As we soar above The Grove, the canopy below is thick, with ancient branches entwined and cloaked in dense leaves, allowing only thin slivers of sunlight to break through. We touch down at the mouth of the forest flanked by two massive boulders dressed with moss, and are immediately confronted by half of the Blades dispatched from Baev’kalath. They have come as part of the bargain, sworn to their oaths and blissfully ignorant of the chaos that has unfurled across the Untold Sea.
They remain unaware of the fragile alliances fracturing among the Fae, the bitter negotiations that have taken place, or theblood that has already been spilled. They do not know that I, a princess bound by a promise, have just clawed my way from the dark clutches of their queen—saved not by armies, but by a maid, a scarred warrior, and a void-wielding princess long forgotten.
As soon as they see Arax among us, their rigid stance softens, but only slightly. The captain among the Blades steps forward, his face like stone. “Reaper Arax,” he says, voice taut with formality. “Do you bring word from Baev’kalath?”
I swallow, a heavy dread settling deep in my bones. This isn’t the return to The Grove I imagined—not with the weight of the secrets I now carry.
“Your orders remain unchanged,” Arax replies, his voice steady. “You will defend The Grove from any threat, even if that threat comes from our own.”
The Blades exchange wary glances, suspicion clouding their eyes.
“Under whose authority?” the Blade asks, his jaw clenched tight.
“Mine,” Arax says, his tone brooking no argument.
But the Blade doesn’t back down. “A Reaper’s word isn’t enough to make us fight our kin. Where is Commander Rook?”
Arax’s resolve never wavers, though the truth he holds back teeters on the edge of spilling. His silence is a shield, protecting us from losing the allegiance of these elite warriors.
“He is indisposed. I assume command in his absence.”
The Blade’s loyalty to their prince is absolute, and his brow furrows in distrust. “These orders are unacceptable. We will return to Baev’kalath for clarification.”
“No,” a voice cuts through the tension, sharp and smooth. Zyphoro steps forward, her expression lazy, as if the conversation bores her. “If you require the word of Mordorin nobility, then you may take mine.”
The Blade’s eyes narrow. “We don’t know you.”
A slow, dangerous smile spreads across her lips. “Then your existence until now has been tragically meaningless.” She lifts her arms, her fingers curling like talons. “Allow me to enlighten you.”
Without warning, tendrils of smoke burst from her hands, dark and sinewy, snaking through the air before latching onto each Blade’s throat. They choke and gasp, but Zyphoro’s gaze remains as cold and detached as ever, her eyes flashing like a storm brewing on the horizon. Despite the violence, there’s a cruel playfulness in the way she toys with them, her lips twitching with amusement.
“I am Princess Zyphoro Phaedren,” she purrs, tightening her grip on their windpipes. “And you will serve me—or I will snap each of your necks until the sound becomes tiresome.” Her smile widens, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “And itneverbecomes tiresome.”
The Blades struggle, their faces growing pale as Zyphoro casually dangles their lives in the balance. She holds them there, savoring their helplessness like a predator toying with its prey.
One of the Blades struggles to speak, his hands clawing desperately at the tendrils coiled around his throat. His face turns crimson, veins bulging at his temples as he gasps for breath.
“What’s that?” Zyphoro tilts her head, her expression mocking, leaning in as if she might actually care to hear his reply. She flicks her wrist, and the smoke retracts, the tendril dissolving into the air. The Blade crumples to the ground, gulping in sharp breaths, his body trembling from the shock.
Zyphoro hovers over him, her eerie calmness more unsettling than her violence. “Who do you serve, Blade?” Her voice is soft, almost purr.
Through grit teeth, the Blade coughs, his voice a raw rasp. “You, Princess Zyphoro.”
Her smile is slow, deliberate, as if she hadn’t just dangled the lives of his comrades in front of him like puppets on strings. She releases the tendrils with a wave of her hand, and the rest of the Blades collapse to the ground, wheezing and choking, their strength sapped.
“Excellent.” She steps back with casual grace, not a hint of remorse on her face. “Now, show us to your lovely home, Amara.”
I nod, stepping around the fallen warriors who are still recovering, and with every step into the forest, a familiar warmth spreads through me. The moment my feet touch the soil, it’s as if the world shifts, as if I’ve passed from darkness into light. The earth beneath me thrums with life, and I am filled with a bliss that transcends words, that no tongue, either human nor Fae could ever fully describe. It’s more than just contentment; it’s a deep, undeniable sense of steadiness, of belonging.
It is home.
The scent of the trees, the feel of the soil, the distant hum of the forest’s heartbeat—it embraces me, wraps around me like an old friend. Here, the weight of Baev’kalath and all its horrors slip away. For the first time in what feels like forever, I feel safe. Safe and grounded. And if there is one thing in this world I can trust, it is The Grove.
“I will stay here and gather a report from these Blades,” Arax mutters, glancing down at them with a trace of disdain. Despite knowing the power that subdued them, he seems almost disappointed by how easily they had fallen, as if they had forgotten the elite warriors they were.
I nod, feeling the weight of his silent judgment, then turn to Zyphoro and Solena, who fall in beside me. The Grove is unlike anywhere else—alive in a way that must be felt, not explained.The ancient trees tower above, making us seem no bigger than ants, their thick trunks humming with age-old secrets. Vines twist upward, a chaotic tapestry of green and gold. Rivers thread through the landscape, their waters glinting under the dappled sunlight that filters through the branches above, the sound of their gentle flow soothing, as if the very air hums with peace.
The woodland creatures—rabbits, foxes, even the elusive hart—move freely, their paws and hooves barely making a sound as they dart between the trees. They move as though they are unbothered by the presence of Fae or human, as if they know they are the true masters of this place. Birds flit overhead, their songs filling the air with a harmony that blends perfectly with the sound of running water and the soft rustle of leaves. Even the sunlight here feels different, warmer, as if it carries with it a hum, a quiet melody that fills my head like wine.
