Chapter 5: Echos in the Dark

Roots of Desire

Chapter 5 – Echos in the Dark

Woodward stood rooted at the edge of the village, his Treant form woven seamlessly into the shape of a towering oak. His bark stretched over limbs thick with age, and his leaves trembled softly in the breeze. Beneath the earth, his roots stretched deep and wide, weaving into the land’s pulse. Through them, he felt every vibration; each footstep that marred the soil, every breath of life moving through the world. He had long since learned to quiet his presence, to let his magic blur the lines between himself and the forest. To the people of this town, he was nothing more than a tree; solid, unyielding, and ordinary.

But not to her.

He felt her approach before he saw her. Her steps were light, skimming across the earth with an instinctive grace most mortals lacked. When she appeared on the path, his senses sharpened, drinking in every detail. A loosened braid fell over her shoulder, strands of hair brushing her cheek. Coal dust clung to her fingertips; evidence of her place in this village, a life spent turning nature’s bounty into fuel for human greed. Her figure moved with a quiet strength, each step purposeful. It should have meant nothing. And yet, Woodward’s attention hung on her as though the wind itself pulled him toward her.

When her gaze lifted, his magic trembled. She shouldn’t have noticed him; not beneath the Druidic veil masking his true form. No one else did. The townsfolk passed by without a glance, their minds too dull to sense the living magic beneath their feet. But Iveyna’s gaze lingered. For a breath, her awareness brushed against him; a soft but undeniable pull. She didn’t know what she was looking at. Not fully. Yet some part of her sensed him.

That unsettled him in ways he could not name. It wasn’t the first time she had disturbed his stillness.

His thoughts drifted back to their first encounter in the grove; the other night she had crossed into the heart of sacred ground. She should not have been able to enter. The ancient wards had stood for centuries, shielding the grove from uninvited trespassers. And yet, she had walked through them as if they did not exist. Her presence had rippled through the magic, sharp and jarring, rousing instincts he had buried long ago. Even now, the memory of her lingered; soft skin chilled by creek water, the flash of fear in her eyes when he confronted her in his Treant form. She had no place in his world. She was a danger to it. And yet, she fascinated him.

The Druidic Council would not approve of his interest. They had long warned against entanglement with mortal affairs; especially for one like him. His position was already precarious. His willingness to stray from their ways had drawn suspicion before. To fixate on a blacksmith’s daughter would only give them more reason to question his loyalty. And still, he remained. Watching. Waiting.

A bitter scent tugged at his senses; cold and oily, polluting the earth beneath it. The Steward. His home squatted at the center of town like a wound in the land, the soil beneath it brittle and lifeless. Woodward’s roots stretched toward the structure, tasting the rot that clung to it. Greed radiated from the place, a sharp contrast to the forest’s natural rhythm. The man’s influence spread like a disease, and Woodward had felt it creeping further with each passing year. Yet the Druids would not act. Not until the damage reached the heart of the forest itself.

His bark creaked with tension as he focused his senses inside the Steward’s home. What he found there made something old and primal stir within him. The Steward’s attention rested on Iveyna; his gaze heavy with something darker than mere curiosity. Hunger. Possession. It filled the air like a poison, and Woodward felt it scrape against his magic in a way that left him raw.

It was none of his concern. He knew this. The Druids had rules; rules meant to protect the balance between the forest and the mortal world. He had followed those rules for eons, binding himself to the land, keeping his wooden core distant. Yet the thought of the Steward’s hands on her, his power curling around her like chains; made Woodward’s roots curl deeper, anchoring him to the spot as though he could shield her with nothing but his presence.

When she stepped back into the light, relief coursed through him; fierce and unfamiliar. Her face was tight with restrained anger, her shoulders stiff as she moved away from the Steward’s manor. Whatever had passed between them had left its mark, but at least she was untouched. Still, Woodward’s attention lingered on her every movement, tracing the stubborn line of her jaw, the tension in her limbs.

As she passed him once more, something changed. A ripple of energy stirred the air; a faint pulse that should not have been there. Woodward’s magic flared in response, his awareness locking onto her. It wasn’t the first time he had felt it. That night in the grove, the forest had reacted to her presence, bending toward her as though she belonged to something older and wilder. And now, it stirred again, reaching for her like roots seeking water. It made no sense. No human should resonate with the deeper magic this way.

She was an anomaly; one he should report to the Council. But the thought of turning her over to their scrutiny left a bitter taste in his mouth. He knew what they would do. They would see her as a threat to the delicate balance they so rigidly maintained. And threats, once discovered, were not left to wander free.

Woodward should return to the forest’s heart. His duty lay with the Druids, with the ancient magics he was bound to protect. The longer he stayed at the edge of this village, the more he risked becoming entangled in matters that were not his to hold. And yet, he did not move.

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Instead, he stood rooted beneath the fading light, watching as Iveyna disappeared into the deepening dusk.

He should let her go. He didn’t.

As the last traces of Iveyna’s presence faded into the village, Woodward exhaled a slow, measured breath. His magic hummed beneath his bark, restless and unwilling to settle. The pulse he had felt from her still clung to the edges of his awareness; ancient, raw, and entirely out of place in a coal miner’s daughter. It called to something in him that he could not ignore.

But watching from afar was no longer enough.

The roots binding him to the earth trembled as he drew his power inward, focusing on the shape he wore. With a thought, his massive limbs shifted. Bark softened to wooden skin, roots withdrew from the soil, and his towering form shrank as the weight of his Treant nature receded. In a breath, the great oak became a wooden man.

Woodward straightened, the creak of bark fading into the crack of his joints as his humanoid form took hold. His skin remained the color of polished wood, smooth yet tough, as if the forest itself had shaped him. His dark hair hung in loose waves, and faint markings curled along his forearms; traces of the ancient oaths he had sworn to the land. Though smaller, his presence still carried the weight of something not entirely human.

He stepped forward, the earth responding to his will. His senses stretched beyond the physical; reaching into the subtle weave of life surrounding the village. Every tree, every blade of grass, every root crawling through the soil was a thread in the vast tapestry he could touch.

Tonight, he would use it.

Woodward knelt and pressed his palm to the ground. The cool earth welcomed him, opening itself to his magic. He reached deeper; past the surface, into the veins of life that ran beneath the village like an unseen river. His focus sharpened, narrowing on a single point; the Steward’s manor.

The earth there was wrong. Sick. Where natural energy should flow freely, there was a stillness, a weight that repelled the forest’s touch. It was no surprise; the Steward’s greed infected everything it touched. Woodward had felt it spreading for years, a slow poison leeching into the land. But now, the thought of that poison reaching Iveyna was enough to stir his magic into motion.

He would not allow it.

Woodward’s fingers curled against the dirt as he called on the rhythms of binding; an ancient Druidic ability meant to bend the natural world without breaking it. It was a delicate magic, subtle and unseen, but with enough precision to twist the fabric of reality around a chosen target. A whisper of intent, and the roots beneath the Steward’s home stirred in answer.

Slowly, he wove his will into the roots themselves, wrapping the foundations of the house in a tangle of unseen restraints. Woodward did not seek to destroy; no, that would draw attention. But he could restrict. Already, the earth shifted beneath the structure, and he wove the binding tighter; ensuring the flow of energy within the house would remain muted. Blunted. The Steward’s reach would not extend further; not while Woodward held the reins.

As his magic settled into place, he felt the satisfying twist of the binding take hold. The Steward would not feel it; not directly; but the house would become a dead place. A prison of his own making. And should he seek to harm her…

The roots would know. And they would respond.

Woodward stood, releasing the last threads of magic. The power withdrew into the earth, leaving only the faintest hum behind. To any other Druid, it would be nearly undetectable; a ghost of a spell, woven too close to nature’s breath to be easily unraveled. But for Woodward, it was a promise.

Satisfied, he turned his focus back to the village. Iveyna was gone from his sight, but her presence still echoed in his senses; an ember he could not extinguish. She would return to her home, safe for now. But this was not the end.

His instincts; those primal, possessive urges he had spent centuries mastering; warned him of that truth. Whatever stirred in her blood was not finished. And neither was he.

With one last glance toward the village, Woodward melted back into the forest’s shadow; his magic coiling silently through the earth, watching, waiting.

As the door to the Steward’s manor groaned shut behind Iveyna and her father, the room settled into an uneasy silence. The Steward lingered by the window, his gaze fixed on Iveyna’s retreating form as she disappeared into the twilight. His lips curled into a thin, calculating smile—until a voice, smooth as velvet and laced with malice, cut through the stillness.

“She’s exquisite,” the voice drawled.

The Steward stiffened. The concealed panel in the far wall slid open without a sound, revealing a shadowed alcove. From the darkness stepped a man draped in silken black, the crimson insignia of the royal house embroidered across his chest. His presence filled the room with a weight far more oppressive than the Steward’s greed.

The Prince.

The Steward bowed his head low, swallowing the dry knot in his throat. “Your Highness.”

The Prince moved with a predator’s grace, each step deliberate as he crossed the room. His cold, silver eyes swept toward the door where Iveyna had vanished, gleaming with something far too hungry for mere curiosity. “She has spirit,” he mused, as if savoring the thought. “And fire beneath that defiance. I can taste it from here.” His fingers traced the edge of a crystal goblet on the nearby table. “Tell me, Steward… how is it that such a jewel has remained hidden in this wretched little village?”

The Steward straightened, his voice careful and oily. “Iveyna Duskvale. The blacksmith’s daughter. She’s nothing, my prince. A blacksmith's daughter, like her mother before her.” He hesitated, as if weighing his next words. “But… I’ve had my eye on her for some time.”

The Prince smiled; a slow, cruel thing that never reached his eyes. “Good. Keep your eye on her.” He turned, brushing an imaginary speck from his sleeve. “And the others. There are still debts to be collected.”

The Steward’s fingers twitched at his sides. “I’ve already increased the tithe, Your Highness. These people have little left to give.”

“Then take more.” The Prince's tone hardened, his veneer of indolence slipping. “Coin is useful, yes; but flesh, Steward… flesh is far more valuable. I expect results.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” the Steward murmured, lowering his head again. The Prince moved toward the concealed doorway, but paused, casting one last glance toward the window. His expression turned pensive, a glint of intrigue curling his lips. “Iveyna,” he murmured to himself, as though tasting the name. “Perhaps this miserable village isn’t quite as dull as I thought.”

Without another word, he disappeared back into the shadows, the wall sliding shut behind him with a quiet click.

The Steward exhaled, his shoulders sagging beneath the weight of the Prince’s demands. But his mind lingered on the memory of Iveyna; on the shape of her defiance and the spark that danced behind her eyes. If the Prince wanted more… then more he would have.

And Iveyna Duskvale had just become the most valuable prize in his collection.