fall back into line.

“Not the Fae. He stays here.”

Arax snarls, his canines emerging, his hand hovering over his sword. “Not on your life, boy.”

The Legion reach for their own swords, and I throw my arms up in protest. I will not have a war break out here and now.

“Fine. I accept your terms,” I say, and I feel Arax’s eyes burning through me.

I look down at him, offering a smile I know gives him very little comfort. “Please, Arax. Wait here.”

“But, Princess,’ he pleads.

I shake my head lightly. “If I do not return, then you must return to The Grove to protect it. Do you promise me that?”

Arax exhales, then nods slow and reluctant. “Yes, Princess.”

The Legion soldiers part once more and the stag strides between them, and I feel Arax’s gaze with every thundering step. The makeshift encampment sprawls before me, an arrangement of tents and flickering campfires. Soldiers huddle together, their faces drawn and weary, exchanging glances filled with disdain as they watch us approach. The scent of smoke hangs heavy in the air, mingling with unease.

But the stag and I remain steady as we weave through the throng of soldiers and when I look into the distance and see how far this army stretches, dread sears beneath my skin. If it comes to war, The Grove can not possibly survive. Finally, we come to a stop outside a large tent, its fabric slightly tattered, marked by the swords and praying hands.

I dismount from the stag, its powerful form shifting beneath me, and it takes a moment before my feet touch the ground. A soldier at the door glares at me through his visor, then pulls back the curtain of the tent. The interior is dimly lit, and anticipation coils within me as I take a deep breath and step inside.

A single lantern casts a warm, flickering glow, illuminating a modest wooden table scattered with maps and scrolls. In the opposite corner, a simple bed is made up with a rough blanket.

When my gaze finally lands on him, I’m momentarily struck by the sight.

I have seen him before, but each encounter jolts me, though I can’t explain why. He sits casually on a makeshift stool, his presence both commanding and relaxed. One hand props up his sword, the point embedded in the dirt as if it were an extension of himself, while the other drapes lazily over his knee. The flickering light from the nearby lantern casts shadows across his figure, highlighting the crimson of his tunic, which sharply contrasts with the darkness of his black trousers and the striking yellow-blond of his hair.

But it is his mask that captures my attention—a stunning creation of gold, its craftsmanship resembling flames caught in mid-surge. The design is both beautiful and fearsome, the golden hues shifting with the light, creating the illusion of flickering fire. Encased within are the bluest eyes I have ever seen.

“Jewel of the Tenders—or is it Princess Amara of the Mordorin?” he greets me, his voice steady and unhurried, carrying an air of calculated calm. “To what do I owe the esteemed pleasure of your visit?”

“It is just Amara, and I’ve come to speak with you about the Legion and the conflict brewing on our borders,” I reply, forcing my voice to remain steady despite the unease churning in my stomach.

He leans back slightly, studying me with an intensity that feels palpable, even through his mask. “And what exactly do you wish to discuss? The Legion has taken root, and soon it will be too late for negotiations.”

I stand tall, my resolve hardening. “I believe there’s still a chance for peace, but it requires understanding from both sides. The Grove cannot afford another war.”

The Golden Son nods slowly, but his expression is a mystery behind the mask. “No, it cannot. But you knew that months ago when I came to you in peace and offered you a solution. Not only did you refuse my generous offer to be your master, you attacked my men.”

“They attacked first. We were defending ourselves—”

“And to further insult me, you marry the Fae responsible for the deaths of thousands of human lives.” His hand grips his knee, the roped muscles of his forearms tightening, the only sign of his anger.

As his words hang in the air, I realize that this conversation will not be easy.

“I’m asking you to consider a different path,” I say, my voice steady despite the tension coiling in my chest. “A path that could spare countless lives, including those of your own men.”

“Where is your prince?” he asks, disregarding my plea. “My scouts say he was not amongst the Fae you arrived with.”

“That is not your concern,” I reply curtly, my heart thumping hard in my chest. “All I care about is—”

“Yes, yes. Your people .” He rises from his chair, and with a fluid flick of his wrist, he returns his sword to the sheath at his waist. He steps toward me, closing the distance between us. “You ask me for mercy, but what do I get in return?”

I hear his breaths beneath the mask as he looms over me, his gaze so intense that I struggle to meet his eyes. “What is it you want?”

A rumble escapes his throat. “I want to crush every Fae into dust beneath my boot. I want to feel the snap when I rip their wings from their backs with my bare hands. I want to burn their houses to the ground and then piss on their ashes with my human cock. Can you give me any of that… Amara?”

I gulp, his words leaving me speechless, and I fight to keep from trembling before him. I shake my head.

His eyes roam over me, lingering longer than they should have.

“Then you have nothing I want,” he mutters bitterly. “Get out.”

He turns his back on me, and my ire flares. “No. You cannot do this; my people—”

“ You are the reason this is happening to your people! ” he bellows, snapping back to me. “You refused to bend the knee, insisting on your precious neutrality. But there are no innocents in this war. Whether human or Fae, this is the way the world is. This is how we made it. It is them or us. There can be no in-between. Yet, despite your piousness, you sold yourself to those winged bastards instead of fighting alongside your people. Us. The Legion. Humans . Instead, you chose the Fae.” His fist clenches. “And what was the price paid, Amara, Jewel of the Tenders? How much gold and jewels were bartered for your… charms?”

My teeth grit, anger surging in my belly, rage clawing at my neck like a rabid beast. “How dare you? You know nothing of which you speak.”

“Fine. Let me tell you what I do know, Princess Amara. I know that the Legion marches for The Grove at dawn, and I know the next time we meet, I will not be so gracious.” He leans in, his eyes narrowing. “Now leave while I still allow it.”

I don’t waste time arguing. I throw back the curtain of his tent and storm out into the makeshift stronghold. The stag drops onto its knees so I can mount its back, and once I grip the reins, it rises to its hooves. With a whisper from my mind, it breaks into a gallop, soldiers scrambling out of its path or risking being trampled.

At the perimeter, Arax waits for me, relief flooding his face when he sees me coming. His wings burst from his back, and he takes to the air to keep pace with me as I flee.

“Princess,” he asks, the wind whipping against us. “What happened?”

I hiss through gritted teeth as I urge the stag to run faster. “We go to war.”

Here in the moonlight, I’ve never felt like such a fool. My attempts to stop this conflict only led to the Golden Son spitting vile threats and reducing me to a stuttering girl pretending to be a leader. I’m not sure which is worse: returning with my tail between my legs or informing my friends, my people, the council, that I have failed and the Legion marches at dawn.

Solena paces the room we share, assuring me I did all I could, but her words offer little comfort when I know there was one more thing I could have done—followed her advice and killed the arrogant bastard when I had the chance.

I can’t stay here, consumed by these thoughts.

If war is coming, I must be as strong as I can be for the last stand.

I push myself off the bed, craving the cool air to clear my mind and pull myself out of this haze. My feet carry me through the village and into the woods, toward the clearing. The night is crisp, the breeze a welcome reprieve from the heat of anger and disappointment. When I reach the clearing, I sit in the soft grass, closing my eyes and allowing the world around me to fade away.

When I open them again, I am no longer in the clearing. The shrine of the Sisters of the Vine rises before me, its glowing runes casting an ethereal light across the ancient tree and its web of power. My sisters—Lira, Mirael, and Saren—are already gathered there, kneeling in silent prayer, their eyes closed as they commune with the Souls.

“We need the power,” I say urgently as I approach them.

My sisters look at me with arched brows.

“If we are to defend The Grove, our people will need more than just our healing,” I continue, slipping into the circle. “They will need the power of the sisters who came before us.”

I add my hands to the chain, and energy surges through us unbroken.

“That magic is dangerous,” Lira warns. “It will drain you dry, and no amount of sleep will restore what you’ve lost.”

“That is why the sisters before us let it go,” Mirael adds. “Focusing only on healing and growth.”

I shake my head. “That will not save us, sister.”

Saren smiles. “Our Jewel is right. We have been passive long enough. If we truly love The Grove, then we should do whatever it takes, no matter the price. Shouldn’t we?”

I look at Lira and Mirael, eager to see if Saren’s words have swayed them to our cause.

Mirael speaks first. “When I was chosen as a Sister of the Vine, I was told it was my duty to protect The Grove. How can we hold true to those oaths if we are not willing to risk ourselves? I say we fight.”

The three of us turn to Lira, who holds her ground for a moment before finally relenting, her shoulders slumping.

“Very well,” she exhales. “We fight.”

Soon, the Souls fills my mind, their voices soft yet powerful.

Amara, they greet me, their voices wrapping around me like the whisper of leaves in the wind. You ask for the power of the forest itself. It is not given lightly, but we will grant it to you. The Sisters of the Vine shall be amplified, their strength entwined with the ancient magic that flows through the trees, the rivers, the earth beneath your feet. You will have dominion over the forest, but the price remains: pain for pain .

I glance at my sisters, seeing their resolve harden. This is the burden we must carry if we are to protect The Grove. The Souls offer power beyond measure, but nothing comes free in this world. I already understand the weight of such a price—how the energy to heal or to harm must come from somewhere.

“We understand,” I say, my voice low but firm. “We accept the price.”

The others nod solemnly in agreement, and we drop to our knees, our hands pressing into the earth.

Then it begins.

The forest stirs around us, the trees groaning as if waking from a deep slumber. The glow of the runes in the shrine brightens, their fluorescent green light spilling over the branches and casting an eerie glow through the twisted limbs. Slowly, the light spreads—into the ground, through the roots, up into the trees. It moves like a pulse, the ancient magic of the forest coming alive with a power that thrums beneath our skin.

The glow intensifies, and as it reaches us, I feel it. The energy of the forest surges into me, filling each of us with the strength of the land itself. My body hums with it, the power thrumming through my veins, connecting me to the roots beneath my feet, to the leaves above, to every living thing within the forest.

The Souls of the Forest have infused us with their power, and I feel it in every breath, every heartbeat. We are not alone. The forest will fight with us, its strength ours to wield, but the reminder of the price lingers at the edges of my mind. Pain for pain.

I leave my sisters at the shrine and transport myself back to the clearing where Ashen waits for me, chasing moonbeams that shift between the rustling leaves. We return to the village, and as I walk through the darkness of the forest, the silence presses in on me, thick and stifling. The path back is familiar, one I’ve walked countless times, but tonight it feels different.

Everything feels different.

My mind is tangled in the weight of what’s happened—the power that thrummed through me in the den of the Sisters, the energy I absorbed, the warnings of pain for pain. I reach for the rune around my neck, my fingers tracing its worn edges, feeling the subtle charge that hums beneath my skin.

Ashen pads silently at my side, his small form blending into the shadows. And then I hear it—a sound behind me, a faint rustling, barely perceptible but unmistakable. I stop, my heart thudding in my ears, and listen.

Silence.

I take a few steps forward, but the noise comes again, closer this time. A shiver runs down my spine. Slowly, I turn, scanning the darkness behind me.

Nothing.

“Ashen,” I whisper, hoping for some comfort. He stays close, ears twitching, but even he seems tense.

Another sound—soft, deliberate, a warning. Someone's there. I can feel it, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. My mouth goes dry. “Who’s there? Show yourself.”

From the shadows, a figure steps forward, just beyond the reach of the moonlight.

My heart nearly stops when I see him. Tall, broad-shouldered, cloaked in darkness, but I know that form. I know that presence, the aura that surrounds him like a storm.

“No,” I breathe, shaking my head as if denying it will make it go away. “You’re not real.”

The figure steps closer, his face emerging from the shadows, and my breath catches in my throat.

It’s my prince.

My husband.

My betrayer.

Every inch of him is just as I remember—the fierce gaze that once unraveled me, the sharp, commanding lines of his face, and the cold, enigmatic intensity in his eyes. For a brief, aching moment, I can almost feel the pull of him, the bond that once tied us together. My heart clenches, betraying me with its yearning, even as my mind screams in disbelief.

Daedalus watches me, his gaze heavy with something I can't decipher—something that sends a shiver down my spine.

“Amara,” he says, his voice low, filled with everything I don’t want to hear, everything I’ve been trying to forget.

I take a step back, my hands shaking, my heart pounding against my ribs. How is he here?

“Amara,” he calls again, his voice soft but commanding, and in that moment, something in Ashen shifts.

The air around him ripples, and before I can comprehend what’s happening, his slight form grows, expanding in a swirl of smoke and shadow. His fur darkens, lengthening, as his body morphs into something enormous—something fierce. He roars, a deep, earth-shaking sound that sends a chill down my spine. His eyes blaze with an eerie, spectral light, his body now massive, powerful, like a creature from a nightmare.

“Ashen?” I gasp, my voice barely audible as I stumble backward.

Ashen, now a towering lion of smoke and shadow, charges forward, his growl vibrating through the trees as he leaps toward Daedalus with claws outstretched and a mass of writhing tentacles twisting from his back. The force of his transformation is violent. The ground trembles beneath my feet, the air crackling with energy.

Panic grips me, and without a second thought, I turn and run, my legs burning as I race through the forest, branches tearing at my skin. Behind me, the sounds of a battle I don’t dare to witness rages on—Ashen's monstrous roars, the clash of shadow and darkness.

I run faster, the terror gripping me like a vise, because I can’t look back. If I do, I might find that Daedalus isn’t real—or worse— that he is.