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  Chapter 13

  She paused at the threshold, just beyond the chamber’s reach. The polished amber walls of the corridor mirrored her in shifting light, soft as breath. In her hand, the letter from the her parents remained folded; the edges worn now from quiet rereading, as if the parchment had absorbed her thoughts each time her eyes passed over its ink.

  She read it again, though the words were etched in her memory like runes pressed into bark.

  My dearest Vael,

  By now, you’ve stood before the Court in our stead, and we know; without doubt or hesitation; that you have done so with the wisdom of the trees and the fire of your own soul.

  The Wildwood has received us kindly. The paths here are quieter than we remembered, but they speak. Old roots stir. There is listening to be done.

  We cannot say more, not in writing, not yet. But know this: all is well. You need not fear for us. We will return within a week, perhaps sooner, with the answers we seek.

  Trust yourself as we trust you.

  Let the factions test their waters, bend their metals, stir their fires.

  But you, Vael;

  You remain the grove.

  You remain the stillness at the center.

  With pride that grows like ivy around our hearts,

  Elowen & Corven

  Of the Eryshae, always.

  Her fingers tightened slightly around the parchment. A single breath steadied her as she folded the letter once more and tucked it into her belt. Its presence there felt grounding; weightless and yet full of gravity. They would return soon. A week, perhaps. The words were reassuring, even if their meaning remained wrapped in forest shadow. Elowen and Corven never said more than they meant to. But they had written “all is well,” and Vael had decided; for now; to believe them.

  “All is well’ her mother said as she led her toward the Court. A tender 13 years old and her parents had decided it was time to introduce her to Court. The doors to the Court parted like a curtain of breath and silence. Living wood groaned softly as the threshold widened; grooves of ivy-pale runes glowing faintly as they unfurled. Cool air spilled outward, laced with the scent of moss and stoneflower, as if the chamber beyond exhaled its age.

  Vael hesitated at the threshold. The vast chamber beyond seemed to bend around stillness itself. Golden light filtered through the vaulted dome of living amber, fractured into soft rivulets that slid like liquid sunlight across the moss-padded floor. The quiet was absolute; but not empty. It was a quiet that watched.

  So many eyes. The Factions sat arranged like ancient roots spiraling inward. Cloaks of bark-silk and mineral-thread shimmered faintly on the seated Elders. Some leaned forward, curious. Others merely studied her, their expressions carved from centuries of patience.

  Behind her, a gentle hand touched her lower back; Elowen. “You don’t need to perform,” her mother murmured, voice low as rain through leaves. “You only need to arrive.”

  On her other side, Corven’s broad silhouette shifted. His hand came to rest on her shoulder, a grounding weight. “If your voice falters,” he said, deep and even, “then let your silence speak. There is strength in stillness.”

  Vael’s breath caught. She hadn’t realized how tightly her fingers had curled into her tunic hem until Elowen’s hand gently unfolded them. With practiced ease, her mother slid something into her palm: a small sprig of silverfern, its edges still dewy.

  “To help ground your mind,” she said softly, tucking a strand of Vael’s hair behind her ear. “Hold it like a root beneath your thoughts.”

  Vael closed her fingers around the fern. Her thumb rubbed instinctively against the texture of its veins; delicate but firm. She didn’t know it then, but the gesture would stay with her, surfacing in future trials like a talisman.

  She stepped forward. The moss gave underfoot with a breath of coolness. Somewhere high above, wings shifted; a crow’s feathered hush. All around, the Court adjusted subtly: voices lowered, bodies leaned, the soundscape narrowing as if the room itself turned to listen.

  Her throat was dry. Her heart hammered with the rhythm of a thousand unheard stories. But her feet kept moving; slow, deliberate. Not dragged. Not rushed.

  She brushed the edge of the dais as she passed it, fingertips grazing its smooth wooden curve. It was instinctual, the way someone might trail their fingers along a river’s edge before stepping into deeper water.

  Behind her, she felt the absence of her parents like the release of a tether.

  And still, she walked.

  Vael reached the dais, the stone steps beneath her feet steady, unyielding. Each step felt more deliberate than the last, and yet, in the back of her mind, there was a faint pull, as if the air itself was tugging her in every direction at once. The Court awaited, but it felt as if the very weight of its presence pressed against her chest, quieting her thoughts like a heavy hand.

  She paused. The ground beneath her feet was solid, but the air felt strange; less solid, as though the Court itself was watching her, a living entity, leaning in, anticipating the moment she would finally speak.

  Why is it so hard to breathe? Her thoughts swirled in dizzying patterns, fragments of every lesson her parents had imparted, half-formed, too much at once.

  Elowen’s voice had always been so calm. So steady. Her mother’s voice played through her mind with soothing clarity, as if she were there beside her. “Grace isn’t softness,” she had whispered, her touch delicate yet unshakable. “It’s the strength to bend without breaking. The wind has always known this.”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Vael’s fingers brushed against the fern in her palm, its soft, silver-green fronds offering her a small anchor. The wind, bending without breaking… It had seemed simple enough, when Elowen spoke it. But here, now, the weight of the Court was a living thing, and bending didn’t feel like an option. She was afraid she might snap under it.

  Her eyes darted across the room, tracing the faces before her; the Cardinals’ sharp gazes, the Elders whose judgment was both heavy and gentle. They knew her; knew who she was, and what she had inherited. But they didn’t know her fully.

  And maybe that was the heart of the tension she felt now; the weight of expectations, but not just from the Court. It was the unspoken expectations that had followed her all her life; the weight of her lineage, her blood, her parents’ legacy. The fact that, as their daughter, she was supposed to carry the mantle of authority effortlessly. No mistakes. No hesitation. No doubt.

  But doubt was there. It clawed at her gut, squeezing with a pressure she couldn’t shake. What if they don’t trust me? What if I don’t trust myself?

  The voices of her parents once more. Corven’s voice; low, grounding, like the roots beneath their feet; rose in her mind. "Power isn’t in being obeyed. It’s in the ones who choose to follow when they’re free to walk away."

  Vael closed her eyes for a moment, the steady rhythm of his words like a pulse beneath her skin. The ones who choose to follow. That was the key, wasn’t it? Power wasn’t just about commanding the room. It was about leading, but also trusting. Trusting that those who followed you did so freely, because they saw something in you. Saw strength. Saw a reason to follow.

  But in this moment; who am I? Her hand tightened on the silverfern tucked away in her pocket as the thought pressed upon her like an anchor.

  She felt the sudden urge to glance over her shoulder, to seek out her parents; Corven with his deep-set, knowing eyes, Elowen with her silent strength. But they were not there. They had left her while they went on their important mjssion. And still, they had guided her, always had. They believed in me. But do I believe in myself? Will Sam believe in me?

  The silence stretched long around her, and the sound of her own heartbeat grew loud, a rhythmic pulse that threatened to drown out all other thoughts. The Court was waiting for her to speak, to break the silence, to begin.

  What if I fail?

  But then, through the swirling storm of thoughts, there was something else; a steady resolve. It wasn’t loud or triumphant, but it was there, like the first stirrings of dawn through heavy clouds. It was the echo of the lessons she had learned, of the times when she had faltered but still managed to rise. The way she had, despite her doubts, stood beside her parents and felt the quiet certainty of who she was in their presence.

  She could feel that same strength now, deep within her; quiet, unassuming, but undeniable. She was their daughter. She had the strength of the trees in her veins, the stillness of the wind beneath her feet.

  I am the grove, she thought, feeling the weight of those words settle into her bones. The stillness at the center.

  A breath escaped her, deep and steady. The pressure in her chest eased, just enough to let her words rise from within her.

  She lifted her chin, meeting the gaze of the assembled Court with eyes that now held a quiet, unspoken command. She was not a child anymore. She had come into this Court as herself. And she would leave it knowing that she belonged.

  As Vael’s voice broke the silence, it came not with the hesitant falter she feared, but with a quiet strength that cut through the air like a blade. Her words, though simple, carried the weight of her lineage and the quiet authority she had yet to fully recognize within herself.

  “I stand before you today,” she said, her voice steady but measured, “not just as your heir, but as one who carries the strength of the Eryshae in my blood. I speak for the trees and the roots that bind this land. I speak for the trust that has been placed in me.”

  The words settled into the room, and for a heartbeat, there was only the sound of her own pulse in her ears, thrumming louder in the quiet tension.

  The first reaction came from the Cardinals; a ripple of acknowledgment, barely perceptible, but still sharp in its recognition. Cardinal Lira, always the quiet observer, lowered her gaze for a moment, her lips pressing together in something that could almost be considered approval. Behind her, Cardinal Veris, ever the stoic figure, allowed a slight narrowing of his eyes. It wasn’t warmth, not yet, but it wasn’t dismissal either. There was a weight in his gaze that felt almost like a challenge.

  Others shifted too; slow, careful movements of robes and stances; an unsettling mix of curiosity and expectation. They had come to see what this daughter of Corven and Elowen could bring to the Court, and now, they were weighing her words like a blade on the edge of a scale.

  A faint rustle of whispers rose in the back of the hall, but it wasn’t in opposition. No, it was the sound of thought; consideration. They were not dismissing her. Not yet.

  Vael felt the shift. It was subtle but profound. Like the trembling of branches when the wind first stirs them; light, but carrying potential. For a moment, she thought she might lose her breath again. This is it, she thought. This is where it begins.

  And then, the stillness of the Court became a living thing. Slowly, Cardinal Maris, who had been eyeing her closely, leaned forward. His voice, low but audible to all, broke the quiet. “You speak with the voice of your mother,” he said, his words both compliment and challenge. “The Eryshae runs deep in you, Vael.”

  The air shifted again, the weight of his words pressing into Vael’s chest. The room seemed to exhale, a collective breath held too long, now released in a flutter of disbelief. There was no mocking in his tone; only the sharp edge of truth, an unspoken test.

  Vael’s fingers tightened around the fern in her hand, the delicate fronds cool against her palm. Strength, she thought, remembering the words her father had spoken. “Power isn’t in being obeyed,” Corven had said, his thumb tracing the map of distant roots. “It’s in the ones who choose to follow.”

  But in this moment, it was not enough to just speak of strength. She had to prove it. She could feel it in the sharp gaze of Cardinal Maris, the weight of every eye upon her, as if they were testing her resolve.

  Her heart slowed, but her breath was deep, steady, gathering the strength of the wind her mother had spoken of. I bend without breaking, she thought, repeating the quiet mantra. I bend without breaking.

  She lifted her chin, and with the weight of those thoughts resting heavily in her chest, she met the gaze of Cardinal Maris, and then swept her gaze across the room. Every face; every pair of eyes; waited, expecting her to answer his challenge.

  “I stand here,” she began again, her voice quieter but carrying a deeper conviction, “not for the Eryshae alone, but for the balance between its roots and the heart of this Court. It is not enough to command the winds. We must ensure that those winds find the right direction, for the good of all Eryshae.”

  Her words seemed to resonate differently this time, the slight echo of her mother’s voice returning to her with new meaning. She was no longer a child parroting her parents’ wisdom. She was the one shaping it, giving it context, her context.

  The silence that followed was longer this time, but it was not empty. It hummed with anticipation, as if the room itself was listening to the ripples her words had caused.

  Finally, it was Cardinal Veris who broke the silence, his voice low and sharp. “Perhaps you’re more than your parents’ shadow after all.”

  The words hit her like a stone dropped in a pool of still water. They carried both a compliment and a challenge, a recognition that could be both a victory and a burden. But there was something in his eyes; an acknowledgment. She had passed the first test, the one that would define her in this moment. She had spoken, and she had commanded their attention.

  But it wasn’t enough to stop there.

  The Court would test her further. The weight of this moment, this shift from child to leader, was not over. It was only beginning.

  She stood taller, the small shift of self-assurance finding its place in her body, and for the first time, she truly felt the mantle of her parents’ legacy settle around her shoulders. It was heavy, yes, but not suffocating. The vines that bound her to them were not chains; they were roots, firm and strong.

  “I have much to learn,” she said, quieter now, but still holding her ground. “And I will learn it here, with you. But I will lead. I will bend, but I will not break.”

  There was a moment; just a flicker; of uncertainty. But then, the faintest nod from Cardinal Maris, and Cardinal Lira’s ever-present calm gaze met hers with something more than mere observation. It was a glimmer of approval.

  The Court had not accepted her fully. Not yet. But they had acknowledged her. And that, in this moment, was enough.