Chapter Seventy
KAEL
She commanded the fucking grove. Made it submit to her like a dog, just like the Vaythari’s duskprowlers at Skaedor’s Crest, beasts known for kneeling to no one.
The Grove is a sanctuary. There’s no trace of the wrath it unleashed—only starlit moss and mythic trees that light the way.
Elyssara’s compass points straight ahead, and the pathways occasionally move and adjust, but never with malicious intent—more like a protective mechanism.
Elyssara leads the way—one hand wrapped around the compass, the other around her blade.
Her long, copper braid trails down her slender back, strong with muscle from weeks of travel and fighting.
Her hips sway with the grace of a warrior, her steps sure and steady, as if she hasn’t just taken on a sentient grove and won.
I can’t help but stare. She’s fucking captivating.
I should be thinking about the path. The relic. The danger. But all I see is her.
We continue walking in comfortable silence, though anticipation for whatever lies ahead tints the air with tension.
“Well,” Elyssara’s voice cuts through my thoughts, “it looks like we won’t be mulch.” Her tone is light, but I feel her apprehension through the tether.
I huff a laugh, “Perhaps not today, El.”
“It accepted us,” she answers, beaming now.
“Duskae, it accepted you,” I counter. “I think it’s just tolerating me.”
She giggles, and the sound is sweet. Every nerve in my body comes alive at the sound.
A small gasp slips from Elyssara, and she rushes forward, stopping swiftly after a few strides.
“The crown,” she whispers reverently.
The Obsidian Crown sits atop a twisted pedestal of onyx forged from the trees themselves, wrapped and pinned by vines.
It's as dark as a starless night and looks almost identical to the weapons we source from the volcanic forges of Vyrhal.
The crown is inlaid with three starlit shards, like something adorned by gods and goddesses.
Elyssara steps closer, unafraid and commanding. As if sensing her arrival, the vines unbind from the crown and slip down the onyx pedestal.
I’m frozen, not out of fear or apprehension but out of reverence for her sheer power. It’s as if her body remembers something her mind hasn’t caught up to. She reaches out, wrapping her hands gently, humbly, around the crown.
Her hands don’t tremble. She simply lifts the crown without ceremony or fanfare and places it atop her head. She’s fucking beautiful.
Instantly, the grove groans again, but this time, it doesn’t lash out. Every tree bows inward. Every light flares. The groan turns to a rumble—the very ground reorganizing itself in her presence. Even the air crackles in celebration. As if nature itself is kneeling to her.
She turns to me, eyes wide with awe, and light flares from them. Brilliant. Blinding. Divine.
The air ripples with a deluge of energy, fanning out from Elyssara and expanding through The Grove.
Then, she’s gone.