CHAPTER 08 - The Root
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The journey thus far took a good two weeks. In which no time was wasted. Already, nine mercenary bands had been cut down before they could attack any more loyal lords of the empire.
Their severed heads served as a reminder to any who wished to stand against me.
I breathed in the smell of damp earth and oak. The forest of Flynmoore sprawled before me beneath the pale light of dawn. Mist clung to the gnarled trunks and crows followed us in anticipation of the bloodshed to come.
Beneath me, Wraith moved more like a predator than a steed, her hooves silent against the mossy ground.
She was a unicorn of dark iron-gray, beady black eyes, and a horn sharp enough to pierce through plate and bone.
Wearing armor etched with thorns curling along her flanks, she was a warhorse fit for any ruler.
I ran a hand through her dark silver mane, pleased with how obedient she'd become over the years.
Ironically, Flynmoore was the very land in which I'd acquired her during my first conquest.
Now, I rode this path with her again. Cutting down weeds while heading for Oldvale, the once capital of this land and the root of this futile rebellion.
I adjusted the reins, guiding Wraith down a narrow trail where bent grass and broken twigs betrayed recent passage. My soldiers followed in silence, no banners flying, no horns sounding.
This was not a march but a hunt.
Ser Bastian rode up beside me, his dark hair pulled back, the crest of the Briarbound Knights glinting faintly on his breastplate.
"I sent scouts to drive the rebels to the ravine," he informed.
I nodded.
"Good. Have the main army continue its march to Oldvale," I instructed. "I need only fifty soldiers to deal with these rogues. No need to tire the rest."
He nodded, already signaling the commands with crisp gestures.
With the bulk of my army veering east, the rest of us cut through the forest, guided by faint remnants of firelight flickering beyond the hills. Rogues and mercenaries — scattered bands bought with tarnished gold and empty promises.
By nightfall, the moon hung high, its pale light filtering through the dense canopy.
I raised a hand, and my company halted as one.
Ahead, across the shallow ravine, the rebels huddled in a makeshift camp — poorly placed, exposed, and with their sentries either drunk or drowsing by smoldering fires.
I leaned toward Bastian.
"Signal the archers. Fire on my mark. No one escapes west."
He nodded once and slipped away, disappearing into the shadows.
I urged Wraith forward, the unicorn's hooves silent against damp earth. From my current vantage, the camp sprawled below me — crude tents and flickering firelight.
A few mercenaries laughed near their fire pit, weapons cast aside in lazy confidence. Others dozed beneath tattered cloaks or nursed the last drops of sour wine. Complacent. Careless. Dead men who hadn't yet realized they'd drawn their final breath.
I raised my hand.
Hold.
One of the sentries stirred. He stood silhouetted against the firelight, gaze sweeping the darkened woods. His hand drifted toward the hilt of his sword, body tensing.
But before he could call a warning—
I dropped my hand.
The first volley blackened the sky. Arrows whispered through the air like a locust swarm. The sentry crumpled, throat pierced before a sound could escape his lips.
Then chaos followed.
Shouts erupted from the camp as men scrambled for weapons they would never lift in time.
Spurring Wraith forward, the unicorn thundering down the slope like a wolf with its prey in sight. I unsheathed Briarvex from across my back, thorned engravings catching the moonlight. It was impossible to suppress the smile curling my lips.
"Cut down the runners," I commanded. "Drive the survivors east. I want the leaders alive."
My soldiers obeyed without hesitation, descending upon the camp like an iron fist. Mercenaries scattered, but the forest betrayed them — roots caught their feet, branches clawed at their faces.
A rogue lunged at me from the side, axe raised high. Wraith reared, horn lancing forward and piercing clean through his throat. The man gargled, blood bubbling from his lips as his body went limp. The beast shook him off with a huff, dark eyes already searching for her next target.
Beyond the fray, movement caught my eye — a man in travel-worn finery. Not some common sell-sword. A noble.
I spurred Wraith forward.
The noble ran.
Foolish.
Briarvex sang as it cut through the air. The noble collapsed mid-step, his legs left behind as he began screaming, clutching at the stumps below his knees.
By the time dawn stained the horizon in hues of pale gold and bruised purple, silence reigned once more. Smoke curled from dying fires. Blood darkened the moss. My soldiers dragged the last survivors to their knees.
Bastian dismounted, wiping his broadsword clean.
"We have the leaders, Your Majesty. Shall we take them to Dornhold for interrogation?"
I swung down from Wraith's back, leaving her to pick at grass and corpses alike. Stepping forward, I glanced at the noble struggling beneath a soldier's boot, his face ashen with fury and terror.
"No," I said quietly. "Let them crawl back to Oldvale with their tails between their legs. If I see even one Flynmoore crest upon its walls when I arrive, I'll have Briarvex remind them how swiftly they fell the first time. Let this be their final warning."
The man choked on his fear at the blade's name. He'd heard the stories. He knew what the thorn sword could do.
Thus far in these two weeks, I had refrained from summoning its dark magic. The cost of its power wasn't worth wasting on these common rebellions.
But for Oldvale I'll make an exception.
Twilight bled across the land by the time we rejoined the main army.
The camp had settled, fires flickering low, smoke curling into the dark sky. Some soldiers patrolled the perimeter, others sharpened blades or stitched wounds by lanternlight. There would be no songs tonight, no drunken boasts.
My men knew such indulgences were reserved for the march home.
I left the captains to their duties and returned to my tent — a pavilion of black silk, spiked at the corners. Inside, warmth wrapped around me alongside the faint, intoxicating trace of perfume.
I halted.
Three silhouettes stirred within the dim glow of candlelight.
The Nightshades.
Isolde reclined on the furs, her crimson hair spilling across dark pelts.
Cerys lounged nearby, eyes half-lidded as she flipped through a novel, pale lashes casting delicate shadows along her cheeks.
And at the table, Bronwyn poured blackberry wine into a silver goblet, copper-toned skin glowing in the firelight.
I unbuckled my gauntlets and tossed them aside.
"And why, exactly, are my Nightshades in my quarters?" I asked with a faint smile. "You should know better than to come unbidden."
Isolde stretched languidly, the firelight catching on the bronze rings that adorned her fingers.
"Don't be cruel, My Love," she pouted. "We were worried."
"Do you doubt your sovereign's capabilities?" I asked, dismantling my cape and setting it aside.
"Never!" she said. "But still, it's a bride's duty to fret."
If it were up to me, I wouldn't bring the Nightshades along on my campaigns. Unfortunately, I already heard quite the lecture from my Chamberlain for traveling unaccompanied to Drakfjord. If I slacked any more in my duties, the poor man might actually succumb to a heart attack.
Bronwyn approached, offering the silver goblet with a smirk.
"An easy victory I heard. My cousin claims your beast alone killed over a dozen."
I chuckled, accepting the wine. The resemblance between Bronwyn and the Captain of my Briarbound Knights was undeniable. The same long black hair and dark eyes.
"Bastian underestimates her," I mused. "The steed nearly got more kills than him."
Cerys spoke next, her voice quiet and refrained.
"Shall we dine together?" She closed her book, gaze steady. "Before you choose your companion for tonight."
Ah, there it was.
Duty.
"No need," I dismissed. "I would like to dine alone. Bronwyn, have your quarters prepared."
The dark-haired Nightshade smiled while Isolde's expression dampened. As always, Cerys remained impassive.
"Of course, Your Majesty," Bronwyn said, inclining her head.
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Hours later, I slipped from Bronwyn's bed without a sound, the warmth of her body already fading from my skin. She stirred, thick lashes fluttering, but I was already fastening my belt. The night air cooled my chest as I stepped out into the camp.
The heat grew with each passing day. Summer was creeping closer.
I inhaled deeply, letting the brisk air steady my thoughts as I wandered beneath the bleeding moon. During battle, my mind was honed on the moment. But after victory, in the quiet hours before dawn, my thoughts tended to stray.
And tonight, they strayed to a pair of storm-gray eyes.
Raine Stjorme.
The princess in green.
Even shackled to the rank of Clover, she carried herself with the arrogance of a Nightshade. And yet there was nothing entitled about her.
What an odd paradox.
The more I thought of her, the deeper the unease settled in my chest.
She felt both familiar and yet completely foreign.
My fingers brushed my lips, and I realized I was smiling.
The thought of her stirred something restless within me. I'd mastered the games played by the court. Yet with her I felt as though I played with a disadvantage. A disadvantage I couldn't pin my finger on.
I was eager for another bout with her.
My grin widened.
Summer would arrive soon enough, and with it, the Royal Hunt. She'd spoken of raising her rank there and the anticipation was almost too much.
What will you do next, little storm?
I exhaled slowly, watching my breath in the cold air.
My fingers buzzed in excitement. The same sort of thrill that came with making a city kneel before me. I wanted to see her again.
This rebellion needed to end swiftly...
I turned, jaw tightening with resolve.
The camp lay silent, save for the crackle of dying fires.
I strode across the camp, tunic barely laced, until I reached Ser Bastian's tent. His guards straightened, but I waved them off and pulled the flap aside.
My captain sat up immediately, dark hair tousled from sleep, one hand already reaching for the dagger at his side. He froze when he saw me, then sighed.
"Your Majesty," he muttered, voice rough with sleep. "It's barely past midnight."
"Good," I said. "Rouse the men. We march now."
He blinked, then rubbed a hand down his face.
"The scouts only just returned. The horses—"
"Will endure," I interrupted. "Oldvale's lords think they can wait us out. Let's prove them wrong."
Bastian hesitated only a moment longer before nodding. He swung his legs out of the bed and stood, reaching for his armor.
"As you wish, Your Majesty."
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The next three weeks passed in blood and smoke.
We hunted the rebellion like wolves, leaving nothing but ruin in our wake. Town after town fell beneath the hooves of my cavalry.
I led every charge, Briarvex gleaming in my hand, its edge slicing through leather, steel, and bone. The blade hummed faintly, eager for me to shed restraint.
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Its dark voice burrowed in my mind.
Though I resisted its temptations.
In Oakmend, I ordered the outskirts torched first, smoke driving the rebels into the open like rats. In Hallowstone, I had the river dammed upstream, drowning half the village in ankle-deep water overnight.
Using these methods, we did not lose a single soldier.
By the time we reached Oldvale, the heart of this futile rebellion, my army could have marched another year without tiring.
The city rose before us, its walls made of ancient stone wrapped in moss and brittle ivy. The banners of once-proud Flynmoore hung limp and sun-bleached.
Ser Bastian reined in beside me, his expression drawn as he surveyed the battlements.
"A siege could take weeks, Your Majesty," he warned quietly. "The walls are thick, the stores full. They prepared for this."
I smiled.
"I need only one day."
Bastian blinked, then nodded without question.
I spurred Wraith forward, her hooves silent against the damp grass. Behind me, my army flared out across the hills — rows upon rows of soldiers and banners snapping like whips in the rising wind. On the ridge, my Nightshades watched in silks of black.
The gates of Oldvale groaned as defenders gathered atop the walls — archers first, then knights in tarnished armor, and finally the High Lord himself.
Lord Taric Fernvale, brother of the previous High Lord I beheaded.
He stood beneath a tattered crest of Flynmoore — a golden unicorn on a field of green, faded and fraying at the edges.
"Lord Taric," I called, voice carrying over the wind. "Open your gates and kneel. Swear fealty, and I will grant you mercy. Resist and your bloodline shall end."
The old man lifted his chin, defiance carving deep lines into his weathered face.
"You speak of mercy after the horrors you've wrought?" he spat. "Flynmoore is a kingdom! And Oldvale is sworn to a king, not a bastard-born tyrant!"
Bastard-born. Ha.
Typical talk from Flynmoore.
My smile grew.
"Good," I said. "That's the answer I hoped for."
My grip tightened on Wraith's reins.
Oldvale had fortified itself for a siege.
But not for me.
I swung down from the saddle, boots crunching against the grass. The wind sharpened as I reached over my shoulder and drew Briarvex from its sheath.
The thorn sword hissed as it cleared the scabbard, dark steel veined with silver. Faint pulses coursed through the blade, matching the slow, steady thrum of my heartbeat.
Lord Taric stood stiff behind the stone battlement. His archers stepped forward, arrows nocked, tips trembling.
"Mercy was offered," I called. "Now I shall rip this rebellion from the root."
The old lord barked a command, and the sky darkened with arrows.
I grinned.
With one swing, Briarvex plunged straight into the earth before me.
The ground shuddered and vines exploded upward. Thick and gnarled with thorns as sharp as spears arching high above. Arrows splintered against the bramble, falling harmlessly at my feet. I ripped the sword free, and the vines went limp, falling like giant snakes upon the field
Slowly, I continued strolling forward.
Panic rippled across the battlement. Archers scrambled, knocking another volley.
Fools.
I drove Briarvex down once more, and the vines obeyed, arrows rendered useless yet again.
"Do not let him near!" Lord Taric's voice cracked with desperation. "Send the army!"
Perfect.
The gates groaned open, and the rebel cavalry poured forth. A wall of spears and steel, horses huffing as they charged. I dragged Briarvex through the grass, its edge carving a shallow trench in the soil as my pace quickened.
Just before the cavalry reached me, I slashed upward.
The earth ruptured.
A single vine, thick as a century-old oak and jagged with thorns, burst skyward. Its shadow stretched over the cavalry and the riders faltered, horses rearing, eyes rolling white.
Too late.
The vine fell like an executioner's axe.
It flattened the riders and crashed into the battlement above the gate, crushing the stone beneath it. The ground heaved. Walls buckled. Screams tore the air as men and horses alike were impaled and squashed beneath the weight of thorns.
Dust billowed, and through it, Lord Taric's wide eyes found mine.
I raised my hand as a signal.
And my army surged forward without hesitation, banners snapping and men shouting triumphantly.
Oldvale was mine.
The gates lay in ruins, splintered beneath the fallen curse. My soldiers flooded through the breach, steel clashing. There was no formation, no true resistance. The rebels broke the moment the walls fell, scrambling over each other like roaches in sunlight.
I advanced through the carnage, boots slick with mud and blood. Briarvex pulsed in my hand, warmth bleeding from the hilt into my palm. It sang, a quiet, eager hum that resonated in my bones.
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I obliged.
With every strike, thorned vines burst from the earth, dragging screaming men down. Swords clattered as soldiers fell, ensnared by brambles that tightened and pierced. Some tried to run, though the vines hunted them, slithering through broken streets, twisting around ankles and throats.
"Mercy!" one soldier called.
I nearly laughed before beheading him.
The battle was one sided and swift.
The Briarbound Knights cut down everyone before them, and archers picked off stragglers with ruthless efficiency. The rebels' last stand crumbled in the market square. Flynmoore's old banners lay shredded beneath the hooves of my cavalry.
Lord Taric made no final speech, no desperate charge. A vine speared through his chest before he could raise his sword. His eyes found mine as he fell, mouth shaping soundless curses.
By dusk, Oldvale was unrecognizable.
Thorned vines coiled around broken towers, splitting stone like rotted wood. Homes collapsed beneath the weight of creeping brambles, windows shattered, and streets choked with foliage. The river ran dark, sluggish with filth and death.
I walked over the fallen gate as I left the city. Behind me, the nobles of Oldvale hung from the walls, men and women alike, impaled upon the thorns of my curse. Their rich silks fluttered in the dying breeze, colors muted by blood.
Briarvex cooled in my grip, its hunger subsided but never sated.
I sheathed the blade as I strode, leaving the ruin behind without looking back.
Already, my mind wandered to storm-gray eyes.
"Let's ride for Dornhold," I instructed Ser Bastian. "There's no need for any rest. The journey is long, and I am most eager to return."
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