Chapter 19: The Prince’s Letter

Roots of Desire

Chapter 19: The Prince’s Letter

The sealed letter lay between them like a living thing, as though it pulsed with the weight of unseen eyes. The black wax glinted in the dim light of the hearth, the twisted thorn-crown unmistakable. No one moved to open it.

Iveyna barely registered the scrape of the chair as she sat down. Her mother remained close at her side, the warmth of her hand a small, fragile anchor against the cold crawling beneath her skin. Woodward lingered by the fire, his back half-turned as though the sight of the letter itself was an offense. Her father, ever the steady presence, stood with his arms crossed; watching the box, the letter, and the man by the hearth with equal distrust.

The door creaked open.

Vesper entered silently. The dim light caught the delicate curve of her bare shoulders beneath the borrowed linen shift. Her once-tangled hair now fell in sleek waves, brushed to an impossible shine, the deep black gleaming like polished obsidian.

But it was her eyes that made Iveyna’s breath catch. They were no longer glassy with fear; but tinged with something darker. A film of faint discoloration clung to the edges of her irises, a sickly yellow threaded with veins of gray-green rot, like moss growing on decay. Not lifeless… but wrong.

She moved without hesitation, her gaze flicking briefly to Woodward, bowing her head to him with eerie calm, before settling beside Iveyna. The air around her didn’t ripple; it hung heavy, like the scent of something sweet just beginning to sour.

Iveyna barely noticed.

Her fingers trembled as she broke the wax seal, her heart pounding too loud in her ears. She unfolded the thick parchment, its edges smooth and cold beneath her fingertips. The scent of ink; rich and iron-sweet; rose from the page.

The letter was written in an elegant, almost indolent script; each line flowing like it had been etched with a practiced hand soaked in luxury and arrogance.

To the Fairest of Coal and Flame,

Your beauty burns brighter than the forge and is whispered on the wind, carried through the bones of this humble kingdom. It is rare to find a flower with thorns so sharp; so intoxicating; I find myself eager to bleed.

I admire the strength in your hands, the fire in your gaze. It would be my honor to host you as a guest beneath my roof, where the softest silks await to ease the labors of a life spent among dust and cinders.

In three days’ time, a carriage will arrive for you. Do not keep me waiting.

The Prince of Blackthorn Keep

Iveyna’s stomach twisted. No demand. No overt threat. But the hunger coiled between every honeyed word like a serpent beneath velvet. It wasn’t an invitation; it was a claim. A gilded leash, knotted in ink.

Her mother exhaled sharply. Her father muttered a curse under his breath. Woodward… he was too quiet. She could feel the weight of his silence pressing against her skin.

No one spoke.

Her father’s brow furrowed into a deep, uncomfortable line. Her mother’s lips parted, but whatever words she meant to say died before they reached the air.

Woodward was watching her. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack stone. And yet beneath that restrained fury, something else burned in his eyes; something steady, fierce.

Protective.

He took a step toward her. Then another. His shadow stretched across the table as he loomed closer, his gaze never wavering from her face.

“Iveyna,” he said quietly, the roughness in his voice gentler now; but no less dangerous. “Are you okay?”

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She barely managed to nod.

He stepped even closer, and his voice dropped lower, meant only for her. “He will not have you.” The words were a quiet promise; but it trembled at the edges, sharp with something unspoken. His hand hovered near hers, fingers brushing her knuckles. Mine, his touch seemed to say, though the word never passed his lips.

Then louder, steadier: “We prepare. And when he comes… we make sure he regrets it.” Woodward rose from his seat in a smooth, fluid motion; too graceful for a man of his size. The air seemed to shift as he stood, his presence pulling the room’s attention toward him like gravity.

Iveyna’s gaze lifted to meet his, and for a breath, everything else fell away. The letter, the Prince’s looming threat; none of it mattered in the quiet warmth of his eyes. Gone was the hard-edged fury he had shown the messenger. In its place was something softer. Something meant only for her.

His calloused fingers brushed the edge of the table where the letter had laid, as if weighing unseen possibilities. Then his attention shifted back to her; steady, deliberate. “I need to return to my Grove,” he said quietly. “Just for a day or two.”

A flicker of worry stirred in her chest. She opened her mouth to speak; to ask why; but stopped herself. This wasn’t the time for questions. She trusted him. And if he thought his Grove held answers, she would not stand in his way.

Still, she couldn’t help the pang of unease curling beneath her ribs. “So soon?” The words slipped out before she could stop them.

He took a step closer, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his skin; wooden though it was. “I must report to the Elders,” he said. “About the Leech Seed.” His voice held no trace of hesitation, though a shadow flickered behind his eyes. “They will understand why I used it. That’s why the World Tree and the Qliphoth created it; to draw poison from the land and punish those who spread corruption.”

He exhaled softly, the lines of his face easing into something gentler. “I would not have used it lightly. But what the Steward did; what he was becoming; he deserved its judgment.”

Iveyna swallowed hard, remembering the sickly, twisting roots that had consumed the Steward’s body.

Justice, but with a brutal edge.

“And they’ll believe that?” she asked, her voice softer now. “They will.” The certainty in his words soothed some of the tension knotting her chest. “I do not answer to men like the Prince. I answer to the wild, the World Tree; and to those who guard it.” He tilted his head slightly, his expression thoughtful. “Besides… the Leech Seed does not lie. It exists only to bind to those who are already corrupted and bring the land back from the brink of destruction.”

His gaze drifted downward; toward Vesper. She hadn’t stirred from where she sat by Iveyna. Her dark hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, the deep onyx strands brushing the edge of her linen shirt. But it was her eyes that held his focus. The taint in them hadn’t faded. If anything, it had deepened; faint greenish rot coiling at the edges of her irises like creeping lichen, a quiet reminder of what had been done to her.

Her body was healed; on the surface. But beneath that stillness lay something else. A sickness left behind. A bruise in the soul the forest could feel, even if flesh no longer bore the scars. Woodward’s jaw clenched. He could sense it in her presence; a sour note beneath the breath of the room. Whatever darkness had taken root in her hadn’t let go. Not completely. And she was close to Iveyna now. Too close.

Perhaps a Hopebloom Leech Seed could help.

The thought came unbidden, laced with tension. The Hopebloom was a rare variant of the Leech Seed; gentler in purpose, but no less powerful. Where the Leech Seed punished corruption, the Hopebloom drew it out, coaxing rot to the surface and burning it away. If the wound in Vesper was more spiritual than physical, it might be the only way to free her.

But it was a risk.

Hopeblooms didn’t discriminate. They sought truth. They would purge her if they found too much darkness within; and Woodward wasn’t sure what the girl’s soul might reveal when tested. Still, he was willing to ask. Not just for her sake.

For Iveyna’s.

She didn’t yet understand the gravity of what surrounded her, the eyes that watched, the roots that stirred when her name was spoken. She was still too willing to carry the pain of others, to offer kindness to broken things.

But he did understand. And he would not allow the rot to reach her. Before he turned away, he lingered. Woodward turned from Vesper and looked at Iveyna once more. She met his gaze, expecting a final warning or reassurance; but what she found instead was quiet, raw vulnerability.

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until they stood inches apart. “I don’t like leaving you,” he murmured. His voice, always rough, had softened into something rasped and unguarded. “Not now. Not with him on the horizon.”

Iveyna’s breath caught. The heat of his nearness, the tension coiled in his frame; it felt like the stillness before a storm. Her hand hovered near his chest, uncertain. Woodward reached out first. Calloused fingers grazed the side of her face, tracing a strand of hair behind her ear. His touch was reverent, grounding. Possessive.

“I’ll return before the third day,” he said, voice low, meant only for her. “And when I do... he’ll find you unreachable. Marked by something far older than his claim.”

Her heart stumbled in her chest.

He didn’t kiss her.

But his thumb brushed the edge of her jaw, lingering there like a vow, before he pulled back and turned to the door.

As the door swung open, cold air rushed in, biting against Iveyna’s skin. She watched as they crossed the threshold; Woodward’s broad frame a stark contrast to Vesper’s slender form, his steps steady, guiding, protective. The door shut behind them with a soft click, leaving an unsettling silence in their wake.

Iveyna let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her fingers curling in the fabric of her skirt. Her mother broke the silence first, her voice thick with worry. “What if they don’t come back?”

“They will.” Her father’s voice came from the shadows, firm and unyielding. “That Druid’s not the sort to abandon what he claims.” Her mother’s face paled at the word; claims; but Iveyna barely heard them.

Her thoughts lingered on Woodward’s touch, the burn of his promise, the way his gaze had anchored her when everything else felt like it was unraveling. The Prince’s letter still lay heavy in her chest, its poisoned words still coiled around her thoughts.

Three days.

And whether Woodward knew it yet or not, she was his, just as much as he was becoming hers.