Chapter 17 #2
“It felt like Al’teran,” Marcus insisted, puffing his chest out.
Cards flashed between them now, slapped down with triumphant shouts or groans of defeat. Rell watched from his desk, unable to decipher the rules despite Marcus’s dramatic declarations of victory and Nevin’s protests about proper turn order.
Then Rowan asked softly, “What happened after we left? At The Institute?”
Elora froze.
Her gaze dropped to the forgotten game in her hands, cards fanning out between her fingers. The silence grew so heavy that even Marcus went still.
“I was just a ward,” she said finally. Her tone was practiced neutrality. “Cleaning. Cooking. Laundry. Nothing worth talking about. It was very boring.”
The disappointment settled visibly over all three of them. Marcus leaned back against the cushions with a dramatic exhale, like she’d told him there was no food on the table.
“I mean…” Nevin tilted his head, turning his cup in his hands.
“I heard it wasn’t completely terrible. Being a ward.
” He said it carefully, like he was testing whether the words would land wrong.
“Obviously the chores were awful, everyone knows that. But I heard they had a fair amount of free time. More than us, maybe, once the work was done.”
Rell watched the interaction over his shoulder.
“Oh, wards had plenty of fun,” Marcus said, cutting in before anyone could agree or disagree with Nevin.
He stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankle, settling into the cushions with the particular energy of someone who had been waiting his entire life to tell this story. “I know for a fact.”
Rowan’s brow lifted. “Marcus—”
Marcus grinned, undeterred. “Three years ago, I’m starving because dinner had been that awful fish stew—”
“The one with the floating white bits no one could identify,” Nevin added helpfully.
“Exactly! So, I snuck down to the kitchens. Easy enough, the night patrol is always lightest near the east wing because the guards hate the draft from those broken windows.” Marcus’s hands moved animatedly as he spoke, nearly knocking over his cup.
“I’m filling my pockets with bread rolls and eyeing this jar of honey, when I hear this... noise.”
“What kind of noise?” Nevin asked, leaning forward.
“You know.” Marcus wiggled his eyebrows. “That kind.”
Rowan shifted uncomfortably. “Marcus, maybe this isn’t—” Rowan gestured subtly toward Elora.
But Marcus was too far gone in his storytelling glory to stop. “So, I follow the sound, right? And it’s coming from the pantry—”
Rell set his pen down harder than necessary, turning in his chair. He knew exactly where this was going.
“—there’s some guard with one of the kitchen wards pinned against the shelves, her skirts hiked up, his pants around his ankles.” Marcus slapped his knee. “Knocked over an entire jar of pickled eggs. The smell was horrific.”
Nevin leaned forward, eyes wide. “Which ward? Was it Lyla? The one with the—” he cupped his hands in front of his chest.
“Nevin!” Rowan hissed, face flushing red. “That’s enough. Have some respect.” He glanced apologetically toward Elora, whose expression hadn’t changed at all, not a flicker, not a twitch. Her face remained perfectly, unnervingly blank.
Rell pushed back from the desk before she even had to speak and stepped into the circle of sofas.
“That’s enough for now,” he said, tone calm but unignorable. “You all can catch up later. There’s work to do before we head back to Aszona.”
Marcus opened his mouth to protest. Rowan shot him a look that shut him up.
Elora’s gaze caught Rell’s for half a heartbeat, her shoulders loosening just enough that only he would notice, the tightness around her mouth easing before she looked away.
He didn’t say anything as he led her up the stairs—just gestured for her to follow, boots thudding softly on the wooden steps. Behind him, he could hear her breathing: shallow, clipped, guarded. Too many questions from the boys, too many ghosts stirred at once.
He stopped at the washroom door, pushed it open, and stepped inside first. The chamber was small but warm: tiled floors, a copper tub, stacks of fresh linens that Florence insisted were “for morale.” He knelt beside the basin, turning the handles and watching steam ascend in leisurely loops, filling the room with a gentle, damp heat.
Elora hovered at the threshold, one foot barely crossing into the room, her body angled as if ready to retreat.
Rell pushed down the tightness in his chest.
He moved with purposeful calm—filling the copper tub until steam rose in lazy curls, placing a folded towel within easy reach, turning to face her with his features carefully arranged.
The smile he offered wasn’t the wild grin they’d shared racing through the Whispering Woods, nor the playful smirk that had accompanied his whispers of “Sunshine.” This was gentler. Steadier.
A smile that promised nothing she wasn’t ready to accept.
“You should wash up,” he said quietly. “It’s been a long night. And a longer morning.”
She didn’t answer. Just stared at him, gold-flecked eyes burning in a way that made his throat tighten.
Part of him wanted to make sure she was alright. To check the bruises hidden beneath the dirt. To sit beside the tub until the shaking stopped.
The instinct hit him so hard it made his chest ache.
Why?
Because she was Kira?
The little girl he’d spent years wondering about.
The little girl he’d failed.
No.
He felt it before. After she defended herself against Fane. Walking through the woods. After what happened in the Arena.
There was a need to make sure she was okay long before he even knew who she was.
If she was just Kira, this would have been easier.
Safer.
He could hand her over to Florence. Made sure she was protected. Tell himself the promise was finally fulfilled.
Instead, all he could see was Elora.
Elora glaring at him in the Whispering Woods.
Elora taking out a Snatcher camp with him.
Elora kissing him beside the fire.
Elora refusing help right up until the moment she needed it.
Kira explained the guilt.
She didn’t explain the rest.
“If you need anything… I’m right outside.”
She nodded slowly, not looking away from the water. Her hand brushed the rim of the tub, fingertips trembling almost imperceptibly.
He closed the door gently.
And leaned his forehead against the frame, exhaling through a throat that stung.
He needed answers. And she needed the truth.
And gods help him… he wasn’t sure which one terrified him more.