Chapter 4
Elara's shoulders relaxed, her breath steadying as the gloom of the Hartling Forest gave way to the open road. The distant silhouette of Ansyl City beckoned, painting the vista in hues of moonlight against the expansive night.
Tucked against Dario as they rode, Elara was acutely aware of the steady beat of his pulse where his wrist, guiding the reins, grazed her hand.
His arms cradled her, not with the greed of a collector, but with the reverence of a guardian, and she felt, for a moment, like a treasure he would go to the ends of the world to protect.
But she was no stranger to the cruel irony that men often imprisoned what they held dear.
That love, unchecked, could be its own kind of cage.
After all, aren't treasures, even drenched in the light of adoration, still confined to the hands that claim them?
Each hoofbeat seemed to echo the whispered sentiment. She was being returned—claimed—once more by a place that had never felt like home.
Dario's fingers clenched around Elara's waist as their horse vaulted a fallen tree, the sudden movement causing his armor to shift just enough to reveal a glimpse of the ink etched into his wrist—the totem of his kingdom and city.
She remembered the first time she saw the tattoo, about a month after they had met. Curiosity had gotten the better of her then, as it always seemed to do. “Your tattoo,” she had started, hesitant yet hopelessly intrigued, “it's unlike any totem I know.”
Under Osin's stringent rule, each citizen was mandated to have their kingdom and city affiliations tattooed in a prominent place, such as the upper part of the wrist or forearm.
This served as a broad identifier of the citizen's nationality.
The specific combination of the national symbol and the city details allowed officials to quickly identify a citizen's origins, as well as potential political leanings or allegiances.
The citizens of Ulrith bore sunbursts on their skin, each totem a glowing symbol of ether and the power central to their eastern kingdom.
To the west, Bravell’s people displayed open books emblazoned with flames, fiery symbols of their quest for enlightenment and the intellectual rebellion that had led to their downfall.
Further south, in the kingdom of Aewora, people wore totems depicting a tree entwined with a scroll, merging the devout and Druidic fibers of their culture.
But in the north, in the kingdom of Vredia, the skin of the people remained unmarked, untouched by Osin's edicts.
This absence became a mark of defiance. To be unmarked was perilous—equivalent to declaring oneself an enemy of the state.
Those found without a totem were swiftly condemned.
No trials, no juries—just the cold, abrupt finality of the gallows.
But Dario’s totem was different—he had the familiar markings of someone born to the west, but instead of having his city's unique emblem incorporated into the country's symbol, he had a different marking underneath—a complex pattern of interlocking circles and arcs.
He had hesitated before responding, his eyes scanning her face for the right measure of trust. Finally, with a gentle touch, he traced the lines of his totem. “This,” he had said softly, “is a map of the stars under which I was born.”
That was all he had offered, and she didn't press him for more.
A chill swept down from the Torvern mountains, cutting through the air and biting at Elara's skin. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably, her torn and bloodied chemise offering little protection against the chill.
“Do you need my cloak?” Dario offered, pulling her closer to him.
Elara shook her head, disgust rolling in her gut.
Edgar loved seeing her like this—like some sacrificial lamb fresh off the altar.
He made a point of parading her battered, broken state in front of everyone.
It wasn’t just for show, either. It was all part of his plan, his sick, twisted way of binding them all closer to him.
Of making her suffering look noble, necessary, something to be admired.
As if her pain somehow validated his authority, cemented their loyalty not just to her, but to him, and Osin’s entire damned regime.
Even if she wanted Dario's cloak, she couldn't take it without enduring a tirade from Edgar later. And besides, they were nearly there.
Ahead, the Verdara Sanct dominated the horizon, its formidable sun-bleached battlements and spires standing as a silent guardian over the city that sprawled below.
They tore past tall timbered houses with whitewashed walls, weaving their way up the cobblestone streets where the structures grew grander: large townhouses boasting ornate stonework, balustrades adorned with carved motifs, balconies with intricate wrought iron railings, and lofty pillars that framed grand entranceways.
The once bustling market square lay dormant, their stalls shuttered up. Only the occasional sounds of drunken revelry drifted out from taverns, a merry interlude in the hushed cityscape.
As they neared the gatehouse, the measured trot guided them beneath the imposing shadow of the towering portcullis. The High Priests' sentinels stood there, their stances rigid with discipline, and their sharp eyes fixed solely on her.
Her protectors, Edgar often claimed.
But the way their gazes tracked her, like hawks eyeing their quarry, left no room for misinterpretation. They were there not as her shield, but as her shackles. The lie had become so apparent she wondered how she'd ever believed otherwise.
Beyond them, the barrier loomed. It was Osin’s own creation; an ethereal ward that moved and shimmered like gossamer in the moonlight.
Each step closer brought a surge of energy, the barrier responding, recognizing the soul it was bound to protect—to imprison. It was supposed to be a bulwark between her and those who would see her as nothing more than a prize to be claimed or a treasure to be stolen.
Edgar had told her as much anyway, his warnings ringing in her mind as they approached.
The acrid bite of the barrier stung her nostrils, making her recoil. The grand portcullis cast a shadow over her as they crossed the threshold, its iron bars looming like the fangs of a great beast. The ward glinted in the pale light, vibrating subtly.
The guards cast wary glances her way as they crossed into the bailey.
Their silent judgments pierced her skin, quietly acknowledging the turmoil she had endured.
Their eyes darted away when met with hers, avoiding any further acknowledgment of her presence, as if she were an inconvenient truth they preferred not to confront.
But she was used to it. After years of enduring their indifference, she had become an island.
It was a cold familiarity she wore like armor.
They nodded curtly to Dario, acknowledging his authority despite his age, as the clang of metal sliced through the brisk night air, blending with the sounds of a few castle workers still toiling under the dim torches.
Dario’s role as captain had earned him respect among the ranks, his authority unquestioned despite being twenty-one.
It was a sobering reminder of how differently their lives had been shaped.
Like many from the west, his past was marked by hardship.
His province, Bravell, had a history both proud and painful.
It was the first and only region to defy Osin at the start of the war.
The kingdom’s rebellion ended in ruin—Umzar, Bravell’s capital, obliterated.
The destruction became a warning to all, a lesson written in the scars of its people and the haunted look in Dario’s eyes whenever the past whispered too loud.
As they moved toward the hitching post, laborers scurried like busy ants, their movements punctuated by the occasional whinny of a horse and the soft, rhythmic clopping of hooves against the night's stillness.
“Need some company to the citadel?” Dario asked, dismounting, and extending a hand to her.
“I’ve got some time before my morning duties.
If there's anything you need…” His voice trailed, the offer hanging in the air.
He knew it was pointless. Even if she wanted his company, the Druids wouldn't let him get anywhere near her.
Elara glanced from his outstretched hand back to the looming citadel, a fortress of memories.
Some cherished, and others she'd give anything to forget.
“It's a stone's throw away, Dario. I think I can manage it.” She allowed him to help her down, but the instant her feet touched solid ground, she stepped back, eager to create space between herself and the waves of pity she sensed radiating from him.
He studied her face intently. “You look... pale.”
She arched a brow. “Paler than my usual ghostly shade, you mean?”
He didn’t laugh. Didn’t even crack a smile, and that—more than anything—told her just how much of a mess she must look.
Dario never failed to smile. It was one of the things she cherished most about him.
She sighed, her limbs feeling like lead and her soul hollowed out like an empty shell.
She must look as bad as she felt. Maybe worse.
And if that pitiful stare of his was any indication, she couldn’t really blame him.
Gods, she could sleep for a week. No—a month.
Just curl up somewhere soft and let the darkness take her under.
Let everything else fade away. But she knew what awaited her the moment she returned to the citadel.
The Druids, ever meticulous, ever indifferent, would descend with their cleansing rituals.
Concoctions of oils, litany of prayers—none of it would help.
“You would tell me if you weren't alright, wouldn't you?”
Elara shrugged. “I’m always alright.”
As if she had a choice.