Chapter 3
Fenlin's gaze, wild with panic, caught Elara’s in a fleeting moment—a silent, desperate scream of warning. But just as quickly as their eyes met, he spun on his heel and ran.
Elara's heart did more than skip—it ceased altogether, as if time itself had fractured. She had no time to process, to understand, as within the space of those shattered seconds, Osin flew.
He was twilight incarnate, a blur against the fading light, moving with unnatural speed.
She'd known, of course, about his dominion over the shadows, the way the night seemed to curl affectionately around his fingertips, gathering in the hollows of rooms he frequented.
Never had she imagined he could become that very darkness.
Elara’s hands shook as she watched Fenlin flee, Osin’s shadows snapping at his heels like ravenous hounds. She couldn’t move, paralyzed by helplessness.
Like a bolt of lightning slicing through the darkness, Godfrey threw himself in Osin's path.
Sweat glistened on the Druid's flushed face, trailing down his temples.
His gaze never wavered from his masters.
Godfrey, the man who had always adhered to the rules, who had never sought to stand out, now positioned himself against the Lord Sovereign in a move that Elara could only interpret as a desperate bid to grant Fenlin a few precious moments.
As his hands danced, a crescendo of crackling energy ignited. The air fractured, splitting apart with a resounding snap, and a shimmering barrier materialized before Godfrey. It hummed with an otherworldly resonance, cascading ripples through the chamber like waves upon a still pond.
But as the shield formed, the ambient light began to waver. It seemed to be drawn to Osin, gravitating toward him like iron filings to a magnet.
Elara's breath came in ragged gasps.
Move, move, move.
But her legs might as well have been pillars of stone for all the good they did her.
Everything felt distant, surreal, as if she floated outside her own body watching a nightmare unfold in slow motion.
It wasn't until Osin's laugh—a chilling, honeyed sound that slithered around the room—that she snapped out of it.
“Fen!” Her voice cracked, raw with terror, as she forced her body into motion.
But Osin's shadows were quicker, more ruthless.
They surged like a dark wave, smashing through Godfrey's barrier with brutal ease. With predatory speed, they seized the Druid, then whipped around to snag Fenlin by the ankle. In one swift motion, he was yanked across the cold stone floor, his body coming to a harsh stop next to Godfrey.
Elara's body screamed in protest, her movements sluggish and uncoordinated as she raced toward them, but then—like hitting an invisible wall—she stopped cold in her tracks.
“Time to go, Hallowed.” His gruff voice fanned out between them, prickling the hairs on the back of her neck. His hand clamped around her arm with an iron grip, anchoring her to the spot.
Elara didn't have to glance back to identify its owner; she'd know the voice of the Hunter anywhere. But right now, the threat felt secondary. Thought gave way to sheer instinct as she wrenched her arm free and sank her teeth deep into the tender flesh of his wrist.
The muffled yelp that escaped him—so out of place from the stoic warrior he was—might have made her laugh if the situation weren’t so dire. His grip faltered, and he stumbled back, cursing under his breath.
She didn’t wait. She ran.
Her heart pounded like a war drum, each beat a hammer against her ribs, propelling her forward in a surge of panic.
Faster, her mind screamed, urging her trembling legs as she dashed through the rows of towering pillars toward the two men. She didn't know how she could help once she got there, but doing nothing was not an option.
Her bare feet slapped against the cold marble, echoing sharply in the vast chamber as Osin wielded his shadows with a cruel flick, hurling Fenlin into the air like a plaything caught in a web.
“My lord, if mercy exists in your heart, let it fall on him—”
But Godfrey's plea broke off abruptly, his voice choked out as dark tendrils tightened around his throat.
Osin's cold, mocking laughter echoed through the chamber as Fenlin's limbs contorted. The sound of bones snapping and flesh tearing filled the air, a gruesome symphony of agony that sent waves of acid rising up Elara’s throat.
An agonized scream tore from Fenlin's lips, a sound so piercing it sent a lance through her heart, spurring her feet to move even faster. She spun, lunging toward the buffet, and snatched the nearest weapon—a glass decanter.
Elara flung it toward Osin's head, wine trailing behind it like a comet's tail. But just as it neared its target, an unnatural gust summoned by a Legionnaire swerved it off course.
Around the room, the Legion moved as one. They were a tide of lethal power, each step and gesture coordinated to form a protective barrier around their lord.
Before Elara could catch her breath, much less concoct any semblance of a plan, rough hands grabbed her, shoving her toward the grand buffet with bruising force.
She slammed into the table, the impact forcing a hiss from her throat. Dishes shattered, wood splintered, all thundering in her ears. Before she could catch herself, she hit the floor with a brutal thud, pain flaring up her side, ripping a deep, guttural groan from her throat.
Gods. She couldn't see.
Once, twice—she blinked, but it made no difference. Her heart raced, panic gnawing at its edges as she tried to rise, to clear the blood streaming from a gash on her forehead. Her hands, trembling, fumbled in darkness until they found fabric, whimpering as she pressed it firmly against her head.
Fenlin.
Elara lifted her head, eyes darting through the shadows—
Her blood turned to ice.
She blinked, heart hammering, as Osin’s power tightened around Fenlin’s neck, spiraling down his body.
Then—slowly—guided by nothing but Osin’s will, a vial slipped from Fenlin’s inner pocket.
It hovered in the air between them.
The glint of her blood, catching the dim light.
“Such boldness, Fenlin.” Osin’s voice dripped with venom. “I almost admire it. Almost.”
Fenlin was shaking, not with fear, but with a rage so intense Elara could almost feel its heat. Their eyes locked in a silent exchange, a blaze that leaped across the space between them, before he turned his fierce gaze back to Osin.
“You might sit on that throne, feasting while the rest of us starve, Lord Osin,” he rasped, blood flecking his lips. “But remember, empty bellies breed brave hearts. The realm remembers.”
A hush blanketed the scene.
Then, in the blink of an eye, Osin’s shadow struck. A sickening snap echoed through the room.
Fenlin’s neck.
Elara’s vision tunneled. A roar filled her ears. Her chest heaved, gasping for air, lungs burning like she was drowning on dry land. Desperate, she scrambled forward, fingers clawing at the floor as she dragged herself closer. Closer to Fenlin. To the stillness.
Glass bit into her palms, her knees. Every inch felt like a mile, grief and shock making her limbs heavy. But before she could touch him—a rough hand yanked her up.
A vise-like grip that swung her over a broad, armored shoulder.
She thrashed, fists pounding uselessly against the solid back of her captor, legs kicking wildly, desperate to break free. Her gaze locked on Fen, refusing to let go, silently begging for any sign of life.
But there was nothing. Only the cruel shadow cast over his face, the unnatural angle of his neck, and the way his fingers curled inward.
Hot, bitter tears mixed with the blood dripping from her temple as she struggled. Her vision blurred, but she forced herself to look at Osin. To see the twisted satisfaction in the cruel curl of his lips.
Her scream ripped through the silence, while his arched brow mocked her from across the room and seared into her memory. Another scar to carve into her already broken heart.
Then, as if the ground itself rebelled, her captor tore open the fabric of the world beneath them and leapt into the gaping maw of a swirling rift.
A soft breeze, redolent of blooming oíche blossoms, whipped against Elara as they burst free from the rift, drying the tears and blood that had painted tracks down her cheeks.
The gentle zephyr belied the savage grip encircling her waist, her body swaying with each purposeful stride of the man who carried her.
Her vision pitched between smears of darkness and fleeting glimpses of the pale moonlight. Each forceful step he took sent jolts through her, a cruel rhythm as he stalked his way down the mossy path that led to her prison.
A creeping coldness started at her fingertips and slowly spread inward, as if her blood were crystallizing into ice. The world grew distant, and sounds became muffled, like she was submerged beneath dark, still waters.
Why? her mind whispered faintly.
Why did he do it?
What could Fenlin possibly want with my blood?
Osin's routine exploitation, she understood—it was to maintain his twisted order.
But Fenlin and Godfrey? It didn't make sense.
They had access to her—more than most. So why the need for such recklessness?
Her thoughts buzzed dully, like distant gnats, and her limbs felt heavy and unresponsive, as if they weren't her own.
“Put me down,” she whispered.
But he didn't stop. With each step he took, her body jostled against his armor, the cold metal biting into the soft flesh of her stomach.
“Put me down.”
Her voice wavered. She tried to draw a steadying breath, but the motion, the pressing cold, and the restraints felt like hands around her throat.
Closing her eyes didn't help; memories of Fenlin's last moments flooded in, suffocating her like she was being dragged under a tide.
“Let go of me!” she choked out, desperate for the ground, for stability, for the overwhelming wave of terror to subside.
Finally, he stopped.