The Bloodline Bargain

The borderlands reeked of iron and impending storm. Valencia stood atop Feron's western watchtower, the wind clawing at her cloak as Lysandra's war banners unfurled in the distance—emerald vipers on black silk, writhing in the dusk. Behind her, Xyrus argued with his generals, their voices sharp as the blades strapped to their hips.

"They'll hit the Silvercross Pass first," one lord growled. "Crush our supply lines."

"Or flank through the Deadmarsh," countered another. "Drown us in rot."

Xyrus silenced them with a glance. "We fortify both. And the mines." His gaze flicked to Valencia. "The cleansed mines."

She stiffened. The mines' crystalline vines now pulsed with an eerie light, their roots threading through Feron's poisoned veins like arteries. But their vigor was fading.

The rebel leader found her in the crypts at midnight, a torch casting feral shadows over the skeletal kings. "Your cure is failing," she said, tossing a withered vine at Valencia's feet. "The blight returns."

Valencia crouched, brushing the brittle leaves. "How long?"

"A week. Maybe two." The woman's eyes glinted. "The land demands payment, Princess. It always has."

"Payment?"

"Blood." The rebel leader gripped Valencia's wrist, her nails biting. "Your blood. The old texts say it's the only way to sustain the cure."

Valencia yanked free. "Superstition."

"Is it?" The woman slid a crumbling scroll from her belt. The script was Pherri, ancient and looping. …the line of Liora, who bound her life to the soil…

Valencia's throat tightened. Liora—her ancestor, the first queen of Pherr. The one who'd vanished into legend.

"You're her heir," the rebel hissed. "The vines hunger."

Xyrus found her at dawn, hunched over maps in the war room. "You're avoiding me."

"You're avoiding sleep," she countered, noting the shadows beneath his eyes.

He leaned on the table, his shoulder grazing hers. "The lords are restless. Half want me to abandon the border and crush Pherr's 'insurrection.'" He air-quoted the last word, bitter.

"And the other half?"

"Want to toss me into Lysandra's trenches as a peace offering." He paused. "They're not wrong. She wants Feron's silver. My head is just a trophy."

Valencia traced the Silvercross Pass on the map. "We need time. The vines—"

"Are dying." He said it softly, like an apology.

She met his gaze. "There's a way to save them. But it's… not without cost."

His jaw tightened. "What kind of cost?"

Before she could answer, horns blared. A scout burst in, armor streaked with mud. "Lysandra's vanguard—they've breached the Deadmarsh!"

The battlefield was a nightmare of churned earth and screaming metal. Valencia rode beside Xyrus, her dagger slick with venom-green blood—Lysandra's soldiers wore serrated armor, their faces hidden behind scaled visors. Feron's forces held the ridge, but the marsh seethed with shadows.

"Fall back!" Xyrus roared as a wave of Lysandran cavalry surged, their mounts reptilian, all teeth and talons.

Valencia spurred her horse toward the mines. "Buy me time!"

The rebel leader waited at the shaft entrance, a curved blade in hand. "Ready?"

Valencia nodded, her pulse thunderous. They descended into the glowing cavern, where the vines throbbed weakly.

"Cut here." The woman pointed to the largest root, its light dimming.

Valencia pressed her palm to the crystal. "Not yet."

She sliced her forearm, blood splattering the vine. The root twitched, then flared, tendrils snaking up her leg.

Aboveground, Xyrus parried a Lysandran blade, his muscles burning. The enemy was endless.

Then the earth trembled.

Vines erupted from the mines, luminous and vicious. They speared through Lysandra's ranks, dragging soldiers into the soil. A roar shook the air—not human, not beast. The land itself.

Xyrus turned, searching the chaos.

Valencia stood at the mine's mouth, blood dripping from her hand, her eyes twin moons.

That night, they faced the rebel leader in the war room. The woman bowed, grudging. "The vines live. For now."

"At what price?" Xyrus demanded.

Valencia flexed her bandaged arm. "A taste. This time."

The rebel leader smirked. "Next time, it'll take more. A pint. A limb. A life." She left, the threat hanging.

Xyrus gripped Valencia's chair, his voice a rasp. "You should've told me."

"Would you have stopped me?"

"Yes."

"Liar."

He stilled. "Don't do this again."

"Then find another way," she whispered.

In the crypts, Valencia found Liora's tomb—empty, save for a single inscription: "The crown is a root. It feeds on the queen."

A hand clasped her shoulder. Xyrus, holding a dagger.

"For the next battle," he said, pressing it into her palm. The hilt was forged from cleansed silver, its edge etched with vines.

"Poetic," she said.

"Practical." His thumb brushed her wrist. "I need you alive."

She smiled. "Now you're learning."