Chapter 18: The Summons

Roots of Desire

Chapter 18: The Summons

Iveyna walked beside Woodward through the market square, the familiar bustle feeling heavier today. His presence was a steady weight against the gnawing unease curling in her chest. She could feel the way people looked at them; furtive glances that slid away the moment her gaze swept their way.

The village buzzed with quiet tension. Whispers of the Steward’s ruined manor drifted like smoke through the air; soft, hurried murmurs that never lingered too long. No one dared speak openly. Not when unseen ears could be listening.

At the butcher’s stall, thick slabs of venison hung from rusted hooks. The butcher; a broad-shouldered man with scarred knuckles; paused mid-cut as they approached. His grip on the cleaver tightened, knuckles whitening as his wary eyes flicked to Woodward.

Iveyna had grown used to the way Woodward unsettled people. Even in his humanoid form, he stood out; too tall, too still, and too carved from something that wasn’t quite flesh. His wooden skin caught the pale morning light, subtle enough to resemble leather armor, but up close, it was something else entirely. Something not human.

Woodward’s fingers trailed over a hanging cut of venison, wooden joints flexing with careful precision. His touch was light, but the butcher flinched as though burned.

“I’ll take this,” Woodward said, voice low and smooth; a sound like distant thunder rolling through the bones. The butcher hesitated, thick brows furrowed deep. Whatever thoughts stirred behind his eyes, he swallowed them down. With jerky, hurried movements, he cut the meat free and wrapped it in waxed parchment. When he shoved the bundle toward Iveyna, his hand trembled slightly.

Woodward only hummed, the sound so soft it barely touched the air; but the butcher paled further. Without another word, Woodward handed the coin over, brushing his fingers against hers as he passed her the wrapped venison. “People are afraid,” Iveyna murmured as they moved on, glancing around the market where tension hung thick as fog. “They should be,” Woodward replied, voice calm but edged with something darker. “Fear keeps them cautious. And alive.”

Before she could respond, the quiet hum of the market shifted. The easy murmur of voices thinned; replaced by a prickle that ran down her spine.

The crowd parted, moving back as a figure stumbled forward. At first, she thought it was another beggar; a common sight in a village like this; but as the woman drew closer, a sharp chill cut through Iveyna’s body. She was little more than a shadow of herself. Blood crusted through tangled strands of her dark hair, and her torn clothing hung loose over bruised skin. Purple-black marks ringed her wrists; marks left by iron shackles.

A survivor.

The woman’s steps faltered, her weight swaying as though she might collapse where she stood. But when her hollow gaze lifted and met Iveyna’s, something inside her sharpened; recognition flashing through the dull haze. She fell to her knees. “No; ” Iveyna reached toward her, but the woman grabbed the hem of her skirt in trembling fingers, her breath hitching.

“He knows you,” she rasped, voice broken and raw. “The Prince; he sees you.” A cold spike twisted through Iveyna’s gut.

The woman’s grip tightened, desperation bleeding into her ruined voice. “He doesn’t forget what he desires. The Steward; he was nothing. Just a shadow in his hand.” Her words tangled into a dry sob. “He’ll come for you. And when he does; no one escapes him.”

Woodward’s vines stirred. One slithered silently across the ground, curling around the woman’s wrist; not binding her, but assessing. His expression remained unreadable, but the edges of his calm had gone razor-sharp. “You’re safe now,” he said softly, though his voice carried a weight that filled the air. “He won’t touch you again.”

The words seemed to unravel the last thread holding her together. Her body sagged, the fight bleeding out of her as consciousness slipped away. Woodward moved before she could fall, catching her limp form with terrifying ease. Iveyna watched, heart pounding, as he lowered the woman to the ground with surprising gentleness.

He whispered something; soft and unfamiliar; in a language that brushed against the edges of her understanding but remained just out of reach. Whatever it was, it settled over the woman like a balm. “We need a healer,” he called, his tone brooking no argument. A nervous merchant darted off, disappearing down one of the side streets.

Iveyna exhaled slowly, trying to shake off the chill that clung to her skin. “She wasn’t lying,” she said quietly. “He’s watching us.” Woodward’s hand found the small of her back, grounding her. “Let him watch,” he murmured, the promise of violence coiled beneath the words. “I won’t let him take you.”

But as the market stirred back to life, a new presence crept into the air; something far more deliberate.

The scent of blood still lingered when the next figure arrived.

The man who approached did not belong in the rough simplicity of the village. His crimson cloak shimmered beneath the sun, too fine for this place. Too refined. He moved with a smooth, measured grace; a careful elegance that hinted at something… unnatural.

His gaze slid over the market’s offerings with a faint curl of disdain before settling on them. Iveyna stiffened beneath his scrutiny. The crimson messenger bowed; shallow and perfunctory; before producing two objects.

The first was an envelope, heavy cream parchment sealed with black wax. A crown of thorns pressed into the surface glinted faintly.

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The second was a rosewood box, polished to a mirror shine. He opened it without a word, revealing a slender gold chain nestled against the velvet interior; delicate and thin. Just large enough for a woman’s throat.

“His Highness extends his invitation to the lady,” the messenger said, voice smooth as oil. “He awaits her presence. Eagerly.”

Iveyna’s pulse slammed against her ribs. Woodward’s fingers pressed firmer against her back. Though he remained outwardly calm, his vines shifted; a subtle warning that slid across the ground toward the messenger’s feet.

The man did not flinch. His smile was faint, but it lingered on Iveyna a beat too long; sharp as the curve of a knife. Without another word, he closed the box, leaving it and the letter in her hands. He turned with that same inhuman grace and melted back into the crowd, vanishing as swiftly as he had come.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Iveyna held the rosewood box, her knuckles white against the polished surface. The chain gleamed like a promise; or a threat; beneath the sunlight. Woodward’s vines flexed, one stretching toward the box. At its tip, a sunflower began to bloom; slowly, deliberately reaching for the thing that dared mark her.

But Iveyna pulled the box closer to her chest.

“Your flower isn’t necessary,” she said, her voice hard and clear. “I’m not some helpless girl he can collar and parade around.” Her lips curled into something fierce. “I’ll march right up to his gilded palace and shove this box; and his damn chain; down his throat.”

Woodward’s sunflower trembled; but after a beat, the vine stilled. “Very well,” he murmured. But in the quiet heat of his gaze, a darker promise lingered. If the Prince wanted to play games, he would soon regret it.

The door to her family’s modest home creaked open as Iveyna stepped inside, the weight of the rosewood box cold in her hands. The familiar scent of herbs and sun-dried linen wrapped around her like a fragile comfort; too fragile to hold against the memory of the survivor’s warning.

Woodward followed, his broad frame nearly brushing the doorframe as he ducked inside. The bag of market goods hung from his shoulder, the slab of venison cradled carefully in one hand. He moved with an ease that felt out of place in the cramped kitchen; a creature born of wild earth and towering groves, now standing beneath her parents’ humble wooden beams.

Her mother, Ashley, stood at the counter kneading dough, her hands dusted in flour. She glanced up, her face softening when she spotted Iveyna. “You’re back later than I expected,” she said, though there was no reproach in her tone. Her eyes flicked briefly toward Woodward, curiosity glinting behind her motherly warmth.

“We stopped at the market,” Iveyna said, her voice more strained than she intended. She set the rosewood box and the sealed letter on the table, but her mother’s gaze had already shifted to Woodward.

“I brought venison,” he said quietly. His voice, though gentle, seemed to resonate through the small space; something deeper than mere sound. “I’ll prepare it for supper, if that’s all right.”

Ashley wiped her hands on her apron, giving him a once-over with that keen, measuring glance mothers seemed to reserve for anyone near their daughters. “You cook?”

A faint smile touched his lips. “When the forest allows it.” That earned a soft chuckle from her mother, the sound easing the stiffness in Iveyna’s shoulders. “Well, if the forest allows, who am I to argue? There’s a skillet by the hearth.”

Woodward inclined his head and moved toward the fire, his steps soundless on the wooden floor. His vines coiled back beneath his skin, but not before Iveyna caught a glimpse of one curling around the bag of herbs; gathering what he needed without thought.

Her mother’s smile faded as she turned back to her. “What happened?” she asked quietly, glancing toward the box and letter on the table. “You’re pale, child.” Iveyna sat, the weight of everything pressing against her ribs. “A woman came to us,” she began. “In the market; one of the missing girls.” She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. “She escaped.” Ashley’s face blanched. “By the Gods…” Her hands trembled as she reached for a cloth to steady herself. “Is she; did she; ?”

“She’s alive.” Iveyna shook her head. “Barely. But what she said…” Her voice faltered. “It was about the Prince.” Woodward worked quietly by the hearth, but she knew he was listening; his shoulders tense beneath the soft linen of his tunic as he sliced the venison with careful precision.

Iveyna forced herself to continue. “The Steward… he was only a tool. The Prince is the one who; ” Her stomach twisted. “He knows me. He wants me.” Her mother’s breath hitched, her knuckles going white around the edge of the table. “Iveyna…”

“She said no one escapes him,” she whispered, her voice trembling despite herself. “And then this; ” She motioned to the rosewood box and the letter. “A messenger delivered them.” Ashley reached for the box with hesitant fingers, her expression tight as she flipped the lid open. The delicate gold chain inside gleamed cruelly against the polished wood. A shudder passed through her mother, her usual composure cracking. “This isn’t just an invitation,” she murmured. “It’s a declaration of intent.”

At the hearth, the sizzle of venison fat hitting the skillet filled the silence. Woodward hadn’t spoken, but there was something in the way he moved; each slice of the knife deliberate, controlled. Like he was holding himself back.

Ashley carefully set the box down as though it burned her fingertips, turning her attention to the heavy parchment. She didn’t touch it. Not yet. Her mouth thinned.

“I need to call your father.”

Iveyna’s stomach twisted as her mother raised her voice; no longer soft, no longer even, but taut with barely veiled alarm. “Kolebert,” she called toward the forge door. “Come here, please.” The panic laced beneath her words cut through the familiar clang of the hammer. Silence. Then heavy footsteps approached from the workshop.

Her father’s presence filled the room like the heat of the forge itself; broad-shouldered and ash-smudged, his dark hair streaked with ash. His expression shifted from curiosity to concern the moment he caught the look on Ashley’s face.

“What is it dear?” Kolebert asked, his gaze settling on Iveyna; then flicking to Woodward with quiet appraisal. Ashley gestured to the box and letter without a word. His eyes darkened. “What in the blackened hells is this?”

“The Prince,” Ashley said quietly. “He knows her.” For a moment, no one spoke. Only the faint crackle of the hearth and the distant hum of the village drifted through the walls. Woodward turned from the stove, the aroma of the venison rich and heavy. His hands were steady as he set the skillet aside, but there was a dangerous calm in his voice when he finally spoke.

“He will not have her.”

Iveyna’s heart stumbled in her chest at the quiet ferocity beneath those words. Her father; always the pragmatist; folded his arms across his chest. “It isn’t so simple,” he said, though his voice was rough. “When the Prince sets his eyes on someone…” His jaw tightened. “He doesn’t let go.”

“I don’t care how many titles he hides behind.” Woodward stepped closer to the table. “He will not touch her. Even if I have to burn this entire kingdom to the ground.”

A thick silence hung between them; thick enough to choke on. Kolebert’s gaze sharpened in disbelief, as if weighing the truth of Woodward’s words. “You sound sure of yourself.”

Woodward met his eyes without flinching. “I am.”

Ashley, still pale, turned toward her daughter and rested a hand on her cheek. “Whatever happens,” she said softly, “you are not alone.” Iveyna closed her eyes against the sting of tears, leaning briefly into the comfort of her mother’s touch. But as her gaze drifted back to the black wax seal, the thorns pressed into the shape of a crown, the weight of the threat settled deep in her bones.