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  Chapter 6: Planted

  He heard them before he saw them; soft footsteps, the rustle of woven cloth, the low slosh of water in wooden buckets. Sam Faeloc sat upright on the moss-padded bed as the chamber's entrance unfurled like a sigh. A group of four entered; young women cloaked in leafy fibers and bark-toned fabric, their movements efficient and wordless.

  They didn’t look at him. Not directly.

  Two carried a wooden tub, low and broad like something carved from a hollowed-out tree trunk. Another brought in buckets of steaming water, the faint scent of crushed herbs wafting behind her. The last bore a folded set of clothing and a round tray of food balanced on her hip.

  Sam remained still. Watching. The air inside the root-woven chamber was warm with damp earth and steam, and though he was wary, he couldn't deny the stir of gratitude. Clean water. Clean clothes. Food. All things he hadn’t realized he missed until they were laid out before him.

  They worked quickly, pouring water into the tub and adjusting the folds of linen near the edge like they’d done this many times before. The servant with the food stepped forward last. She set the tray on a low stone outcrop by the bed, placed the clothes neatly beside it, then straightened and; without a word; held something out to him.

  A soft cloth. For washing. He took it, hesitant, their fingers not quite touching. "Thank you," he said.

  The girl glanced up then, eyes darting to his face; to the dark, dried streaks beneath his eyes. Her lips parted as if to speak, but she thought better of it. A moment later, all four filed out. The doorway closed behind them like bark sealing over a wound.

  He was alone again.

  Sam stared at the water, watching the faint tendrils of steam twist into the air. He didn’t move for a long moment. Part of him still expected this to vanish, like waking from a dream where reality hadn’t quite caught up. But the ache in his limbs was real. The pulse in his neck. The ghost of her lips on his.

  Vael.

  He touched the marks on his cheeks. Dried now. Still there. Still claiming him.

  The water turned cloudy as dirt, sweat, and blood leached from his skin. Sam ran the cloth down his chest, scrubbing gently over the scratches and bruises blooming across his ribs. Every mark told a story he didn’t fully remember; just fragments: breathing hard, the bone-deep hum of the forest vibrating through his spine.

  He dipped his left arm into the water and paused.

  Something was… off.

  Beneath the surface, his skin looked darker; not bruised, but tinted. Green. Barely there, just a subtle shift in hue tracing the veins up his forearm, like ivy threading beneath the skin. He raised his hand into the air and watched the light catch it, dancing across sinew and faint discoloration. It wasn’t glowing. Not like before.

  But it wasn’t normal, either. “What the hell happened to me?” His voice was a low rasp in the quiet chamber. No answer came.

  Sam exhaled and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching the ripples distort his reflection. His face stared back: too thin, hollow-eyed, wild with sleep loss and adrenaline. And beneath both eyes, the blood-marks remained; two dark lines drawn from Vael’s finger, soaked into his skin like ink into parchment.

  He reached for a cloth and scrubbed gently at them. They didn’t move. He wet the towel and tried again, harder. Nothing. The water smeared across his cheeks, but the marks stayed untouched; faintly metallic in the light, almost iridescent now. They weren’t just dried blood. They had become something else.

  Part of him. He sat back slowly, heart hammering. His hands trembled. She had done something. It wasn’t just a kiss, or a ritual, or some passing moment of strange forest magic. She had marked him, and it didn’t wash away.

  A jolt of panic ripped through him.

  He scrambled to his feet, water sloshing over the edge of the tub. His heart thundered. Breath hitched. The walls of the chamber seemed to tilt. He looked down at his reflection again, at those stains beneath his eyes; alien, permanent; and for a second, he didn’t recognize himself.

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  His own face looked different, unrecognizable. "Shit. Shit; " he whispered, backing away from the tub. His legs bumped the low stone bench, and he sat hard, pressing trembling fingers to his temples.

  He had no idea where he was. No idea what she had done. Everything felt unreal. The forest, the roots, the guards. Her. She had kissed him and marked him and said he was hers.

  Why?

  Why him?

  He squeezed his eyes shut. This wasn't helping. Panic wouldn’t solve anything. He inhaled deeply through his nose, slow and deliberate, then let the breath go in a shuddering exhale. Again. Slower.

  Okay. Think. Breathe.

  The marks weren’t going away. That was terrifying; but they didn’t hurt. They weren’t burning, or spreading, or making him feel sick.

  And his arm…

  Sam opened his eyes and stared at his left forearm. The faint green tint was still there, trailing along his veins like vines curling toward sunlight. It wasn’t glowing. Just… quietly unnatural. He turned his arm in the light, watching the lines shift beneath the skin like subtle threads of moss.

  It was as if the forest had left something inside him. No, not left. Planted. A seed of something he didn’t understand was growing beneath his skin.

  He pressed his fingertips to the veins, feeling for heat, for pain; anything. But there was only warmth, steady and low, like the heartbeat of something deep and buried. Something waking up.

  There has to be a logical explanation.

  Sam dragged both hands down his face, avoiding the stains beneath his eyes. His palms trembled, but his breath was beginning to even out. Think. Don’t lose it. Don’t spiral.

  He looked again at his forearm. The green-veined pattern wasn’t moving. It wasn’t spreading; not visibly, anyway. And the marks under his eyes hadn’t hurt when she put them there. They weren’t glowing. No immediate pain. No voices in his head. That was something.

  He forced a breath through his nose and nodded to himself. “Okay, okay… Maybe this is just… a hallucination. Fumes from the sinkhole. Some kind of gas exposure. Maybe I’m dreaming. Maybe I’m drugged. Maybe; ” He stopped himself, shaking his head. No. Just roll with it until it makes sense.

  He stepped out of the tub, dried off with a thick linen cloth, and dressed slowly. The clothes were simple; dark linen pants, a sleeveless tunic in deep forest green; both handmade but well-fitted, like someone had guessed his size with alarming accuracy. A supple leather belt followed, with a silver clasp shaped like a curling fern.

  The food on the tray was still warm. He ignored it; for now. Instead, Sam turned in a slow circle, scanning the room with narrowed eyes. “There’s got to be a camera in here somewhere,” he muttered. “Or a speaker. Or; hell, I don’t know, a hidden mic in the plants?”

  The room was too perfect. Too curated. The stone floor was swept clean, the tub placed just off-center for aesthetic symmetry, the drapes drawn just enough to let in angled light. Every detail felt intentional.

  He moved to the corner, nudged the potted fern suspiciously. Nothing. He checked the inside lip of the water pitcher, looked under the bed frame, even felt behind a wall tapestry for hidden wires.

  “Right. Yep. Definitely a game show,” he said aloud, his voice rising with disbelief. “We kidnap a guy, drug him, dump him in an ancient forest kingdom, and gaslight him into thinking he’s the Chosen Forest Prince or whatever the hell this is. Great ratings. Five stars. Really tight production value.”

  But there was no camera. No red blinking light. No hidden speaker buzzing with feedback. Just silence. Just the room. His hands dropped to his sides. “This can’t be real.” And yet, under his eyes, the marks still lingered. And in his veins, something green and infected still pulsed. His stomach growled. Loudly.

  Sam blinked, startled by the sound. Now that the panic was beginning to recede, other sensations crept in; his throat was dry, his limbs shaky with exhaustion and low blood sugar. His body was screaming for something solid. Something grounding. Something real.

  He crossed back to the tray and snatched up the wooden cup. The water was cool, faintly sweet with a hint of mineral earthiness, and he drank it in three greedy gulps. The liquid sluiced down his throat like salvation. He poured a second cup; slower this time; letting it linger against his tongue before swallowing.

  It didn’t wash away the marks beneath his eyes. But it helped steady him. The food came next and he didn’t hesitate.

  The plate held a small roasted bird; quail or pheasant, he guessed; its skin golden, glistening with herb oil. Beside it, wild greens drizzled in a tangy dressing, some root vegetable mash, and a round of crusty flatbread still warm to the touch.

  Sam tore into it like an animal. He stripped meat from bone, scooped mash with his fingers, shoved bites into his mouth between gulps of water, not caring how undignified he looked. Every bite hit his tongue like he hadn’t eaten in days.

  Which; considering the Root-Rip, or whatever the hell that forest portal thing had been; maybe he hadn’t. The food grounded him. Anchored him. Reminded him he was still real.

  By the time he’d licked the last smear of oil from his thumb, his heartbeat had settled into a manageable thrum. The world still made no sense, but at least his body wasn’t actively betraying him now.

  He reached to slide the tray aside and put it by the door, if that could in fact be called a door.

  That’s when he saw it.

  A scrap of parchment rested where the bowl had been, tucked so neatly it must’ve been placed before he’d even touched the food. He hadn’t noticed. Hadn’t thought to look.

  Frowning, he picked it up.

  No seal. No flourish. Just a single line in ink so dark it seemed to drink in the flickering firelight: “You were not taken. You were chosen.”

  The words struck with the weight of a blow. His fingers tightened on the edge of the parchment. He read it again. Then again. Chosen? The thought unfurled in his chest like smoke; uncertain, choking.

  A strange chill moved through him, deeper than fear. Because it wasn’t a warning. It wasn’t even a threat. It was knowledge.

  The servant had wanted him to read this. Had waited, watched, and left it for him to find after feeding him; after making him feel safe, if only for a moment. Sam turned the parchment over. Blank. But something had changed. He could feel it. Like he’d been pulled one step deeper into something he didn’t yet understand.

  You were chosen.

  And that made it worse.