Chapter 1

Evelyn Reed arrived at the Beaumont estate like a fragile, wilting flower.

She leaned heavily on Arthur' s arm, her breath shallow, a delicate cough punctuating her sentences.

"The city air," she' d whispered, "it' s just too much for my lungs."

Arthur, my husband, heir to the Beaumont logging fortune, looked at her with a tenderness I hadn' t seen in years.

His eyes, usually sharp and appraising, softened with worry.

Evelyn was his childhood sweetheart, the one who got away, now returned with a mysterious ailment.

A doctor, a specialist Evelyn had found, arrived soon after.

He had a stern face and a quiet voice that commanded attention.

After a hushed examination in the guest wing, he delivered his verdict in the grand library.

Theodore Beaumont Sr., Arthur' s grandfather, sat by the fireplace, his gaze steady on the doctor.

Arthur stood beside Evelyn, his hand on her shoulder. I stood near the doorway, a silent observer.

"Miss Reed suffers from an exceptionally rare and aggressive lung condition," the doctor announced, his tone grave.

"Traditional treatments offer little hope."

Evelyn let out a soft, trembling sigh, leaning further into Arthur.

"There is, however, one possibility. An archaic remedy, spoken of in certain old texts."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.

"A vital compound, found only within the living core of an ancient, mature Redwood. Or, perhaps, concentrated within an artifact directly tied to such a tree' s life force."

My blood ran cold.

I knew what he meant.

The Patriarch. Our sacred Redwood.

My Heartwood Amulet, a piece of petrified wood from a tree even older, pulsed faintly against my skin. It was the conduit of my life, my family' s bond to this land and to the Beaumonts.

Arthur' s head snapped towards me, his eyes narrowed.

"The Patriarch?" he said, his voice tight. "Or Willow' s amulet?"

The doctor nodded slowly. "Precisely. The tree itself is ideal, but the amulet, if potent enough, might yield what we need."

Arthur turned fully to me then, his earlier tenderness for Evelyn replaced by a hard resolve.

"Willow," he began, his tone already dismissive, "those old tales your grandmother filled your head with... about the tree, the amulet..."

He waved a hand, brushing generations of sacred duty aside.

"Evelyn is dying. We need to access the Patriarch, or you need to give me that necklace."

I felt a tremor start deep within me, a premonition of disaster.

"Arthur, you don' t understand," I pleaded, my voice barely a whisper. "The Patriarch... the amulet... they are not just things."

He scoffed, a harsh, ugly sound in the quiet room.

"Save your superstitions, Willow. A life is at stake."

The betrayal was a sudden, sharp pain, even before anything was done. He was choosing her, and a lie, over everything that bound us, everything that kept this land, and his family, safe.