Page 21 of Tethered In Blood

Oberon Sinclaire had Fae blood, and my mind struggled to comprehend it. Following the uprising, Prince Alric had exiled the Fae to Valeithwyn; they were powerful and dangerous beings, often regarded as cursed. Yet he was one of them, working under the man who had banished them. It shouldn’t have surprised me. Even now, he moved with effortless grace, as if he were carved from legend.

Oberon lunged forward, driving the man back with a sharp clash of metal. “Say that again, asshole.”

The teasing earned another chuckle. “Oh, you’re still grumpy, don’t worry. That part of you is all human.”

Sinclaire huffed and shook his head. His lips twitched, and amusement flickered across his features before his expression hardened once more. When he adjusted his stance, my eyes darted to the sharp cut of his waist beneath his tunic, noting how his belt sat low and the muscles of his abdomen were visible through the fabric.

What was wrong with me? I didn’t know him, but he was a frustrating and irritable jerk and… not entirely a man. But gods help me, he was handsome.

I didn’t like the way I was drawn to him.

“Do you plan to talk all morning, Garrick? Or are you going to fight?”

Garrick.

They exchanged another sharp remark when I averted my gaze. I had actual work to do—plants to tend and things that mattered. Not this. Not him. The problem with looking away was that it only made me more aware of how badly I had been staring to begin with.

The greenhouse was enchanting, untouched by the weight of the castle’s stone walls and the people within them. Sunlight streamed through the high glass ceiling, casting golden patches over the rows of plants stretching along the wooden tables and raised garden beds. The air was warm and humid, thick with the crisp bite of mint, the soft floral sweetness of lavender, and the sharp, medicinal tang of rosemary.

I inhaled, letting the familiar scents settle my nerves.

Focus,Eden.You’reherefora reason.

Calder mentioned a misplaced herb causing trouble. This indicated that it was worth addressing if she had sent me instead of one of the other herbalists. Alternatively, she might have wanted me out of the way. Either scenario was plausible.

My gaze swept over the vibrant greenery, my fingers brushing against the leaves as I walked. The plants here were robust, untouched by the blight that crept through the castle halls. But something else stirred among them.

A vine slithered through the soil, its dark green leaves curling over the edge of a planter. Frostmoths clung to the stems of nearby herbs, their wings edged with ice crystals and their fragile bodies still as stone. An ice beetle skittered away, its iridescent shell reflecting the light in a pale, wintry sheen. The surrounding herbs sagged, their colors faded, and their energy drained.

My stomach clenched.

Bellthorn.

The cursed plant drained life from everything it touched, thriving where it shouldn’t. A frost spider with brittle legs hovered nearby, its web spun into a delicate lace of frost, strands trembling as if sensing the creeping corruption. Even the windwhispers, those tiny creatures that flitted like breath against winter glass, avoided the planter.

This wasn’t just an overgrown weed. It was a warning.But for what?

Kneeling beside the flowerbed, I traced the vine’s path with narrowed eyes. Bellthorn was stubborn and parasitic. It wrapped around other roots, stealing nutrients and choking out weaker plants. While it had its uses in specific remedies, it could be dangerous if left unchecked.

My fingers ran through the soil, feeling the depth of the roots and how they spread beneath the surface. If I weren’t careful, removing it could cause it to regrow. That was the nature of bellthorn. It clung. It endured, even when you thought you had eradicated it.

The thought left a bitter taste in my mouth.

This wasn’t an accident. It didn’t just happen. Someone placed it here, knowing exactly what it could do. The greenhouse was a space for growth and cultivation, but the individual who did this opted for destruction instead. Why? If someone poisoned the plants on which we relied, how long would it be before they turned their attention to something or someone else?

A slow, controlled breath left me as I pushed the thought aside, needing to eliminate it before it caused further damage.

I loosened the soil with my fingers, feeling how the roots wove deep and tangled around those of the struggling herbs. Bellthorn didn’t just grow; it invaded. If I pulled too hard, I risked snapping the root system, leaving parts behind to fester and grow stronger. I carved around the largest vine with my dagger, digging into the soil beneath it.

Freeing the plant was challenging; its roots resisted my efforts. But with one final tug, the vine came loose. I tossed it onto the stone path beside me and wiped the sweat from my forehead with my wrist. The herbs left behind still appeared weak, but they should recover now that the threat is gone. Reaching into my satchel, I retrieved a small bundle of sagebrush and mint, crumbling the leaves between my fingers before scattering them over the soil. Their properties helped cleanse any lingering damage the bellthorn inflicted.

Sitting back on my heels, I gazed at the space where the vine had been. Bellthorn was a survivor. It dug deep, spread wide, and made itself unnoticeable until it was too late. It was familiar.I swallowed hard and shook the thought away as a breeze blew in from the greenhouse doors, carrying the distant clash of swords from the courtyard.

After disposing of the bellthorn, I dusted the dirt from my hands and returned to the infirmary, stealing one last glance at Sinclaire and Garrick, who were still sparring as I passed. Calder would still be there, hunched over her worktable as she muttered regarding the incompetence of men who thought they could treat sword wounds with whiskey and good intentions.

Sure enough, she stood at the desk, sorting through a bundle of dried herbs. Her eyes flicked up when I entered. “You’re back sooner than I expected,” she said, tying a string around a bundle before setting it aside. “Found the problem?”

“Bellthorn,” I reply, cutting straight to the point.

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