Chapter 15 — Vigil of Thorns

The great hollow inside the ancient tree smelled of damp moss and slow time. Light filtered through living windows — leaves woven into latticework — and the hush inside felt sacred and heavy.

Dryads and elders clustered in the chamber’s center, their voices low and urgent. The three dryad sisters — Neris, Illyra, and Faen — stood near the head of the council, faces unreadable. The elders’ robes gleamed with filigree of old woodwork; their fingers twined with silver threads that pulsed faintly with the forest’s heartbeat.

Kael stayed at Lyren’s side where she lay on the moss bed, watching like a stubborn, tired statue: one elbow propped, eyes narrowed, breath even. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, fragile movements. Dark lines still marred her skin, though the worst of the miasma had receded since the Dryad’s touch.

The Head of the Council approached with slow, measured steps. Maereth Lysariel — a name that rolled like evening wind through leaves — moved with the serene assurance of someone who had listened to a thousand seasons. Though elves did not age, her presence carried the weight of centuries.

She leaned forward to peer at Lyren, expression softening. “Is she…?” she began, voice careful.

Kael pushed himself to his feet without ceremony and took a protective place between Maereth and the bed. His posture said what his voice would have: back off.

Maereth straightened, hands open in a peaceful gesture. “We will not harm her. The rites will decide, but our intention is to heal, not to punish.”

Kael’s laugh was short and humorless. “Why should I believe you? You cast her out — exiled her — and for what? For saving villagers who were in danger?” Each word landed like a measured cut.

For a moment the room fell so quiet Kael could hear the breath of the tree. Maereth’s face shifted only the barest fraction; she took a small step back to the other elders as if to gather their counsel.

Earlier, when tensions had first flared, Neris had stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on Kael’s arm. Small, not tall like the elders imagined divinity to be, she nonetheless carried an old power in her palm; her touch had been cool and steadying.

“Come,” Neris had said softly then, guiding him. “We will prepare a room for you. Rest. The rites will begin when the Bloom calls.”

Kael’s jaw clenched. He watched Maereth and the council for a long second, seeing flickers of guilt and fear cross their faces. “So what — we’re supposed to wait in a tree while she dies?” His voice tightened. “We wait and hope the forest decides we’re worthy? Right.”

Neris’s hand had remained on him; her eyes had been level with his, unafraid. Then Kael set his voice cold and flat so everyone could hear.

“If she dies while we wait, I will slaughter every last one of you.”

Silence slammed down like a lid. Heads turned; breath held. The chamber felt like it could crack.

Neris, having met his gaze earlier, had placed both hands on his forearm. Her touch was steady and cool; her face composed, almost sorrowful. “I’m sorry,” she had said softly, “but I will not be able to allow that.”

Kael’s reply had left no room for bargaining. He leaned forward, voice low and deadly serene: “Try and stop me.”

The air hummed with a danger that was not theatrics but iron will.

Later that afternoon, when the elders withdrew to consult and the dryads slipped away to begin preparations outside, the small moss room quieted. Only Kael and Lyren remained.

An elder whose robes carried the spirals of the seasonal rites stepped into the chamber. He spoke with the bluntness of duty. “Preparations will take at least three days. The petitions and the circle must be arranged over time. We must wait until the Bloom answers.”

It was practiced phrasing — the kind meant to soften a blow. What the elder did not say, what the council had already decided behind closed doors, was that they would not accept her return. Kael did not know that; he took the statement at face value and refused to be mollified.

When the elder left, Kael’s mouth formed a thin line. He glared after the robe until it vanished through the doorway. Then, under his breath: “If they won’t help you, I will.”

Outside the chamber the dryads continued their work — offerings plaited from fresh vines, bowls set out, incense of crushed orchids carried on the air — while Kael stared at Lyren, her shallow breathing like a ticking clock.

That evening when the light softened to a blue hush and the village settled into murmuring quiet, Kael moved.

He lifted Lyren into his arms with the same terrible patience he used for everything inconvenient. The moss-chamber felt too small for the urgency in his chest; the elders’ three-day plan tasted like slow poison.

“Sorry,” he muttered to the empty room as he slipped out into the root-strewn night. No one saw them leave. The dryads and elders were occupied beyond the outer ring of trees; the corridor’s watch had thinned in the hush between ritual tasks. There were no sentries at that entrance, no curious eyes to catch a human carrying an elf into the dark.

Kael padded through the forest like a shadow that knew its way; the dryads had left faint markers along the paths, and he followed by instinct more than sight. He kept Lyren close, careful not to jostle the fragile breaths from her.

When the moon hung low and the air smelled of damp earth and crushed orchids, he reached the clearing where Sylwen’s Bloom lay hidden. The pond shimmered under the moonlight, its surface a sheet of liquid silver ringed by petals the color of fresh blood. The place hummed — alive, watchful, ancient.

Kael crouched and laid Lyren beside the pond, careful as if setting down glass.

Lyren remained unconscious, her face slack with the strain of the miasma. Kael arranged the offerings as best he could while she slept: small bowls of clear water, petals placed just-so, and a wreath of white orchid buds laid at her feet. The Blood Orchids shivered faintly as he worked, releasing the scent of iron and nectar into the still night air.

Around them the Bloom held its breath. The moment felt like breath drawn deep before a plunge.

Behind them, in the hollow of the trees, the forest listened. The Bloom had been disturbed; the rites had not begun. But Kael had already canceled the wait.

He’d said what he meant. He’d tried to warn them. Now it was time to act.