The Root That Walks
I step past Hunter with my boots crunching on the icy gravel, my heart still hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Levin follows close behind, his hand sliding naturally from my waist to brush against my knuckles before we reach the edge of the newly bloomed bioluminescent wall. The giant roots we summoned pulse with a soft, rhythmic amber glow that casts long, flickering shadows across the damp cavern floor. Hunter points his gloved finger toward a dark depression in the stone where the thickest tendrils cross. “Right there,” Hunter mutters, his sword resting loosely at his side. “It made a wet, dragging sound like a wet hide being pulled across slate.”
I crouch down in the damp moss, holding up a small glass vial to catch the purple light filtering through the canopy. A low, musical trill hums from the shadows beneath the root, sounding remarkably like a cat clearing its throat after a long nap. A bulbous, pear-shaped stem covered in iridescent scales shuffles sideways out of the dirt, moving with clumsy, segmented steps on six stubby rootlets. It stops two inches from my left boot, tilts its crown of feathery fern leaves toward my face, and gives an inquisitive little squeak. “Well,” I whisper, lowering my hand until my fingers hover just above its shimmering green cap. “You are a peculiar little mistake, aren't you?”
The creature leans its cool, damp head directly into my palm with an unmistakable purr that vibrates right up my forearm. Levin kneels beside me on the cold stone, the crisp scent of spring meadows wrapping around us as he inspects the tiny wandering plant. “It has a rudimentary nervous system formed entirely of xylem and phloem,” Levin notes, a faint smile touching the corners of his mouth as the plant reaches out a tiny tendril to tap his silver sleeve. “I think it likes you far better than it likes the guard.” Hunter scowls from the archway, crossing his arms over his tailored black coat. “It’s an unregistered anomaly growing on royal property, and it could be venomous.”
“It is not venomous, Hunter,” I say, carefully scooping the tiny ambulatory fern up into the crook of my canvas apron. The creature settles into the rough fabric immediately, curling its leafy top like a sleeping kitten and radiating a gentle, sun-warmed heat against my ribs. “It is just looking for a warm place to stay, which is more than I can say for half the lords in the subterranean court.” Levin chuckles softly beside me, the sound warm and steady against the chill of the northern wind drifting through the tunnel. “We should give it a proper name before we march back to face the elders,” Levin suggests, his green eyes catching the colorful light of the garden behind us. “Something dignified for a royal pet.”
“We are not naming a weed,” Hunter says flatly, turning on his heel and heading back toward the main cavern without waiting for an answer. I trace a thumb over the creature's smooth, glowing scales, feeling the strange, grounding comfort of its rhythmic pulse against my own. Levin stands up, offering me his hand with a quiet grace that makes my breath catch in my throat for an entirely different reason than the magic. I take his hand, letting him pull me to my feet while the little fern snores softly against my chest. “Come on then,” I murmur, looking up into his calm, green eyes. “Let's go see what fresh disaster the council has prepared for us while we were out here.”
The Council's Decree
The torchlit grand hall smells of old parchment, damp stone, and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone left behind by the recent trials. The new council members and the several old council members look at me with respect. The heavy iron doors swing shut behind us with a loud, resounding thud that echoes off the vaulted ceiling and makes the little fern in my apron stir nervously. Hunter takes up his post beside the doorway, his silhouette merging with the dark tapestries depicting ancient victories. The new head of the council clears his throat, unrolling a stiff yellowed scroll with a dry, papery rustle that fills the tense silence of the room.
“The verified votes from the outer wards and the inner commoner districts have been tallied,” the new head announces, his voice warm and calm. He looks past me, his gaze fixing briefly on Levin before settling heavily on the parchment in his hands. “Under the newly rewritten charter ratified this morning, the new council members hold the absolute authority to issue one binding decree upon the acting ruler to secure the stability of the crown. Given the unprecedented nature of the endless life-saving blood distribution and the unrest caused by foreign elements, the assembly has reached a unanimous decision.” I tighten my grip on the edge of my apron, my jaw clenching as I wait for the inevitable demand for my abdication.
“Get on with it,” I snap, my voice dropping into the cold, absolute tone I reserve for unruly subjects rather than polite conversation. The new head gives a warm, respectful bow, his old eyes gleaming with a mixture of triumph and absolute loyalty. “By dawn tomorrow, you will take Levin as your lawfully wedded king,” he reads aloud, his words cutting through the heavy air like a glass shard. “Should you refuse this union, the throne passes directly to the elf, and you will be stripped of your title and cast out from the domain forever.” A chuckle ripples through the cluster of new council members standing around her.
I stand frozen for three long heartbeats, the sheer absurdity of the demand wiping every sharp retort completely from my mind. Marry him. By dawn. Not as a political alliance or a distant possibility whispered among guards, but as an immediate ultimatum designed to secure the future safety of the kingdom, from which I cannot escape. I glance sideways at Levin, half-expecting to see him looking surprised or plotting an exit strategy from this subterranean mess. Instead, he simply stands there with his hands resting casually at his sides, a calm, easy smile playing across his lips as if he had been offered a pleasant cup of tea.