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  Chapter 5: Root-Rip

  The silence before dawn was always the same; a quiet stillness that settled like a blanket over the Eryshae Tribe. Vael Solmyre, Princess of the Eryshae, stood at the edge of the high balcony that overlooked the village, her eyes cast toward the mist-cloaked trees of the Old Forest. The golden tips of the trees just barely caught the first light of day. She didn’t need the sun to know what was coming.

  The Root-Rip had begun.

  Her pulse quickened, but it wasn’t fear that stirred her; it was something darker, deeper. The ancient Druidic ritual of the Root-Rip wasn’t something to be taken lightly. It marked the boundary between the world of the living and the world of the forgotten, the untouchable, the Otherworld Above. And something had been stirring beneath the earth for weeks, long enough for her parents to leave the capital and go investigate the matter. She could feel it, like a persistent itch at the back of her mind.

  Her fingers tightened around the bone-carved railing, the cool wood pressing into her palm, her senses sharpening as the breeze whispered through the trees.

  He’s coming.

  “Your Highness,” the voice of her guard broke through the quiet like a crack of thunder, sending a flicker of irritation through her chest. She turned slowly, her expression unreadable, as the guard approached with hurried steps. His eyes were wide, panic barely held in check. “The Outsider; he's; he’s emerged.”

  Vael’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of him. The Outsider. The one they had all spoken of, whispered about. The one born from the earth, from the deepest roots of the Old Forest. She hadn’t thought it would happen so soon, but deep down, she’d always known it was inevitable.

  “What’s the situation?” Vael’s voice was cool, almost detached. But beneath the calm exterior, her thoughts churned.

  The guard hesitated, but only for a moment. “He’s been contained, Highness. We brought him into the Sacred Den, under the Shrine Totem. The Root-Rip carried him to the Sacred Tree, but we… were careful with him. The rite; something in it has changed. There’s a strange energy around him.”

  Vael’s lips curled into a thin smile, her gaze shifting toward the village center. She had known something was different about this one. Something darker, more primal.

  “Keep the Den sealed,” she said. “No one enters the Den but me.”

  Without waiting for a response, she turned and descended into the village.

  The Sacred Den lay nestled beneath the oldest structure in the village; a towering totem pole carved with snarling beasts and her Great Grandmother’s face wreathed in brambles. The entry root wound downward into the earth, where bioluminescent moss lit the rounded chamber in soft greens and blues. Bone wind-chimes sang in the slow breath of the roots. It was a sacred place. A place of reckoning.

  And he was conscious.

  He was seated against a trunk-wall, wrists unbound, breath ragged. He watched her with the wide, wary look of a hunted animal. Interesting.

  Vael stepped into the den fully, silent as shadow, her gaze drinking him in. He was taller than she expected, though still half-crumpled in exhaustion. Dirt clung to his skin like a second sheath, and blood striped his bare chest where the forest hadn’t been gentle. But his build; lean, lightly muscled, marked by hardship; wasn’t soft. No, this one had been shaped by hus struggles in life.

  His eyes followed her movements like he wasn’t sure if she was real or if the Root-Rip had left him dreaming. She liked that. The shock. The edge of confusion. It gave her an advantage.

  Not beautiful, not by her people’s standards; but compelling. Too raw, too haunted. Like something half-carved from root and bone. The kind of man you didn’t pick for comfort; you picked him because you knew he would make sure you survived.

  She tilted her head slightly. “You’re the Root-Born one,” she said, letting the title settle between them like falling ash.

  “Is that what they’re calling me?” he rasped.

  “You emerged from the ground in a ring of living roots,” she said, circling him like a stalking cat. “The land spit you out like a Seed, and the Eryshae didn’t tear you to pieces.” Her eyes dropped briefly to his glowing hand, now dim and veined with something natural. “The forest likes you. That makes you interesting.”

  “I didn’t ask to come here.”

  “No,” she murmured. “You didn’t.”

  She came to a stop in front of him. Close. She could smell him; clean like sage and oak, something wild beneath. Her skin prickled. He wasn’t armed, not visibly, but power radiated off him in waves. Instinctual. Wild and untamed.

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  “You’re not one of us,” she said softly. “And yet you walk unbitten through the heart of the Eryshae, our sacred guardians.”

  He didn’t know what to say. Her eyes bore into him, stripping him down to marrow. Her gaze paused at his chest; scratched, bleeding, half-bare.

  She wasn’t imagining the way he looked at her, either. There was curiosity and interest clearly evident in his gaze. “I’m not a threat,” he said hoarsely.

  Her lips curved. “No,” she said. “You’re a possibility.” She raised her hand, then paused; watching him with unblinking stillness. Then, with slow deliberation, she bit into the pad of her finger. Dark blood welled up, thick and almost black, like ink kissed by moonlight.

  Before he could flinch, she reached up and gently traced a line beneath one of his eyes, then the other. The blood was warm, wet, and carried the faint scent of earth and rain.

  “There,” she whispered. Leaning in, she pressed her lips against his.

  He stood frozen, she could hear his heart pounding as the scent of her blood mingled with the mossy air. The marks sat cool against his cheeks, like some quiet benediction; or a warning.

  “What. What is this?” he asked, bewildered, shocked from the kiss, from the blood.

  “A mark,” she said. Her voice dropped to a sensual murmur, dangerously close. “Now they’ll see you. And know.”

  “Know what?”

  “That I claimed you.” Her eyes gleamed. “That you’re my chosen beloved.”

  She saw he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. She turned then, her silhouette slipping through a curtain of ivy and root. Just before she vanished, she looked back.

  “They’ll come for you now, Sam.”

  “Who?” Sam asked with an inquisitive expression.

  She looked over her shoulder. “My suitors will want to kill you.”

  Then she left him in the dark, with only the root-lattice sighing behind her, and the sound of his own heartbeat trying to crawl out of his chest.

  The roots sealed behind her with a whisper of finality. Vael paused, eyes closed for a breath, her fingers lingering against the living bark. Her blood still thrummed faintly from her fingertips. The Root-Born. Her chosen beloved.

  It had been a necessary move. Strategic. And yet… her chest ached. Footsteps stirred behind her. “Rinan,” she said, voice clipped and cool. The guard appeared from the shadows with practiced ease, head bowed. “Highness.”

  “He’ll require clothes. Nothing formal.” She turned just enough to meet the man’s eyes, her expression unreadable. “Linen. Soft. Neutral tones. No crest.”

  Rinan hesitated. “No crest of the Sacred Guardian?”

  Vael’s gaze hardened. “He is not a prisoner. But he is not kin. Not yet.” She waited a beat. “See to it.”

  Rinan bowed. “Yes, Highness.”

  “And food. Fruit. Cooked meats. Something warm. Water. Fresh. Served without ceremony.” Her tone didn’t waver, but her fingers curled slightly at her side. “And remove the chains from the Den.”

  “He; ” Rinan started to say.

  “Is under my protection Rinan.”

  That quieted the objection. Rinan inclined his head and moved off. Once alone, Vael exhaled slowly, her control flickering in the hollows of her eyes.

  She’d seen the fear in him. The confusion. The stubborn fire he tried to hide beneath cracked bravado. He hadn’t knelt. He hadn’t groveled. And he hadn't begged for favor, even when faced with her blood mark.

  He was a stranger. A Root-Born anomaly. She couldn’t afford softness. But she’d seen how the forest bent around him. She’d felt it. Heard the whisper in the soil beneath his feet.

  The Eryshae, the giant Saber-toothed Raccoons recognized him. She wasn’t sure if that terrified her or thrilled her.

  Vael turned sharply on her heel and took the eastward path, her movements brisk. The corridor narrowed into a twisting passage laced with bone-white roots and glowing lichen. The scent of resin and smoke thickened as she descended deeper into the sanctuary beneath the Great Tree.

  This place hummed with power. With memory and emotion.

  Her stride slowed near the arch of bones and ivy. She did not knock. She did not speak. “You seek what you already feel,” the Oracle rasped from within the chamber. “And yet still, you come.”

  Vael stepped into the dim light of the scrying pool. Her face remained blank, jaw set. “I need to know what he is.” The Oracle didn’t answer at first. She sat motionless on her woven throne of vine and antler, blind eyes milky white, hair streaked with silver and moss. Then, slowly, she extended one withered hand.

  “Your hand, child.”

  Vael’s brow furrowed. She hesitated; but stepped forward without questioning her and offered it, palm up.

  The Oracle’s fingers curled around Vael’s hand with surprising strength. Her cracked nails traced lightly over the pad of Vael’s index finger. Blood still welled there, sluggish and dark like ink.

  “A mark made with intention,” the Oracle murmured. “Not from battle. This was chosen.” She lifted the hand closer, sniffing once, then twice.

  “Old blood. Sacred. A bond,” she said, voice low. “Why?”

  Vael didn’t answer. The Oracle tilted her head. “Did he ask for it?”

  “No.” Vael replied.

  “Then why give it?”

  The silence hung between them like vines in still air. “I don’t know,” Vael said, her tone quiet. The Oracle gave a soft, knowing laugh; like dry bark cracking. “You do.”

  Vael’s jaw tightened.

  “You’ve always known yourself, Vael. Even when others didn’t. You’re not the kind to act without reason.” She reached out and touched Vael’s chest, just above her heart. “But this isn’t reason. This is instinct. This is the forest inside you recognizing something it can’t name.”

  Vael looked away. “He rose from the sacred soil. The land answered him. I did what I had to.” The Oracle’s voice softened, now nearly maternal. “You claimed him.”

  “I marked him so he wouldn’t be torn apart,” Vael snapped. “There are others; Elders, rivals, worse. I couldn’t risk it.”

  “And yet you touched him with blood,” the Oracle said softly. “Not a blade. Not a sigil. Not a collar. Blood. That wasn’t a warrior’s act. That was a lover’s rite.”

  Vael’s breath caught. “You’re afraid,” the Oracle said. “Not of him. Of what you felt.” Vael said nothing.

  The Oracle released her hand slowly, with reverence. “You must decide if he is truly a threat. But if you’re only pretending to be cautious; it will cost you more than a mark. Trust your instincts. Not just the cold ones.”

  Vael turned to leave, her silhouette long in the half-light of the root woven chamber. But the Oracle’s voice followed her again.

  “One more thing, Vael.” She paused in the doorway. “Your parents are a week out. The Chief and Chieftess will arrive soon.”

  Vael froze.

  The Oracle’s voice darkened slightly. “Whatever this boy is… whatever you feel or fear… you will have to decide before they do.” Vael said nothing. But her fingers curled slightly, as if the weight of that knowledge had landed heavy in her palm.

  Just before the entrance, the Oracle spoke again, soft as a wind through pine needles. “If you want to protect him, girl, don’t pretend it’s only about control.”

  Vael did not respond.

  But she didn’t slam the door behind her, either.