[ Unique Bloodline Created ] ‎ [ Awaiting System’s Acceptance ] ‎ [ Bloodline Accepted ] ‎ [ Bloodline – Unique – Bloodline of the Broken ] ‎ [ Bonuses Determined ] ‎ [ +35% to All Stats ] ‎ [ Immunity to Mental, Psychological, and Emotional Attacks up to 3 Tiers Above Current Tier ] Immunity… like Max’s poison, but for the mind. The raw ache she’d carried—every jagged shard of grief and humiliation—was still there , catalogued in memory, but the weight had vanished. It was like waking from a nightmare and realizing the bed was warm, the dawn gentle, and the monster couldn’t follow. Alarin cleared his throat softly beside her. “My lady?” Cordellia inhaled, squared her shoulders, and finally let the windows collapse with a flick of thought. “I’m fine,” she lied, and then smiled because for once the lie wasn’t armor—it was simply unnecessary. “Better than fine.” Below them, Embergrove shimmered. The capital nestled around the living heart-tree, its branches threaded with lantern flames and gold leaves. Every balcony, rootwalk, and plaza was filled. Elves in autumn-toned robes, children with twig-crowns, elders leaning on carved canes—all waiting. A low murmur of anticipation rolled through the air like wind through reeds. Tonight wasn’t about her freedom. It was about theirs . About planting something new where the soil had once been salted with fear. For so long, she had thought it would be about her, yet now Cordellia finally understood what Max had meant so long ago. One is not truly free until they let go and find a way to help others, seeking nothing in return. She didn’t want anything from these children of hers. Cordellia didn’t need their love. The fact that they gave their love to her was a blessing and a joy. The greatest thing she experienced so far was knowing they would get a chance to enjoy a life free of the pain she had endured. “Are they ready?” Cordellia asked. Alarin, ever immaculate in his herald’s green and copper, glanced at the hovering glyph-circle he used for crowd coordination. “They’ve been ready since dawn. You made them wait until twilight.” He smiled ever so slightly. “Cruelty, my lady?” Cordellia let out a soft laugh. “We’re elves, Alarin. We do nothing important under the hard light of day.” He bowed his head, silver hair glinting. “Shall I announce you?” “No. I’ll announce her .” Cordellia’s gaze slid to the woman standing in the shadow of the heart-tree’s lowest branch. Middle-aged by elven standards, lines at the corners of warm brown eyes, hair the color of fertile dirt. It was a healthy black, braided with tiny petals. She was broad-shouldered. Solid like an ancient tree. Gentle like a cool evening breeze. Even better, she was strong, with roots that ran deeper than Cordellia could believe. This woman would resist the worst storms that might come. Naelith Arbaris. Her name somehow conveyed strength and also gentleness. She’d survived a bad experience in the dungeons. Everyone else had fallen, overcome by the mental attacks the rare spawn had sent out, yet this fighter had stood firm. Her temperament and fortitude had saved her party. Even better, through it all when word spread she was kind and gracious, passing off the honor they gave. Cordellia had known the moment she met her that Embergrove’s first queen couldn’t be a warblade or a scholar. As skilled as she was with a sword, she had to be a gardener with calloused hands. Naelith would need to find a way to cultivate everyone she was responsible for, and out of all the elves, Alarin had outdone himself. She took the steps down from the dais, each one marked by the sound of hollow sticks struck together. Alarin followed, a half-step behind, carrying the ceremonial circlet on a cushion of woven flameleaf. When they reached the platform’s edge, Alarin lifted his voice with practiced resonance. “Citizens of Embergrove! Hear your god, your mother!” The murmur faded. Thousands of faces tilted up. Cordellia stepped forward. The tree’s sap pulsed under her palm as she touched it, drawing a fragment of its warmth—not for herself, but to carry into her words. One day I’ll find a way to repay Alarin for all these things. Finding ways to help me ensure everyone hears me and knows my heart. “My people,” she began, and paused as the word lodged. My people. Once, she’d been a stray arrow without a quiver. Now there was a forest breathing with her. “When we planted Embergrove, we promised it would be a home where none would be uprooted by force, where no mind would be twisted to serve another’s whim. Soil matters. Soil shapes the shoot.” Her gaze found Naelith again. “But even the richest soil cannot keep a sapling from the storm. Sometimes the ground is poisoned. Sometimes the gardener is absent. And sometimes… sometimes a shoot must be moved .” She spread her hands. “Transplanted. Given a chance in better earth. And when it is, when care and patience and sunlight meet grit and tenacity, what grows can be stronger than anything that ever sprouted in perfect conditions.” A hush fell throughout the forest. Even the birds and animals seemed to sense the moment, stilling their playing and voices. In the front ranks, a young elf—Lethien from the irrigation crews, if Cordellia remembered—bit his lip, eyes shining. Good. Let them feel it. “I was broken,” Cordellia said simply. “I was planted in poisoned ground. And yet”—she tapped her breastbone, where the system’s new immunity still thrummed—“here I stand. Not because the past was erased, but because I was moved and nurtured until I could grow again.” She turned, extending her hand. “Naelith Arbaris. Step forward.” Naelith approached with steady steps. She knelt without flourish, head bowed. “Rise,” Cordellia said gently. “Queens of Embergrove kneel only to help someone else stand.” Naelith’s lips formed a smile. She stood. “I will remember.” Her voice was warm. It felt like a mother’s embrace after a small fall. Cordellia took the circlet from Alarin, a ring of interlocked petals and hammered bronze. Not dazzling, just functional. It was beautiful because it had a purpose . She held it between her people and their queen. “The first duty of Embergrove’s queen is to nurture . To see the potential in a bud and give it what it needs to bloom into something beautiful. Her job is to care , to help every citizen thrive and grow stronger , in body, craft, heart.” Cordellia let her voice carry on that word, help , because help was what had been denied and she had rejected too many times. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. Naelith met her eyes. “I accept.” Cordellia nodded. “Then receive this crown—and more.” She raised her free hand. The system responded. [ Bestow Bloodline - Target: Naelith Arbaris ] Cordellia didn’t hesitate to choose yes. The heart-tree flared, veins of molten sap racing up its bark. Light poured down like rain, saturating Naelith. The crowd gasped as petals—phantom blossoms—spiraled in slow orbit around the platform. [ Bloodline Applied ] ‎ [ Calculating Synergy… ] ‎ [ +15% additional Emotional Resilience due to Candidate’s Core Trait: Steadfast Grace ] ‎ [ Immunities Scaled to Municipal Radius (Embergro ve) – Queen may Project a Lesser Ward to protect her people] Cordellia swallowed around the lump in her throat. She hadn’t expected the system to add to the already staggering immunity package. Jazzjak would have a field day with the math and the possibility of that happening. Our helper says he has only seen one thing change in the 80,000 years of his life doing this. Is Max still shaping the system around us? Naelith shuddered, then straightened. Tears tracked twin paths down her face. “I feel…” She pressed a hand to her chest. “The ache is there—memories—but the thorns are gone.” A wave of whispers rippled through the crowd—recognition, envy, relief. “And one more gift,” Cordellia said softly. She closed her eyes, seeing a sliver of blazing essence inside her chest. Like one moving a pod to the soil, Cordellia carefully transplanted it. The spark moved from her chest, down her arm, to her fingertips. She smiled, opening her eyes as she touched her glowing fingers to Naelith’s lips. Sparks, the color of blazing coals, erupted from their contact. [ Bestow Divine Spark - Target: Naelith Arbaris ] The spark sank into Naelith’s lips. For a heartbeat, the world went silent. Then the city of Embergrove exhaled. A gust of warm air spiraled outward from the heart-tree, setting lanterns swaying and hair lifting from foreheads. Naelith dropped to one knee, not in submission but in what the forest was giving her. Her fingers spread out on the wood. Power twined around her like new roots, pulsed twice, and then stopped. Cordellia set the circlet on Naelith’s brow. “Rise, Queen of Embergrove.” The roar that answered shook leaves. Hands clapped, feet stamped. Some sang; improvised melodies tangled into something fierce and bright. Naelith turned, lifting both hands. “My people,” she called, voice already tinged with the subtle resonance of authority, “our mother, our god has given me a task. I will pour myself out to see you flourish. We will weed what chokes, water what wilts, and shelter what sprouts in shadow. No one will be tossed aside for being cracked or crooked. We will thrive together .” That brought another roar. A chant started. “Em-ber-grove! Em-ber-grove!” It sounded half like pride, half almost catharsis. Alarin leaned close, pitched low. “Suggest we open the feast before they start climbing the trees.” Cordellia let out a laugh. “Do it.” Alarin moved before both women, his voice ringing out through the trees. “Open the cellars, sit at the tables! Light the roasting pits, and uncork the emberwine.” Music started as those gifted with that skill didn’t wait to show off. Fiddles grown from the trees they lived in called out for them to dance. Drums carved from fallen branches showed that everything had a use as they set the beat. “Sit,” Alarin said, a chair appearing behind her. She felt weak-kneed. She sank onto the dais steps, letting the crowd’s noise calm her. Broken, she thought. We turned it into a badge. A badge I wore for so long, ashamed to do so, but now… No more. “You did well,” Naelith said quietly, settling beside her without ceremony. The queen removed her circlet and placed it in her lap, careful as if it were a sleeping child. “You… look lighter.” Cordellia snorted. “The past few days have done some pruning. It would appear that the system knew what I needed more than I did.” Naelith tilted her head. “Then take the gift and use it. The past can be compost, if we let it.” Thᴇ link to the origɪn of this information rᴇsts ɪn NoveI★Fire.net Cordellia chuckled and nodded. “Careful. You’ll steal my metaphors. I can’t tell you how much time I spend thinking of them sometimes.” “Then give me better ones to plant,” Naelith replied. “I meant what I said. I will spend myself on them. On us . But don’t forget to spend a little on yourself.” Cordellia stared at their people. They looked so simple. So… happy. “I won’t,” Cordellia replied. As if summoned, a circle of dancers spun past—children, elders, warriors—all holding hands, feet beating rhythm into the wood they were upon. Cordellia’s chest swelled until she thought it might crack. This time, it would crack from too much joy, not pain or sorrow. Alarin reappeared, bowing. “There is one more matter, my lady.” Cordellia arched a brow. “If it’s about the irrigation guild wanting a second sluice, tell them tomorrow. Tonight is for—” “For thriving, yes,” he said. “But also for record - keeping.” He held out a slim ledger, embossed with a tiny flameleaf. “The crowd will want a copy of your speech set within the tree by morning. Inspiration, and all that.” Cordellia groaned. “Fine. Summarize: ‘The soil matters. Move the seed if you must. Don’t be a jerk.’” Alarin smiled. “I’ll… refine it a little better.” “Do,” she replied. After a moment, Cordellia sighed. “Thank you, Alarin. For all of this.” He bowed more deeply. “Serving a god who remembers what it is to be mortal is the easiest duty I’ve ever had.” She watched him go, warmth pooling in her bones. We’re going to make this work, she promised herself. One life, one shoot at a time. Cordellia smiled. “Good soil, better gardeners,” she whispered. Then she rose, dusted off her skirts, and walked into the feast. The time to celebrate had come.