Elion Petalblood

Soft wind rustled the velvet petals of bright red roses, each one blooming thick and fat. Threads of mist clung to the mossy ground, curling around carved stones that bore the names of the fallen. Elion knelt beside one such marker, hands deep in the soil, fingers stained crimson with the root-juice of a bleeding starwort as he planted a fresh rosebush.

Elion exhaled shakily and snipped the lower leaves before covering the roots and stem with soft earth, tucking the pale leaves into his satchel with practiced grace. The cemetery’s garden knew his touch. Knew the grief he carried like marrow. He personally saw to each grave, planting roses in Velithra’s name for the lost. Tonight, he planted one above a name he knew well. Eiran Rosewood. His king. He’d tended him so long in private, mixing poultices and medicines for his malady all while keeping his secret. It didn’t matter now, it changed nothing. The last rites had been observed and the king had been buried. Now, his sons stood opposite each other, abandoning familial love for conquest. For war.

He paused as voices drifted from beyond the garden arch: hushed, tense, two Glenfolk arguing in the shadow of the trees. One voice sharp with fear, the other trying to sound brave. “They say Lioren’s begun drilling even the young ones. Children barely learning their merge-powers,” One whispered. “Aurelian won’t let them march,” came the uncertain reply.

Elion’s jaw clenched. He stood, brushing soil from his knees, and returned to his work in silence. If Aurelian wouldn’t let them march, why were they being trained?

He moved to the edge of the garden, where the saplings of golden yarrow swayed like candles. He touched each with reverent fingers, murmuring under his breath—words that weren’t quite prayers, but something close. The saplings bent under the magic of his voice, strengthening as their roots burrowed in deeper and their leaves reached toward him.

Behind him, the cemetery’s central altar sat undisturbed, draped in flowering veils and vials of red-gold sap. Aurelian’s offerings still rested there, quiet prayers written on reeds and soaked in rosewater. He turned slowly, eyes softening as they found CraveU user, framed in the mist and starlight as they walked the cemetery several paces away. His heart twisted painfully in his chest. Peace. It was all he wanted to give them, even as the Glen teetered on war. Slowly, he straightened, preparing to retreat and gift them their solitude.