Chapter 1
Beneath a storm-crowned sky, a veil of mist swirled across the moor, thrumming in rhythm with the sacred cadence of the Druids' hymn.
It echoed in the thunder—in the wind.
The Druids sang, and the storm sang with them, a symphony of power that swelled with every haunting note.
The pull was magnetic, almost seductive. An otherworldly voice weaving itself around Elara's will like a silken thread. One that tugged at her very being, compelling her forward, deeper into the heart of the tempest.
The rain beat against her mercilessly, tearing at her with icy claws, leaving her skin stinging and red. Her thin chemise clung to her like a sheath of ice, and her raven curls, usually lively and defiant, now lay lifeless against her pale, rain-drenched face.
Of all days, it had to be today; she cursed inwardly, fighting against the lure of the spell that aimed to keep her docile, even within her own mind. Each droplet that ran down her frozen form felt like another betrayal from the fates.
She hated this moor. Hated how the Druids—how the High Priest—venerated it, when all she sensed, all she tasted in the air, was the bitter tang of death.
The lines of Druids looked upon her slow march with desperate hope as if she were their beacon of deliverance.
Their gazes, their faith, it was all a lie.
They saw salvation in her. But all she could see was the doom she heralded.
Her stomach churned, the weight of an already damned world pressing into her shoulders. This moor, this sacred ground, was not a sanctuary but an elegy to a dying realm.
Cloaked in deep emerald and onyx, the Druid's robes billowed in the storm, the shimmering threads reflecting the moon's silver kiss.
Their gazes, hidden beneath hooded cowls, raked over her like cold fingers brushing against her skin.
Each step she took seemed to amplify their song—their eyes flashing brighter, glowing with an unnatural fire, as their lips moved faster in a song that tasted ancient.
Elara suppressed a shiver.
They called themselves the men of the earth—the whisperers to the skies, keepers of the ancient order. But, what they asked of her ... it was monstrous.
A sharp cough jolted Elara out of her thoughts. Her head snapped toward the sound, a thread of tension pulling her gaze to meet almond-shaped eyes—Avis.
Relief fluttered through her. In this dark realm, Avis was a patch of sunlight—a rare touch of kindness. She might be the only one Elara thought of as an ally, if not quite a friend.
Avis drew her hood back, revealing clear eyes, untouched by the haze of ether that marked the other acolytes. Underneath her golden-brown skin, a faint paleness hinted at unease, and a question formed in Elara's narrowed eyes.
With a subtle flick of her head, Avis gestured down the procession line. Elara’s stomach plummeted, her heart hammering a warning in her chest.
Gods, not again.
Her gaze followed Avis's hint, landing on the all too familiar figure of Branwen, clutching those accursed ogham staves. He glared back at her, his lank black hair hanging like a dark curtain around a face pale as bone.
Elara dragged her gaze back to Avis, a flicker of shared wariness mirrored in the Druid's sympathetic grimace. With a hard swallow that did nothing to rid her of the lump lodged firmly in her throat, she tried to force down the panic. Her steps faltered, the Druids’ chants echoing in her ears like a physical force, prodding at her heels.
Each note seemed to amplify Branwen’s pull, his malevolence a tangible force, a black hole drawing her closer.
She braced herself, every instinct screaming to turn and flee, but her traitorous feet carried her on.
The moment she stood in front of him, his scrying lashed out. The savage intrusion pierced her mental barriers, her vision momentarily blurring. She gritted her teeth.
There was nothing gentle in this force, no guidance or foresight, only violent demand.
The staves clattered to her feet, rolling in the muck as the incantation spilled from his lips; an ancient language she could only guess at. But she had no interest in deciphering his divination.
Though the ether of the Druids tugged insistently at her, urging her forward, Elara had danced with this power before. She had learned the cadence of its pull and the subtle ways to defy it—if only for a moment.
Her jaw tightened as her eyes, glinting with challenge, locked onto Branwen's.
His pupils dilated, just a fraction, perhaps expecting her to falter. But instead of merely stepping as the spell beckoned, she deliberately planted her foot atop one of his staves, grinding it into the mud and finding the sensation of the cold muck squelching through her toes oddly satisfying.
His eyes widened, nearly swallowing his face, his knuckles whitening from the urge to strike her.
And she was certain any other would've felt the wrath of his hand.
Yet she stood tall, her chin lifted, meeting his blazing eyes without a flicker of fear.
Basking in the one shield her position granted her—immunity.
Elara didn’t bother with a backward glance as she strode forward, her foot landing squarely on one of his precious tools and grinding it deeper into the muck. If he wanted to unsettle her, he’d have to try harder than that.
“Think you're above us all, do you, Hallowed?” The venom in his rasp made her pause. “Tonight, you'll learn your place.”
A fleeting glance revealed him clinging to his muddy staves, a grotesque smile carved into his face. A prickle of revulsion crawled up her spine.
What a gods-damned creep.
Pushing aside the uneasy feeling, she mustered a flicker of disdain, rolling her eyes at the twigs he so cherished.
Whatever cryptic nonsense his sticks foretold meant nothing to her.
It was as irrelevant as the man himself.
His staves could whisper all the doom they pleased; Elara didn't give a damn.
Today, of all days, she refused to put up with Branwen's divination. Not when it was Summons Day. The whole ordeal was a charade—pomp and ceremony draped in the pretense of sanctity, but anyone with half a brain could see it for what it really was. She certainly did.
It was just another power play, a reminder that she was nothing more than a tool in this cursed realm—a figurehead to be controlled, a marionette in their hands.
As she moved down the final length of the procession, she couldn't help but peer back at the hardened faces watching her. The people she encountered daily, who she prayed with, shared meals with—they too bore the same unblinking stare. They watched her, but their eyes didn't see her.
They saw the vessel.
A small voice, one Elara tried to suppress whenever it dared to surface, tiptoed into her consciousness.
What if Branwen spoke the truth?
What if, by some cruel twist of fate, his spell actually held water this time?
“You have upset my apprentice, Elara.”
The High Priest Edgar’s voice, smooth as polished stone, rang out as she completed her journey down the path, stopping before him just as the Druids’ chant faded into the storm.
Edgar stood rigid, his silhouette stark against the tempest. A raven perched on his shoulder, then took flight at his whisper. The downpour only sharpened his regal bearing as his gaze returned to her.
That irritating, all-too-familiar twinge tugged at her chest, and for a split second—just a breath—her confidence faltered.
Of course, he would rush to Branwen's defense.
The thought was so pathetically predictable she almost laughed.
“Well, perhaps he should consider a less sensitive line of work,” Elara said, fluttering her eyelashes in mock innocence.
A petty jab, but she couldn't help the satisfaction it brought.
Edgar's reaction was as swift as it was predictable. His expression tightened, the flicker of irritation clear in his piercing gaze.
A twisted sense of pleasure pricked at her. Ruffling Edgar's composed feathers, even slightly, felt gratifying. Beneath the stern priest was a man who could be ruffled; a man who wasn't as unshakable as he pretended.
It was by Edgar, within the province of Aewora, that she had been kept hidden away from the rest of the world. Only emerging when summoned by the Lord Sovereign—Osin, who ruled over the realm of Latheria.
Edgar was her jailor, her guardian, and her only connection to the world outside of the southern region.
In Latheria, power was ostensibly shared between the Lord Sovereign and the High Council—Edgar included—a blend of highborn Druids and secular lords.
However, the real control often seemed to lie with those who mastered ether, and with the Druids who whispered in their ears.
Her journey today was a direct result of such political maneuvers.
In three days’ time, Osin would hold the Convergence Ceremony—a spectacle where his followers, after years lost in training, would stand before the masses and attempt to bind their blood with her own.
Such a ritual, they believed, would tether their souls to an element, awakening the concealed ether that surged like a hidden river through her veins.
This ether, a dormant force within Elara, stirred only when invoked and sanctified with prayers—when transformed from a mere whisper in her blood to a roar in theirs.
Her blood was a gift, they said. An offering, they preached. But all Elara saw was a curse, a cruel joke of the Fates who wove her destiny with threads of pain and sacrifice.
Her gift, her curse, had become her existence—something she could never outrun.
For she was the Hallowed. Her blood the final reservoir of pure ether within the realm.
It was a power that was not hers to wield, but hers to give.
A gift she paid for with every beat of her heart, every drop of her blood.
And it was all for them. For the High Priest, for Osin, for the realm that needed ether, and for the gods that had abandoned her.
“Recite your prayers, Elara,” Edgar commanded. “May the Mothers bestow blessings upon your travels, and may the discerning eyes of Osin deem you worthy.”
Her temples pounded, but she forced her gaze down, a careful show of submission, and drew in a breath.
“Rhiannon, in death and balance, guide my path,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the roar of the elements. “Epona, life's nurturer, enrich my spirit. Aine, sun and moon, instill courage and wisdom.”
Her words were like fragile tendrils in the storm, reaching out for the divine beings that had gifted her to a world that had forsaken her.
“Divine Trinity, hear my plea; walk with me.”
In the vast expanse of the cosmos, where gods were as numerous as stars, three divine sisters stood apart from the rest, forging the mortal realm of Latheria.
Rhiannon governed the mysteries of death, ensuring the balance of the afterlife.
Her counterpart, Epona, breathed life into every crevice of the world, nurturing growth and ushering in every new beginning.
Between them stood Aine, the goddess of both sun and moon, who governed the cycles of time, painting the skies with daylight's brilliance and night's tender luminescence.
While many gods have their domains, it was these three who sculpted the very essence of the mortal realms, their legacy echoing through every sunrise and sunset, in every birth and final breath. And Elara hated all three of them.
Edgar reached for her. The jasper stone set in his iron ring reverberated, charged with the ether set to transport them directly into Osin's throne room where the blood rite awaited.
A knot coiled in her stomach, and Elara bit back the urge to grimace as she slid her hand into his. She gritted her teeth, bracing herself as they prepared to leave the line of Druids. But then—a soft, barely-there whisper threaded through the air.
It brushed past the towering oaks behind her, a quiet, mournful sigh that seemed to carry on the breeze. It stirred the fabric of her chemise, a fleeting touch, but enough to make her breath hitch.
Edgar’s impatient tug barely registered; her feet rooted to the spot, every nerve straining to discern whether the haunting melody was real or just a figment of her fraying sanity.
Yet, there it was—the song of the earth.
A chill prickled at the back of her neck.
It was a song of yesteryears, sung in hushed undertones, woven through the threads of time.
It echoed through the tempest overhead, threaded its way into the storm's heart, and nestled within the turbulence.
The ground pulsed beneath her, a gentle heartbeat that resonated up through the soles of her feet and wrapped around her bones.
Elara's breath caught as something primal stirred within her; a presence that felt as ancient as the oaks and as savage as the storm.
She held onto it, gripping it tight like a warrior grasping a shield.
“Elara!” Edgar's voice cut through the air. His dark eyes pierced hers as the pounding in her chest morphed into a defiant drum, the rhythm countering the mounting pressure that thrummed through the land.
She quickly scanned the surrounding faces.
But it was as if she stood alone in a world gone deaf and blind.
Huh.
Edgar’s fingers dug into her arm, setting her teeth on edge.
The crystal in his ring flared, sending out a discharge of energy that crackled in the air as he tore open a rift before them.
Elara took a deep breath as she stepped into the Void, and for a fraction of a heartbeat—she existed everywhere and nowhere.