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Chapter 3 - The Smell of Home

The marriage was a hushed thing. Quick, clean, and utterly joyless.

A stone dais served as altar, ringed by cracked columns and broken benches. The war-priest who conducted it wore the sunburst sigil of a god long dead, his ceremonial robe scorched at the hems. The king's councilman stood beside him, fidgeting with a scroll as if unsure whether this counted as diplomacy or farce. No bards, no family, no vows carved in wood.

Just ink, paper, and silence.

Alissa stood still beside me. Her armor was cleaned, though not polished. Her hair tied back, the scent of cinder and sweat replaced by something faintly herbal—rose-root, perhaps. Her jaw was clenched the entire time, lips pressed so tightly I wondered if they would ever part again.

When the priest muttered the final words, binding our lives by decree of law and convenience, she didn't look at me. She signed her name with a practiced hand, then stepped away before the ink dried.

"I have duties," she said, voice clipped. "I'll see you at sundown. Don't be late."

And with that, she vanished into the camp, leaving me with the marriage seal still warm in my palm.

My first mission was to the ruins. Not to fight. Not yet. But to plant.

Halbrecht's orders were blunt: To fortify this city the Snakes had claimed, and almost abandoned, from the church to the outer wall, just beyond the marshline. The region around the wall had changed hands six times in the last few days, and his scouts believed the enemy meant to use it again. He wanted it protected.

"You asked for soil," he said. "Here's plenty. Let's see if your seeds can remember how to grow something useful."

So I walked alone, past the last of the banners, into the belly of a corpse-city.

The Snakes had built their headquarters near this wall once—a former noble city now buried in vines, its streets cracked open like ribs. Not a soul lingered. The last retreat had been brutal; scorch marks licked every doorway. I smelled old oil, melted glass, rot. And beneath it all, the sharp sting of broken magic— Arcane magic. Filthy. 

I passed through shattered plazas and alleyways, marking points on a rough map Halbrecht had given me. I found a central square, where statues of forgotten kings stared down with eyeless scorn. There, I stopped.

From my satchel, I drew my seeds.

They were pale today—washed of their memory. I soaked them briefly in a cloth of mountain water, whispered over them in the old tongue.

Then, I pressed them into the soil.

Six in all—two to root the corners of the plaza, two to anchor the arches nearby, one to spread low cover, and one more… a sleeper, buried deeper than the others. Meant to awaken only if blood touched the ground again.

Each took differently. One sprouted instantly, thin tendrils blooming into thorn-veined ivy that clung to shattered stone. Another hesitated—then broke the dirt with a groan, rising like a crooked limb from a dead tree.

I knelt beside the last and pressed my palm to the earth.

"Grow slow," I whispered. "Grow deep. Remember silence. And wait for the shadow to fall again."

The roots obeyed. My magic, even now, carried the old memory of trust.

By the time I left the plaza, the city breathed differently. The wind had changed direction. And though no soldier would recognize the scent, I knew it for what it was:

A Warning.

My "home" was one of the last intact buildings within the ruin. A manor, once grand, now hollowed by time and neglect. Still, it had high ceilings and rooms with southern-facing windows. Open soil in the courtyard. Space enough for light to pour in.

It would do.

I swept ash from the hearth, repaired two hinges with vines hardened by spit and sap, and planted a ward-seed near the broken gate. It hummed faintly when touched. Not strong enough to stop a real attacker—but enough to whisper when someone approached.

I rolled out my mat. Set down my satchel.

The place felt… wrong.

Not cursed. Just empty.

Like a skin left behind by a cobra.

I sat in what might once have been a study, beneath the broken remains of a chandelier, and stared at the hollow glass in the windowframe. Outside, the wind stirred the new thorns I had grown. Somewhere, a bird tried and failed to sing.

I reached into my satchel and pulled out a small jar of crushed leaves. Dried resin. Rosebark. Bitterroot.

The mix.

The one I had taught Serel to make.

I uncorked the jar and sniffed. It was faint now—dull with travel and time. No freshness. No clarity. No hint of home.

I set it aside gently and bowed my head.

If my village had fallen... if Father's voice had vanished from the roots... if the elder tree no longer spoke... then I would never smell this blend again. Not the way I remembered it.

I imagined returning to a ring of stumps. A forest silenced. And the seeds I buried as a boy, lost to the ash.

But maybe… maybe the trees still stood. Maybe a few of us escaped. Elves, we knew how to vanish. And we left signs for one another. Songs in bark. Trails in light. And most importantly — The mix. The smell of 'home'.

I had to believe that something remained. Even if only one tree. One voice.

Even if only a smell on the wind.

Later that day, I started to prepare new seeds for my next mission. They required very few ingredients — Sun-ink, sunlight, time, and seeds. I had the ingredients for Sun-ink, though time was scarce in a war camp, since there was always something to do, seeds were hard to find in the middle of a ruined city, and sunlight, for what it was worth, still shone in the sky, though the clouds made it weaker than I'd hoped.

Still, I could do it. 

I prepared it at midday.

First, I needed Sun-ink.

In the manor courtyard, I spread a cloth across a broken bench and placed my ingredients in careful rows—gold-leafed algae, crushed firepetal, the fine dust of sunblossom pollen. A hint of bloodroot for intensity. A drop of rainwater from the high paths, stored in a carved bone vial.

I mixed it in a stone bowl, stirring with a branch sharpened to a single point.

The result shimmered faintly. Like molten light. I poured it into a small dish, then unrolled a fresh satchel of seeds and soaked them one by one—letting them drink from the light.

As they dried under the full force of the sun, they turned vivid—reds more red, greens deep as riverglass. The veins pulsed faintly, like sleeping things.

"You treat the seeds like children."

I turned.

Alissa stood at the edge of the courtyard. Her boots left no sound on the cracked stone. She wore lighter armor now—travel leathers, marked with field runes. Her axe slung across her back, and her eyes narrowed at the soaked seeds. The dragonhide no longer covered her shoulders, and her face was exposed — the markings on her chin and collar were exposed now. So were her ears.

"I do," I said. "They need time. Attention. Like any living thing."

She stepped closer. "What does the ink do, exactly?"

"They allow them to absorb sunlight. When they store enough, simple contact with fertile soil is enough to sprout them. Though some of them can grow on just their stored energy alone. It's inefficient, but it can work in a pinch." — I said.

She crouched beside me, eyeing the bowl. "You said before that it was our kind who invented this technique."

"Sun-ink? Yes. Though humans call it other names now. Light-bind. Radiant varnish. Most of them don't know how it works."

"And you do?"

"I remember when it was first tried." I paused. "Or at least, my grandmother did. She taught me. Her voice is the one I hear when I mix."

Alissa said nothing for a while.

Then, softly: "Your village. Do you really think it's still there?"

I dipped one seed into the ink again, turning it gently.

"I don't know. But I have to look."

She looked away. "I was born in a camp. My mother died before I could ask what tribe she was from. The soldiers raised me. The king claims me as his daughter, but only because it's convenient. So… if you're looking for family out there—" her eyes returned to mine "—I hope you find it."

A pause. Something delicate passed between us.

Then she stood. "We leave in an hour. Lowridge is ten miles west. The Crimson Hawks have started moving in again."

I nodded. "I'll be ready."

She turned to go, then paused at the archway.

"And Caelum?"

"Yes?"

Her eyes flicked to the sun-painted seeds, then to me.

"Thank you," she paused for a moment, before quickly adding.

"For teaching me about sun-ink, of course. I'll see you soon."

As she left, I could not help but smile.

I wonder what Father would say if he heard I got married. Ha, he'd probably jump in joy.

We set out at dusk, two riders and a cart of rations.

For this part of the journey, the king would join us.

Alissa rode ahead, posture perfect, axe slung like an extension of her spine. I followed, satchel at my side, fingers tracing the shape of each painted seed.

The road curved through the bones of the old city, past ruins that remembered better days.

Somewhere beyond the hills, Lowridge waited. And beyond Lowridge, perhaps the scent of home. A forest untouched. A trail to follow.

A hope, faint but unbroken.

And beside me rode a woman who might yet become more than just a contract.

If we survived.

If the world allowed it.

The wind whispered through the grass, and I thought I heard a leaf turn over.

The seeds in my satchel stirred.

My journey home had begun.

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