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  Chapter 4: Vael Solmyre

  Then; light.

  It slammed into him, too fast, too bright, a burst of white that swallowed everything. He tried to scream, but the sound was lost in the rushing, tumbling sensation, his body weightless, torn from the world he knew.

  And then; he hit.

  Hard. Flat. The breath was knocked from him in an agonizing rush, and his bones screamed with the shock. He lay there, gasping, blinking as the world slowly came into focus.

  The ground beneath him was warm, solid, sun-dappled earth. But something wasn’t right. Something felt wrong. A deep, throbbing pulse vibrated through the dirt around him, seeping into his skin, into his bones. He opened his eyes to see a tangle of thick, ancient roots wrapped around him; pulling him up from beneath, holding him in place. With a shudder, they released him, depositing him roughly onto the ground.

  The roots, their work done, slowly withdrew back into the earth. They vanished without a trace, as if the ground had swallowed them whole.

  Sam’s heart hammered in his chest, and he pushed himself to his elbows, shaking, wide-eyed. Where the hell am I?

  He glanced around, his pulse quickening. The world was different. Everything was wrong. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and something floral; like crushed herbs. The sky was too blue, the light too bright.

  He lay sprawled in the middle of a village square that looked carved from a fever dream. Above him, wooden homes grew like tumors out of trees. Vines wrapped beams, bones hung from doorways. Smoke curled from the nostrils of carved raccoon statues perched like sentinels on every roof.

  Then he heard the snarls.

  Saber-toothed raccoons; huge ones, horse-sized; reared on haunches at the perimeter of the square. One of them hissed low, fangs glinting. Others, smaller and quicker, chittered and darted for cover, weaving between legs and leaping onto woven awnings. All of them were looking at him.

  Oh god.

  Sam’s arms shook as he tried to rise. His left hand throbbed, a strange pulse like a second heartbeat just beneath his skin. He looked down; and froze.

  Veins. Green. Glowing.

  “No; no, what the hell; ” he rasped, scuttling backward on palms and heels like a crab. The ring of roots around him crackled and slithered back into the ground, curling like worms in reverse. They vanished, swallowed by dirt that wasn’t disturbed a moment before.

  “What the fuck just happened to me?”

  The villagers came next; tribesfolk in leathers, fur, dyed wraps in russet and ochre, all armed. All staring. Some with wide eyes. Others with knives drawn. One young man in bark armor spat something sharp in a language Sam didn’t understand and started forward.

  Sam raised a hand; then regretted it when several people flinched. “No; I don’t; I’m not here to hurt anyone, I swear; ” They didn’t understand him. Or didn’t care.

  The saber-toothed raccoon closest to him padded forward, sniffing the air. Its massive head tilted. It made a strange sound; more birdlike than feline; and sat on its haunches.

  ...Not attacking.

  The warriors hesitated. The tension didn’t break, but it shifted. One of them; an older woman with braids of woven teeth; muttered under her breath. Another pulled back his spear.

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  The big raccoon walked up to Sam. He squeezed his eyes shut, heart hammering so hard he thought it might burst through his ribs. A wet snuffle grazed his face.

  It didn’t bite him.

  It nuzzled his shoulder.

  What?

  When he opened his eyes, the creature was just staring at him. Silent. Watching.

  The old woman barked a command. The warriors surged in, ropes in hand. They bound his wrists; rough; but didn’t beat him. One of them looked down at the green glow on his hand and crossed themselves; or maybe cursed him.

  Sam didn’t fight. Couldn’t. His body felt wrong. Like it wasn’t entirely his anymore. The light had burned into his eyes, the root-tunnel still seared into his mind. His ears rang with echoes of cracking wood and whispering leaves.

  He didn’t understand. He just wanted to go home.

  They marched him through the village. Saber-toothed raccoons watched from rooftops and posts. None growled. One licked his hand in passing, as if curious.

  No one else in the procession was treated that way.

  They took him to a den beneath a massive totem pole; a shrine carved with snarling beasts and a woman’s face wreathed in brambles. The chamber inside was earthen, lit by bio-luminescent moss, with bone-wind chimes that sang in the draft.

  They threw him inside and shut the lattice of roots behind him. Sam collapsed to his knees. The glow on his hand had faded, but something was still there; a mark. Pale green, root-vein lines embedded in his palm.

  He stared, and stared. “What’s happening to me?” he whispered. Footsteps outside. Soft, purposeful. Then a voice, velvet-edged and cruelly amused: "So... you’re the root-born one.”

  She stood framed in the doorway, hips cocked, arms loose at her sides like she didn’t fear a damn thing in the world. Light spilled over her shoulders and caught in her hair; green, not the dull green of moss or grass, but rich and alive, like fresh spring leaves. It was curly, wild and untamed, a cascade of twisting strands that tumbled around her face and down her back. Twigs, thorns, feathers, and tiny bone-and-bronze charms tangled naturally through the curls, as though the forest itself had woven them there.

  Her skin was the warm bronze of sun-slick bark, and her eyes…

  Ohh god, her eyes.

  Dark as obsidian, rimmed in forest green, they glimmered with something sharp. Calculating. Curious. She was beautiful in a way that didn’t feel safe. Not like someone who belonged to this place. More like someone who ruled it.

  He felt himself go still. Breathing ragged. Everything about her demanded attention. His body; traitorous, overwhelmed; responded before his brain could catch up. She hadn’t spoken yet, but he was already caught. Hooked.

  Like a moth circling a bonfire.

  “You’re the root-born one,” she repeated, stepping inside. Her voice was warm honey over broken glass; syrup-smooth, but with something jagged underneath. A quiet threat. A promise of pain.

  He flinched as the root lattice behind her curled shut on its own. No one else had done that. Not the guards. Not even the raccoon handlers.

  Just her. “Is that what they’re calling me?” Sam rasped, swallowing hard.

  “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 saberclaws didn’t tear you to pieces.” Her eyes dropped briefly to his glowing hand, now dim and veined with something unnatural. “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. Too close. Sam could smell her; sandalwood and pine smoke, something wild beneath. His skin prickled. She wasn’t armed, not visibly, but power radiated off her in waves. Not magical; instinctual. Royal.

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

  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. He wasn’t imagining the way she looked at him.

  There was hunger in it.

  “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, 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 in bewilderment, shocked from the kiss.

  “A mark,” she said. Her voice dropped to a 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.” 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 asks 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.