Bloomed Roots Novels & Stories

Vivian sat alone in the shadowed corner of the bar, watching strangers drift beneath the amber glow of the lights. She could not believe she had actually fallen for a rumor. “The real reason the Hayes and Carter families postponed the wedding? Sebastian’s ex was kidnapped. He’d rather call off the marriage than leave her to die.” One reckless sentence was all it took for her to book the first flight to Harbor City. Sebastian was the untouchable heir everyone admired—a fixture on the covers of financial magazines and the polished businessman delivering keynote speeches at charity galas. What could a man like him possibly be doing in a place like this? Vivian shook her head, set down her g

And then, over time, each bloom began to resonate to specific people not with power, but with recognition. The bloomfields began choosing their companions. A child in Westmere who spoke to rocks began hearing tones when near the ancient root-glass. A blind elder in Dren's Hollow woke with a song etched into his hand. No Circle. No lineage. The Pact’s structure was dissolving into something new not lawless, but living. Alive not just in form, but in intention. Ari stood one last time in the First Root's sacred grove. The scrolls. The sigils. The carved council seats. The polished bloom-temples.

Cassian’s. Finally, in a grove split by lightning, they found it, pale stalks curling like fingers, blossoms white as bone. Widow’s bane. The root gleamed faintly under the storm, as if it knew lives clung to its harvest. They tore it from the soil with bloodied hands, stuffed it into pouches, and fled the grove as serpents pursued, arrows hissing through rain. Only half the riders returned. But their fists were clenched around the roots.

The Black Bloom At the edge of the Grove, where Elin’s group had planted a meditation circle, something had bloomed overnight. Not flowers. Not Spiral leaves. Thorns. Dozens of black stemmed thorns had sprouted in a perfect ring around the seed chamber. They pulsed with the same rhythm as the seed itself. When Elira tried to cut one, it screamed. Not aloud. In memory. Everyone near it fell to their knees, clutching their heads. Visions. Names. Lost moments. All unraveling at once.

A slender root broke through the ash, rising from charred earth like a blade through old flesh. Its leaves shimmered violet-black. Its petals held the sheen of blood laced with oil. Its stamen pulsed faintly in the dusk. Etched beneath it in the dirt, like veins, was a spiral rune. A Deathroot. A plant that should be extinct. A plant that only blooms when something divine returns. “This isn’t possible,” Mourne muttered, crouched beside it. “They were wiped out after the First War. Salted from the earth.” Kael’s hand hovered near his blade.

"Easy, sir! It wasn't us—your wife told us to clear them out. She lit the fire herself." Bruce's eyes went glassy. He just stood there, frozen. "She burned them?" His voice cracked. "Yeah. Said you weren't coming back, so why bother keeping them." He flashed back to that courtyard—roses everywhere. No wonder they looked familiar. He'd planted those for her. She'd chopped them down, handed them to Julie... then torched the rest. He let go, stumbling back like the wind got knocked out of him. "You okay?" the gardener asked. "Should we replant something?"

Tiny green roots shot from the soil, then flowers followed. They were small at first, but they grew larger with their stems stretching towards the sky. Their petals unfolded, and leaves widened. Within mere seconds, a cluster of wildflowers appeared where there had been nothing but grass moments earlier. The old mage nodded her head. “Good, that is better.”

Like a puppet with its strings cut, he slowly slid down the wall and collapsed onto the floor. Once the ceremony ended and the crowd dispersed, I returned to the lounge and saw Papa violently bashing Marco. When Papa saw me, he quickly stopped, afraid of scaring me. Marco wiped the blood from the corner of his lips and staggered toward me. "Marco, we were friends!" Papa barked. "How could you hurt my daughter?" Marco muttered an apology, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. Inside was a pink diamond ring the size of a pigeon's egg.

Victoria asked. *** Raven’s gaze lifted slightly. *** “It hasn’t stopped.” *** ### The Bleed-Through The celebration flickered again. *** More noticeable this time. *** A fraction of a second— out of place. *** A laugh that echoed twice. A movement that seemed to repeat, just barely misaligned. *** Then— normal. *** Too normal. *** ### The Glades Push Back The worldroot pulsed again— harder. *** The ground beneath them shifted subtly, roots tightening beneath the surface like a muscle clenching.

A reminder that it had been already three years since she moved into the manor, since she became Ayla Chevalier. Usually, a night-blooming cereus that had been carefully groomed would need another year or two before giving its first flower, that was what Lyra said. However, this plant was special, Ayla had always felt a strong spiritual energy emanating from it. And that night, apparently, it’d bloom for the first time. It was extremely important for her to be back before sunset. *** She met her friend halfway to the city walls. “You look exhausted.” Estée pointed out. “Ironic, since you rarely go out for missions.”