Chapter 5
“We are but vessels for the earth's energy,” Avis's voice floated to Elara as softly as the falling night. The full moon cast her delicate features in a soft, silver glow, her hair—a river of night—blending with the evening breeze.
Despite Avis's soothing tone, a chill wrapped around Elara, making her skin prickle. Moonlight cast a silvery path ahead, cutting through the darkness and leading them toward the Cillareen River.
In the heart of the meadow, where the starlight kissed the river’s crest, the spirit of the river awoke.
It was a venerable presence that had dwelled within these waters long before the Druids or the kingdoms. Ethereal and fluid, it moved with a grace that belied its age, its form coiling and uncoiling in a silent dance like a ghostly serpent.
To witness the spirit of the river was to see the soul of the Cillareen itself—timeless and serene, guarding its sacred waters.
It could appear as a whisper of mist over the river or a sudden surge in the current, reminding those who came near they were in the presence of something far greater than themselves—something eternal.
In Latheria, ancient spirits of the elements dwelled in hidden corners, and the southern Druidic Sect counted themselves fortunate enough to live near one such spirit.
These ancients bore no names; they transcended such human trivialities.
They were the essence of the world itself.
The river's flow, the mountain's rise, the wind's caress, the fire's dance.
Some ancients were hostile, others as mild as a summer breeze. However, this spirit's demeanor varied greatly. To most it might seem friendly, but with Elara, it revealed a completely different side—unpredictable and temperamental. Something about her presence seemed to unleash its true nature.
Around Elara, Elmweavers, Greenhearts, and a Soothsayer or two clustered, the air thrumming with their gentle incantations, their words floating on the breeze and playing with the loose strands of her hair.
“Close your eyes,” Avis whispered gently, “and let the river's touch wander through you. Last time, it gave such lovely gifts. Imagine what wonders await you tonight.”
Gifts. Elara almost laughed. Calling what the spirit revealed to her as "gifts" was being overly generous. Every time she gave it her breath, it reciprocated with "visions."
They were more like erratic flashes, disjointed and bizarre, pieced together like a fever dream.
Yet, the Soothsayers never seemed discouraged.
They obsessively dissected each fragment, trying to make sense of the chaos.
They treated every vision, no matter how scrambled, as a puzzle to be solved, despite Elara’s warnings that the spirit was just playing its games.
But their faith was blind. Hers was not.
A shiver ran down Elara's spine as the cool night air brushed against her skin. She closed her eyes. Fen.
Her breath caught as tears quietly trailed down her face. She didn’t bother wiping them away. What was the point? New tears would only chase the old.
She tried to find calm, to escape to that quiet place in her mind, but each time she tried to step forward onto the path, the ground beneath would give way, fragmenting into pieces until there was nothing left to hold her.
This cleansing ritual called to something old and buried within her, a flicker of the child she once was—hopeful, open, wounded.
As a child, Elara had carried a deep ache in her chest, a yearning to connect with the earth.
With the Mothers. Especially Aine, who had brought her to this place, who had gazed at her with eyes full of hope before abandoning her to a monster.
Why? That question haunted her every breath.
She needed to understand. So, she had sought the goddesses with a raw, bleeding fervor.
But time and time again, that fervor was met with nothing but silence.
And as the years piled up like layers of armor, Elara had let the tender parts of her heart harden, forming a bulwark against the quiet scorn of the gods.
The gods, if they ever returned, would find no purchase in the fortress she had become.
Unfortunately, this resolve didn't exempt her from the recurring cleansings.
Elara's breaths were shaky, her heart a wild drumbeat of fear and anticipation as gentle hands guided her into the river, the docile current tugging at her ceremonial robe. The water's chill was a slap of deep winter frost, drawing sharp gasps from her with every step.
The Druids peeled away Elara’s robe, leaving her bare beneath the sky.
But she didn’t flinch, didn’t lower her gaze.
She kept her chin high, her shoulders square, though the chill kissed her skin.
Here, in this circle, there was no shame in nudity—it was something else entirely.
A declaration. A surrender. The Druids saw no sin in the human body; to them, it was sacred.
Each curve and hollow, every scar, a mark of life crafted by the Mothers.
It wasn’t weakness or vulnerability, but truth.
Raw and unvarnished. And in this, the only honesty that mattered.
The Cillareen River brushed against her breasts, sending a shiver across her shoulders. But she steadied her mind and her heart, for she knew what was to come.
“Have faith in the waters; their healing touch has mended many before you,” Caelum, a Soothsayer, murmured against the backdrop of the flowing river. He drizzled a blend of sacred oils over her, the liquid gold running down her form.
His deep emerald eyes didn’t meet hers as he worked, his touch almost reverent, but there was a detachment to it.
Like most of the Druids, he hid behind a veneer of indifference, a practiced neutrality that made it easy to forget there was anything personal in their ministrations.
To him, she wasn’t Elara—she was just another body, another soul seeking healing.
Not a person with thoughts and fears and desires, but a part of the endless cycle they served.
With a subtle nod, Caelum turned away, disappearing into the crowd of Druids.
As the oils seeped into her skin, Elara could almost feel the edges of her consciousness blur, the barriers between her soul and the river thinning.
“I’ll be right here,” Avis murmured, reaching out to interlock their fingers.
The touch was easy, comforting.
Elara returned the Druid's squeeze with a tight smile as something bitter buried deep within her reared again, whispering words she tried to shut out.
Unlovable, abandoned, used, alone.
The words chanted in her mind, even as Avis stayed at her side.
Elara took comfort in her steady presence, and outwardly, she was thankful for the companionship.
But in those deep, still hours of the night, when the world slept and her thoughts roamed freely, a fragile hope would sometimes take root.
A ridiculous, pathetic hope—that maybe, someone out there believed she was worth the fight.
Tears pricked at her eyes, and she blinked them back fiercely. She forced herself to match her breathing to the rhythm of the river, each inhale a battle to steady the storm raging inside her. Just get through it, she told herself.
Steeling herself with one last look at the moon, Elara exhaled and let go, slipping beneath the surface.
The cold hit her like a blade slicing through her skin, straight to the bone.
Her chest seized in protest, the icy grip of the water squeezing her lungs.
She balled her fists, pushing back the instinct to flee even as her heartbeat roared in her ears, drowning out the soft murmur of the river.
Before her, the water stretched out like a void, dark and endless. Long strands of kelp twisted around her legs, ghostly fingers trailing across her skin like sirens beckoning.
Above, the moonlight filtered through the water in trembling, fractured beams, casting eerie patterns across the sand below.
Elara’s breath, her offering, burned in her chest, held tight as her eyes darted from one shifting pool of light to another, searching, straining, for any sign, any ripple, that might betray the presence of the spirit.
She didn’t have to wait long.
There, amidst the swaying dance of kelp, it revealed itself—a current alive like a serpent of the deep, wild and writhing as it surged toward her.
Elara's heart leapt into her throat, her pulse hammering with a mix of primal fear and awe.
She exhaled, and the river eagerly snatched the bubbles of her breath, swallowing them before they could even dream of reaching the surface.
She could almost sense its glee, a dark, hungry joy in seizing whatever it could from her.
The spirit twined around her, a swirling vortex that nipped at her eyes and tugged fiercely at her hair. Its kelp snaked around her ankles and up her legs like chains, dragging her to its watery bed.
They tightened.
“Surrender,” whispered the spirit, its voice a slippery hiss.
Everyone seemed to want a piece of her, even the river.
Morbid curiosity flickered within Elara. She had never given herself over to it completely. And, curse it to the Void, if there ever was a time for the spirit to take advantage, it was now.
Ever since the Hunter slung her over his shoulder and rifted her away, the truth she'd been fleeing from clawed at her.
Viscerally. Relentless.
The reasons behind Fenlin's actions, his decision to steal her blood—it didn't matter. At her very core, she believed it was her fault, her sin.
Fenlin had needed her. But he never reached out, never asked for help with whatever he was wrestling with.
The walls she'd constructed around herself—walls meant to protect her from others, to keep everyone at a safe distance—had done their job too well.
Each brick laid in fear and self-preservation had isolated him. Kept him from trusting her.
Elara bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, the coppery taste of blood filling her mouth.
If the river craved her breath, then let it have its fill.
Maybe that had been the Druids' plan all along—to bring her here when she was so frayed just to see what the spirit would do with her—or to her.
Maybe it wouldn't give her back at all.
Before she could second-guess herself, Elara exhaled, surrendering to the river. Its vines tightened, claiming victory, as the spirit's murky fingers slid down her throat, flooding her lungs.
Her consciousness bloomed into being, senses awakening to the taste of rain—crisp and slightly acidic, with a subtle hint of the earth it had touched as it slipped past her lips and onto her tongue.
She opened her eyes to a world lit softly by the dawn, cradled by a breeze whispering through a forest and the rhythm of raindrops pattering on her skin.
“Awake, sweet one,” a serene voice murmured.
Elara's eyes fluttered open to the sight of her creator—the Goddess Aine, standing above her like a figure carved from sunlight.
Her voice was a melody that seemed to weave the very passage of time into its tones—the ebb and flow of the sun and moon, the silent whisper of the ages slipping by.
“Awake and fulfill your purpose. Heal and restore. Give and consecrate.”
Each word fell like seeds into fertile soil, taking root deep within the furrows of Elara's heart. Wide-eyed, she took in her surroundings, a soul birthed into a world of quiet wonder.
The goddess lifted her from the dew-kissed earth, infusing life and knowledge into her with every exhale.
She was a flower blooming in fast-forward, petals unfurling in the morning sun, drinking in the goddess's breath and growing from it.
There was no toddler's babble for her, no faltering first steps; she was made whole and complete in an instant, her spirit blossoming with the full, rich awareness of her destiny.
Give. Give. Give.
Elara blinked, her vision sharpening. The Goddess was radiant, almost painfully so, with a cascade of red hair that spilled over freckled shoulders, tumbling nearly to her feet like a torrent of flames.
Blood. It was the first word, the first real thought that pierced through the fog of Elara's mind as her eyes traced the crimson spirals. She didn't know why she had made the comparison, reaching back to the essence of who she was and who she was meant to become—lines painted in deep, rich red.
A young man stood next to the goddess. He was a lordling, Aine said, Osin by name. His hair was slicked back like the feathers of a crow, and he had icy blue eyes that didn’t just look at you but seemed to pierce right through.
The wind played with Aine's words, lifting them to swirl around her before snatching them away again. “He is your guardian, and you, his guiding light.”
But the way Osin's eyes devoured Elara felt far from safe. Doubt whispered through her thoughts, a shadow curling around her heart, but against the weight of divine will, what could she do but nod?
Aine smiled as she guided Elara forward, her hand—a delicate, almost fragile thing—finding its way into Osin's imposing grip.
“In the light of the Hallowed, you shall rise to sovereignty, guiding my children, and ushering in an age of greatness.”
Yet, as Osin's fingers closed around hers, a chill slithered up Elara's arm. His fingers, elegantly long, felt like they were leeching the very life from her veins.
The two continued to speak, but Elara felt only half-present, suspended between realms. It was as though her soul had been cleaved in two; one part trying desperately to reconnect with her body, while the other lingered, untethered, unable to fully integrate back into her physical form that stood below.
It was a paradox that left her grappling for a sense of reality that seemed just out of reach, scattered by winds she could neither see nor control.
Elara didn't notice Aine's departure until the goddess was already gone. It wasn’t until the abyss had swallowed her whole that she realized she’d been falling all along.
And the true path of her life only became clear when she lie bleeding on the cold floor of Osin’s throne room, her eyes finding his in that moment of raw, brutal clarity.
The dread that had hissed through her veins at their first touch wasn't just her imagination—it had been a warning, a sharp, clear song resonating from a part of her that had known danger even before her mind could grasp it.
It was a harbinger of how mercilessly humans could wield their malice, a foretelling that cruelty might be all that remained.