Chapter 5: Whispers of the Blood
The deeper Liora and Kaelen pushed into the Grove, the stranger the forest became. Time no longer passed in any way she understood. The sun, if it still hung in the sky, was nowhere to be seen. The canopy above had thickened into a ceiling of leaves and branches, and the pale glow from the Rootheart tree now seemed like a memory. The forest was dark, but not pitch black. It pulsed with a dim, greenish luminescence—an unnatural light that seemed to come from the bark, from moss, from the air itself.
"We're in the bloodpath now," Kaelen said quietly as he swept aside a veil of hanging vines.
Liora raised an eyebrow. "The bloodpath?"
"It's where the Grove recognizes you," he said. "It begins drawing from you—memories, emotions, regrets. Especially regrets."
"And what does it do with them?"
He didn't answer. That alone was answer enough.
They pressed on, passing trees that bore strange scars—some in the shape of runes, others in the crude outline of faces. Liora began to feel it then: a hum in her bones, low and constant, like the echo of distant thunder. Her thoughts no longer felt like her own. They twisted and spiraled in strange directions. She would think of her mother's voice and instead hear it scolding her. She would think of the palace library and suddenly remember the ash-covered floor of her childhood nursery after the fire.
The Grove was digging. She could feel it.
Then came the whisper.
Liora…
She stopped. Her name had been spoken—not aloud, but directly in her mind, like the voice from before. But this one was different. It didn't feel foreign. It felt familiar. Painfully familiar.
"Did you hear that?" she asked, glancing at Kaelen.
He shook his head. "What did it say?"
"My name."
He frowned. "The Grove's voice is never idle. It shows you what it wants you to see. Don't trust anything you hear."
But she couldn't ignore it. That voice—it had been Renan's.
They moved forward, and the path shifted. The trees arched overhead, growing tighter together until they were funneling into a narrow corridor of roots and thorns. Vines slithered up trunks like veins, pulsing faintly. Liora's heart beat faster.
"I don't like this," she muttered.
"No one does," Kaelen replied.
Suddenly, the path opened into a clearing—and there, rising from the forest floor, stood a stone archway. It looked out of place, as though it had been carved by human hands and then forgotten for centuries. Vines crept along its surface, but the symbols etched into the stone still glowed faintly—symbols from the royal family's crest.
Liora approached it slowly, her fingers grazing the cold surface.
"This… this is royal stonework," she said. "I've seen these markings before. In the palace tombs."
Kaelen looked grim. "Then your bloodline's connection to the Grove runs deeper than you thought."
She stepped under the arch—and immediately, the world shifted.
She was no longer in the clearing.
She stood in the throne room of Serathil, but it was wrong. The air was heavy, and everything looked faded, washed out like an old tapestry. The banners were torn, and the great stained-glass windows were cracked. The throne sat empty—except for the shadow that now rested on it.
"Renan?" she called out.
The figure stood. It looked like her brother—same height, same dark hair, same piercing eyes. But his face was pale, and his expression was twisted in something between grief and rage.
"You left," he said. His voice echoed unnaturally. "You always leave."
"No," she whispered. "This isn't real."
He stepped forward. "You chose the Grove over your family. Over me."
Tears pricked her eyes. "I came here to protect us. To find the truth."
"The truth?" His voice grew colder. "The truth is that you're just like him."
Liora froze. "Like who?"
"Father."
She took a shaky step back. The image of Renan shattered into ash—and the throne room faded. She was in the forest again, gasping for breath, her legs weak.
Kaelen caught her before she collapsed. "You saw something."
"My brother… he accused me of abandoning him."
"It wasn't him," Kaelen said. "The Grove shows us what we fear. What we carry. It plays on guilt. You must hold to what is real."
Liora steadied herself. "What's real is that Renan is in here somewhere. And I have to reach him before the Grove does whatever it did to those others."
They pushed on.
Soon, the trees thinned, and they arrived at a shallow glade. In the center stood a tree stump, wide and flat like a table. On it lay a crown—simple, golden, and cracked down the middle.
Kaelen approached it and whispered, "The Crown of Withering."
Liora stared. "What is it?"
"A symbol. A temptation. The Grove uses it to lure those with ambition. Anyone of royal blood who sees it must choose whether to take it."
She stepped closer, staring at the broken circlet. It called to her—not with power, but with memory. She remembered the day her father died, the hush in the court, the way the elders had looked at her and Renan. How she'd wanted to step forward and say she was ready, that she would lead.
She reached out.
Kaelen's hand clamped on her wrist. "Don't."
"I just wanted to—"
"I know. That's how it begins."
They stood in silence, the weight of the moment hanging between them. Then Liora turned away from the crown.
The Grove stirred around them. The trees swayed despite no wind. Something unseen passed through the glade—a flicker of approval, or perhaps disappointment.
As they left the clearing, Kaelen murmured, "You resisted. Most don't."
Liora didn't answer. She just kept walking, eyes fixed ahead. The Grove could twist her thoughts, show her lies, awaken her guilt—but it could not change her purpose.
She would find her brother.
And she would uncover the truth her bloodline had buried.
Even if it destroyed her.
To be continued…