36. Chapter 35
Chapter 35
T he Grove is victorious.
The Legion of Saints has retreated, their ranks shattered and scattered to the wind, but as I recall the carnage, the victory feels hollow. Bodies of our people strewn across the battlefield—warriors who fought to protect this sacred place, who gave their lives for something far greater than themselves. But they are gone now, their blood soaking into the earth they swore to defend.
Morning sun streams through the window, and I stare blankly at the shimmering slants of golden light from my bed. My face is somehow numb yet aching at the same time, my left eye swollen and sealed shut, the last thing it saw being The Golden Son’s boot. The rest of my face is in no better shape, marred by cuts and bruises, leaving my skin more blue and purple than brown.
Solena sits beside the bed, cleaning the arrow wound in my thigh and applying a fresh bandage. The other arrow wound in my arm healed when I used Fae magic fighting the Legion. These last scrapes came after, but even if I could heal them, I would not want to. It would be an insult to the memory of those who died if I used magic to cure my inconvenient scratches when I still draw breath.
“An arrow wound is very impressive,” Solena says as she finishes up. “And it will leave a scar that you can show off at taverns.”
I know what she’s doing—trying to joke, keeping her voice light, which is unlike her. She’s attempting to help me forget about Arax. But how does one forget a heart that is breaking? How do you reconcile the realization that you will never see someone again, never hear their voice, never feel their touch? How do you return to normalcy when the world is darker than it was the day before because someone you loved is gone?
No. Not gone. Taken from you, with no regard for the agony their absence leaves behind?
The Golden Son took Arax from me, and today I am a hollow shell.
There’s a knock at the door, and it creaks open. Keeper Enaria peers in, hesitant to enter.
“Jewel, the returning starts soon. But if you are too unwell…”
“She is weak and exhausted,” Solena replies bluntly.
I shake my head and push up on my elbows. “No. I’m fine. I will come.”
Solena looks at me, concern etched on her face. “Amara, you can barely walk.”
I fix my one functioning eye on her. “They are Tenders of the Grove,” I say, my voice ragged. “I must be there to send them home.”
She bows her head, lightly nodding, and I understand she doesn’t know our ways. But I will be at the returning, even if I have to crawl there. I drag myself out of bed, stumbling when I finally get to my feet, unaware of just how damaged my leg is. I grit my teeth, fighting through the pain.
Solena frowns as she watches me stagger, banging into the walls as I try to pull on my green robe. She rises and snatches the garment from my hands, tugging it over my arms and shoulders.
“Thank you,” I mutter past my swollen lip.
Next, she tames my hair, stiff and dry from dirt and smoke, twisting it into a braid that trails down my back.
“There,” she says. “Now you don’t look as horrifying.”
I nod my thanks and take a step toward the door where Enaria waits, only to feel my knee buckle beneath me. Solena's groan is immediate, and before I can protest, she throws my arm over her shoulder and hooks me around the waist to prop me up.
“I can do it myself,” I grumble.
“Be quiet, Amara,” she snaps, startling me. “I’m going to help you, and that’s the last I want to hear about it.”
We fall silent for a moment, and I grip her shoulder, dropping my weight slightly to let her support me. My thigh appreciates the reprieve. But just before we take our first step toward the door, Solena mutters softly, “I miss him too.”
We leave the room, and it’s more difficult traversing the rope bridges and stairs with an aching leg than I expected. Solena farewells me at the bottom step. I’m sure she would come if I asked, but I don’t. I would rather spare her from the pain.
“I will see you later,” she says, and I nod in silent reply.
A stag waits to carry me from the village to the clearing, saving me from dragging my miserable, sore body through the forest.
A procession of survivors stands ready to join me—warriors who fought bravely, along with the elders and children who hid in the sanctuary. As I look down at them, I know each soul missing from our family, their faces etched into my memory forever. We are even fewer now, and I add that pain to the ever-mounting despair in my chest.
The vine wall opens before us, and we pass through. The hums begin—low and melodious—as we, The Tenders, with our heads bowed, move slowly through the brush, every cracking twig and rustling leaf echoing through the trees. As we approach the clearing, my heart tightens when I see them lying in the long grass, their bodies draped in moss and bright purple flowers. Rows upon rows of Tenders, their eyes closed forever.
My Sisters wait for me, their faces obscured behind thin green veils. The stag bows, allowing me to dismount and when I touch the ground, Lira places a veil over my face. I take a step and wince; her gaze flickers down to my injured leg.
“You need to be healed,” she says, concern lacing her voice.
I shake my head. “I need nothing. Please, I want to begin.”
We Sisters take our places before the still bodies, the soft breeze fluttering through their hair, sunlight dappling their pale skin, which was warm and brown just yesterday. We join hands, our power surging through us. The Souls of the Forest hum in the trees, their presence a faint comfort against the suffocating silence, but it isn’t enough to ease the ache threatening to consume me.
The Tenders drop to their knees, their gentle sobs lost to the wind as a green light pulses beneath the fallen. We Sisters chant, our words barely audible—echoing loss, love, hope, and the return of our people to the earth. The earth shudders in reply. Slowly their bodies sink into the soil, welcomed home as we continue our song. After a time, the bodies vanish beneath the ground and the glow subsides, the veins of light dimming to nothing until the earth is still and the soft grass sways silently in the breeze.
One by one, the villagers rise and somberly return to The Grove. We Sisters finish our song and embrace, sharing our pain. Even so, the ache inside me does not subside.
“Your rune,” Mirael says. “Where is it?”
“Lost,” I murmur, my veil brushing against my lips as I speak.
“We will have to make you a new one,” Saren replies. “It will take time. We need to find the right tree and have it blessed by the Souls.”
I nod, understanding the process of creating our runes of power.
“But you are home now,” Lira adds, her hand gently gripping my shoulder. “So it doesn’t matter how long it takes.”
I can barely form a smile, barely make a sound. My mind drifts elsewhere, scattered and unfocused, knowing and dreading that while this is painful, there are worse things yet to come.
“You should rest, Amara,” Mirael says gently. “The battle has taken much from you.”
“There is no time for rest,” I mutter, pulling my voice from the depths of my sorrow. “The Golden Son cannot go unpunished. He must pay for what he has done.”
I can sense my Sisters’ disapproval.
“No, Amara. We are done with this war. He tried to crush The Grove and failed. We have won,” Lira insists.
“No, we have not,” I protest, recalling Daed’s words. “We have only kept him from winning. That does not mean he won't return, and now we are even weaker than before.”
“Listen to Mirael,” Saren interjects, her tone low and firm. “Go and rest. When you’re better, we can discuss this further.”
I feel their gazes piercing through their veils, their judgment hanging heavy in the air around me. I do not want to rest. I do not want to discuss. All we Tenders do is sit, talk, and wait while terrible people commit terrible crimes against the innocent, and no one takes action to stop them.
Our people are dead. Arax is dead. Someone must suffer as they suffered.
Pain for pain. More meat for the beast.
“Amara,” Mirael says, her voice sounding distant, as if a million miles separate us. “Are you alright?”
My head snaps up, the wind catching my veil. “I’m fine,” I reply blankly. I cannot share my thoughts with them; they could never understand. “You’re right. I will go and rest.”
Without uttering a word, the stag approaches, bowing so I can grip its soft ruff and pull myself onto its back. It leads me away, but I can still feel the weight of my Sisters’ gaze on me. For the first time in my life, I feel the links of our bond straining. We have always agreed on what is best for The Grove, but not today.
Not about this. I wish I could articulate it, explain it to them in a way they might accept, but those words elude me.
When we arrive at The Grove, I pause long enough to remove my veil and glance over the vine wall before whispering my thoughts to the stag who carries on through the forest. We pass by the stream and the place where the roots are large enough to walk under until the trees thin and the field beyond the borders of the forest comes into view. The massive boulders still flank either side of the forest entrance. Though they are slightly askew now, the golems not returning to exactly the same spot when they sat down.
The wind howls softly, still carrying the smell of blood and smoke, and I wrap my arms around myself, shivering despite the lingering warmth of the fading sun. The sleeve of my robe catches in the breeze, revealing the red ribbon tied around my wrist. I stare at it for a moment, memories of Arax flooding my mind, so vivid I can reach and touch him. But a bird calling out as it soars through the air snaps me back to my hard reality. Arax isn’t here anymore. I pull my sleeve down, swallowing the lump in my throat.
In the center of the field, I catch sight of Daed and Zyphoro. They have constructed a wooden pyre and the few Blades that remain swoop in from the sky, their arms bundled with branches which they stack beneath the structure.
Daed turns as if he can sense me. He steps into the void then suddenly appears beside me, his arms outstretched to lift me down from the stag. His dirty, calloused hands grip my waist and I slip down into his embrace. He holds me to him, long and silent with a firm tenderness that helps calm the anger and sadness raging within me.
When we part, I find his face marred by battle, but he is far more concerned with my face.
“Wife,” he mutters, his voice a low growl, his hand hovering above my swollen eye. “I will kill him for this.”
“It doesn’t hurt,” I say as his hand cups the side of my neck, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw.
“It hurts me ,” he replies. “But then again, you are stronger than I ever could be.”
My gaze drifts past him to the pyre, where a row of silhouettes shrouded in black Mordorin cloaks lie still. Though I know what lies beneath those cloaks, I can't bring myself to voice the truth. To do so would shatter me completely. I turn my attention to the horizon, where the sun sinks low, the sky awash in hues of red and orange, as if the world itself is bleeding alongside my heart.
“What moon is it tonight?” I ask.
Daed exhales, his face hard, his lips a straight line. “The Mourner’s Eye.”
A sad laugh escapes me, and I know how strange and inappropriate the sound is, but I can’t help it. “Really?” I ask in disbelief. “So the Warrior’s Eye is for battle. The Lover’s Eye is for passion. The Reflective Eye for learning. Does The Mourner’s Eye mean death?”
Daed shakes his head, his expression steadfast. Like Solena, he wears a mask of lightness, a facade meant to comfort me, but it doesn’t help. Nothing helps.
“It doesn’t mean death. But it does mean it’s a good day to die.”
Tears well in my eyes, and his stoicism ignites my fury. “How can you say that? How can there ever be a good day to die?” My heart pounds painfully against my chest, stealing my breath and tightening my throat. “Arax should be here with us, not alone in the darkness.” I claw at my neck, desperate for release. “Why are you just standing there, staring at me? Do you feel nothing?”
“Amara,” Daed says softly, his brow furrowing as he reaches for me.
“No,” I snap, yanking my hands from his grasp. “You Fae are horrid, heartless creatures. You ruin lives and shatter hearts without a second thought, dancing and drinking while the world crumbles around you.” My voice quivers as I watch him remain silent. “Will you not say anything?”
Daed’s broad shoulders rise and fall with a heavy exhale. “Hold me, wife. I am cold.”
I look at him for a moment, calm and collected despite my assault. When my anger surges, it clouds my vision, building until it erupts in a spray of words I don’t mean. But Daed doesn’t deny me that release; he accepts it as part of who I am, and he loves me still. I step closer, looping my arms around his neck while he encircles my waist, his fingers tracing gentle lines on my back.
We stand like that for a while in the field while Zyphoro and the Blades complete the pyre and the moon rises behind us. When Valorne is blanketed in darkness, with only a scattering of stars and a half moon to light the way, Daed strikes a flint and lights a torch before pacing toward the pyre. He lowers it to the branches, and the flame catches the dry kindling, its first flickers barely visible against the encroaching darkness. Slowly, the flame catches hold, a timid glow that begins to dance. With a soft crackle, it spreads, consuming the kindling with greedy tongues of fire that leap higher and flicker orange and gold.
The heat radiates outward, casting shadows that flicker across Daed's face as he takes a step back. The flames grow bolder, licking the air and crackling as they consume the offerings laid atop the pyre, transforming the wood into a radiant blaze. As the fire roars to life, it sends up spirals of smoke that twist into the night sky, soaring so high it’s as if the moon is breathing it in.
I recall Arax's words, how he hoped they had burned Estra at night, and this is what he meant. Just as The Tenders are returned to the earth, the Mordorin are heralded home in smoke and moonlight. A weight lifts from my chest, allowing me to breathe more easily. This is what Arax wanted—to die here, in this field, and to be consumed by the flames beneath the Pale Eye. Free from his pain and reunited with Estra. I glance over at Daed, and our eyes connect through the flickering fire. In that moment, I finally understand.
For Arax, it was a good day to die.
Zyphoro appears at my side, arms crossed over her chest, the flames reflecting in her eyes. “You look dreadful,” she remarks, amusement lacing her tone even while Arax burns only a few feet away. But I wouldn’t expect anything less from her.
I grimace, doing my best to manage a frown with half my face swollen. “I’m aware.”
“But you fought like a beast,” she adds, her grin widening. “Couldn’t be prouder, and it’s good for the little one to experience battle early on.”
I gulp, glancing around to ensure no one can hear her. “Be quiet,” I hiss. “I haven’t told anyone yet.”
“I know,” Zyphoro replies, delighting in my frustration. “And I wouldn’t dare ruin this beautiful family moment. But do try to break the news to him before the little demon pops out. Daedalus hates surprises.”
My eyes widen. “…Demon?”
Zyphoro throws her head back and laughs, placing a hand on her chest. “Did I say demon? I meant baby.”
“Well, you said demon,” I reply through clenched teeth.
She shrugs nonchalantly. “Well, when the little bundle of joy is gnawing on your nipple as though it were dried beef, I’m sure you’ll feel the same way.”
With that, Zyphoro slithers away into the night. Despite the new dread twisting in my stomach, she has managed to distract me, if only for a moment.
I stand in silence, watching as the flames engulf the pyre. The flames grow higher, consuming the wood with a ferocity that mirrors the turmoil within me. With a loud crack, the structure begins to collapse, the logs surrendering to the fire's hunger. Burning embers spiral into the air, swirling like lost souls escaping into the night.
Time stretches and the moon climbs higher as the flames dwindle. The once brilliant fire fades to glowing embers, casting a warm flickering light and what’s left of the pyre collapses in on itself, the last of the structure consumed as the flames die down to mere sparks.
He’s gone. Nothing but ash and smoke. I couldn’t save him.
I am the forest, I remind myself. I am the fury of the earth. But without that piece of wood on a leather string, I am practically useless. As my Sisters said, we will have to create a new rune. Find the right tree, seek the blessing of the Souls. My first rune wasn’t finished for months. What do I do until then? How do I make sure I never lose someone again?
Daed returns to my side, intertwining his fingers with mine before lifting my hand to lay a soft kiss on my knuckles. As he does, I can’t help but notice the intricate black runes etched into his skin. The power to void walk. The power to soar through the skies. The power to unleash fury. All at his command, a silent testament to his strength.
My eyes widen, caught between the brilliance and absurdity of my thoughts. “I want my rune of healing on my skin,” I declare boldly, though the look in his eyes leans toward the absurd.
“No,” he replies bluntly, yet he doesn’t release my hand; instead, he grips it tighter.
“Why not?”
“Because you are human. Humans do not wear runes on their skin.”
“But I am the wife of a Fae. Doesn’t that make a difference?”
“Maybe to some, but not to me,” he growls, his voice low and unyielding.
“Arax took my rune. It vanished into smoke. I don’t even know where it is.”
“Consider it lost forever,” Daed replies with finality. “You can craft another.”
“Husband!” I say firmly, forcing him to meet my eyes, which he does reluctantly. “I never understood the consequences of losing my rune until it was gone, and I don’t want to feel that way ever again. Please.”
Daed studies me, his eyes narrowing, his lip twitching in contemplation. “Even if I said yes, we don’t have a runeweaver.”
Determination flaring within me, I loop the red ribbon around my finger, its presence strengthening my resolve.
“Yes, we do.”
“I won’t do it,” Solena states firmly, pacing the room.
“I need this, Solena,” I plead. “It will take me months to craft a new rune. I cannot afford to be without power for that long, not with everything feeling so ominous.”
“It’s forbidden,” she protests.
“And who will dispense justice? Lanneth? She wants us dead for reasons beyond this,” I argue.
Solena turns to Daed, who stands silently in the corner, his back against the wall, his chin pinched between his fingers. “Have you told her this is madness?” she asks.
Daed shrugs, his features obscured by shadows. “Of course I have. But you can imagine how well that went.”
Solena groans. “No. I will not do this. Not only is it against every rule of the runeweavers, but I’m not skilled enough. My hand could slip, or I could mix the ink wrong.”
I square my shoulders and lift my chin. “As Princess of the Mordorin, I command you.”
Solena crosses her arms over her chest, raising an eyebrow. Even Daed lets out a quiet chuckle at how foolish I sound. I exhale, abandoning the idea of forcing Solena to do it, as if I ever could. But my sadness creeps deeper under my skin. “I could have saved him if I had my rune.”
“Did you think for a minute that he didn’t want to be saved?” Solena counters. “That his death wasn’t your fault?”
“No. It wasn’t,” I retort, my jaw clenching. “It was The Golden Son’s fault, and he will never take from me again.” I pull back my sleeve, exposing my wrist looped with the red ribbon. “Now, please, Solena. Do it.”
Solena takes a deep breath, her foot tapping anxiously on the floor. She glances at Daed as if seeking permission, and I let out a relieved sigh when he nods reluctantly.
“Very well,” Solena says, her voice weary. “I will need a needle and some blood.” She looks back at Daed. “Yours as well. If this is to work on a human, I need blood from a High Fae, and fortunately, we have a prince.” Her eyes scan my wrist. “And it won’t be going there. As you said, you’re a Princess of the Mordorin, so your rune should be placed somewhere that signifies your status.”
I narrow my eyes at her, curiosity piqued as I lower my sleeve. “Where?”
Solena grins wryly. “Have I ever mentioned you have a lovely neck?”
Under the amber glow of lantern light, Solena prepares. On the table beside her is a small bowl of thick, dark liquid. My blood and Daed’s blood mixed with coal. She sits behind me on the bed, brushing my hair aside as she prepares herself.
“Take a deep breath,” she says.
The first prick pierces through me, sharp and bracing, and I gasp, but I do not pull away. Instead, I focus on the lantern, on the flames dancing within, and I remind myself of my purpose. I will not be weak. I will embrace this pain as a testament to my strength.
Daed’s hand rests on mine, steady and reassuring, grounding me as Solena works, the pain ebbing and flowing, each line a reminder of my commitment to myself and to those I love. The rune takes shape. Hard, thick lines that feel alive beneath my skin. With every stroke, I feel something surging within me, something even stronger than my necklace.
Time blurs, the world outside fading away, leaving only the rhythmic punctuations of the needle and the warmth of Daed’s presence beside me. I breathe through the pain, letting it fuel my resolve.
Finally Solena steps back, her fingers black with the ink. “It’s done,” she announces, but there is no pride or joy in her voice, and for a brief second I wonder if I should have asked this favor of her.
But when my fingers nervously reach for my neck, hovering just above the ink speckled with blood, I feel the pulse of life and the gift of the Fae that has flowed through us for generations. Now it marks my skin, and no one will take from me ever again.
I am the forest. I am the fury of the earth.