Chapter 1 #3
Clearing her throat, she forced herself into motion and unwrapped the bundle of roots, mushrooms, and bitter herbs they’d collected earlier—each identified by Reynnar, his patient voice guiding her through the forest’s bounty.
Soil clung to her fingertips, gritty beneath her nails, and the earthy scent hung heavy, mingling with the sweet tang of the surrounding blackthorn grove.
She passed him a handful, noting the brief, careful brush of his fingers against hers—familiar enough to stir an ache in her.
Reynnar accepted it with a nod, then reached into the hollow for a broad leaf cupped with rainwater. It trembled as he handed it to her, the surface rippling like quicksilver in the dim light.
Even now, he cared for her.
Each evening, he checked her wounds, fingers gliding lightly over bruised skin, searching for any sign of infection. The first time, he’d tried to heal her, but his Draoth—though returned—was too weak, still fractured and struggling within him. Yet he never stopped trying.
When that didn’t work, he turned to her feet, waterlogged and raw from trudging through sodden earth, and warmed them tenderly against his chest when the chill had burrowed dangerously deep into her bones. It was a practiced rhythm, one they’d always shared—care moving between them without thought.
Elara bit her lip, eyes fixed stubbornly on him as he sat chewing, his gaze trained anywhere but toward her.
Look at me, she wanted to say—wanted to scream it.
The words burned behind her teeth. She’d risked his entire world for the slight possibility of saving a handful of lives, and yes, she knew he resented her for the danger she’d courted, and though logically she understood his anger—felt it justified, even—something within her bristled at being denied her own choice.
She’d been desperate, yes. Foolish, perhaps. But wasn’t it her right to decide?
She was furious with him. Furious with herself. Both justified, both wrong in their own bitter ways.
“You’re not eating.”
His voice startled her. Elara’s fingers tightened around the roots as she turned, pulse quickening under his gaze.
“I was thinking.”
Reynnar bit into a mushroom, a low hum of acknowledgment following.
She scowled, then said it. “You’re angry with me.”
“Yes.” He paused. “And you’re angry with me.”
She blinked. “Yes.”
His gaze softened; he tipped his chin toward the food in her hands. “Eat.”
Elara rolled her eyes, though warmth tugged at her ribs. “You’re insufferably bossy, even when you can’t stand me.”
His brow furrowed. “Is that what you think?”
“You’ve barely spoken to me in days.”
Reynnar sighed, leaning back against the bark. “I was trying to give you space. You’re grieving.”
Elara closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling slowly to steady the sudden tightness in her throat. “Oh. Then I misunderstood.”
This time, his mouth fully curved, a rare, faint smile she had missed. “Did you?”
She picked at her food. “I’m not exactly adept at reading people.”
“I don’t believe that for a moment. You understood me long before you spoke a word of Tírrísh. And I, you.”
Elara opened her mouth, closed it again. The admission left her oddly off-balance. “Perhaps,” she said at last, “but it’s always been…different, with us.”
Reynnar stilled, eyes locked on her, the air between them thinning until even her next breath felt like a disruption. “Yes,” he said softly. “It has.”
Osin’s words slithered through her mind.
“I took his Draoth and tied my Hunter to you, his ‘mate,’ as insurance.”
Mate.
A shiver traced her spine, and she shoved the confusing memory aside, forcing herself to eat.
The root was gritty and bland, but it stilled the nervous flutter in her stomach.
Their supplies were nearly gone; tomorrow they’d have no choice but to forage again.
She let herself hope—briefly—that they would finally catch Aoife and the others and leave this cursed forest behind for good.
“You should sleep,” Reynnar said, tossing the last mushroom into his mouth. “I’ll take first watch.”
Elara rubbed absently at the raw patch on her neck. Sleep felt wasteful now that he’d finally broken his silence, fragile as their words were. She wasn’t ready to relinquish this careful truce—not yet.
“What happens once we find them?”
She thought she knew. She’d felt it rising in Reynnar for days now—a restless anger she’d misread at first. He’d buried it beneath resignation while they were trapped in the Pit, never daring to hope, never letting himself feel it fully until she opened that gate.
Vengeance.
Reynnar’s jaw set, his eyes alight with a storm he no longer bothered to hide.
“After we find them,” he said, his voice a low promise, “I will rally every Sídhe house still standing. I will call every scattered clan and forgotten tribe from one end of this world to the other. We will gather as one people—bound not by chains, but by rage. And when our host marches through that gate again, it will not be as captives, but as conquerors. As justice.”
A chill rose through her as Reynnar’s broad hand came up, cupping her face. “Their world will burn for what they’ve done to you—to us, Eilíara.”