Chapter 6
A midday breeze swept across Elara's bare arms, a fleeting relief from the heat.
She'd pushed her sleeves up, welcoming the warmth of the sun as she worked beside Avis, gathering herbs from the Sanct’s gardens.
Autumn would soon come barreling in, stealing the heat, but for now, the sun was hers, and she planned to soak up every last bit.
She swiped her curls away from her neck, frustrated with herself for forgetting to bring a tie.
Her hair was a mess, sticking to her damp skin where the sweat had collected, making her neck unbearably itchy.
Tugging it back with a huff, she silently cursed the distraction.
It was small, insignificant really, but enough to pull her out of the focus she’d desperately been clinging to.
With a sigh, she refocused as she moved quietly through the underbrush, gathering the last of the season’s offerings—berries, mushrooms, red clover, wild fennel—all nestled in patches that would soon wither under the first frost. The work was steady, predictable, and Elara tried to lose herself in it.
Out here, away from the Astromancers’ endless demands to chart yet another map of the stars and the Soothsayers’ cryptic musings, the world felt calmer.
The quiet let her thoughts settle in a way only research or a good book could.
There was no pressure, no constant hum of expectation—just the earth beneath her hands and the fleeting peace it offered.
Elara could feel Avis’s eyes on her, that quiet, unspoken concern that had become constant over the past year.
She knew what it meant—Avis was worried.
She had been since the night before. But Elara wasn’t ready to deal with it.
She didn’t need her friend’s pity or the reassurances that would inevitably follow.
What could be done about it anyway?
After months of silent concern, it had started to wear on her.
It wasn’t that Elara didn’t want to be cared for—she did.
Part of her wished Avis’s worry could somehow fill the emptiness inside her.
But it didn’t. It was a reminder of a wound that wouldn’t heal, a thorn lodged too deep to pull out.
And Elara was tired of pretending it didn’t hurt.
So, she did what she always did—ignored it. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the world, but the taste of the river lingered on her tongue—a bitter, brackish mix of silt and decay.
The river spirit—it had revealed her very first memory.
Elara had buried that day long ago, the first flicker of her existence, deep within her mind, hidden in a place so distant that even her darkest thoughts rarely wandered there.
It was a fragile piece of her past, one she’d avoided for years.
But now, the river had dredged it all back to the surface.
She could still feel it—the wonder and awe, mixed with a hint of something darker, a sense of destiny that seemed to pull at her even then.
The spirit didn't just show her the memory; it immersed her in it.
But to what end? She had allowed herself to hope, perhaps foolishly, that by yielding to the spirit it might impart something profound, something transformative.
That maybe it would have even whisked her back to the Otherworld, dissolving her into a mix of stardust—or whatever cursed substance she was made of.
But there was no revelation, no understanding, only a bitter taste in her mouth.
“What did you see?” Caelum had demanded, his voice edged even as she sputtered and coughed, expelling water from her lungs.
Avis had been the only one immune to the spirit's influence. With a single stern look, she silenced Caelum, and moved to Elara’s side, steadying her as she coughed out the remaining water.
Meanwhile, the others had turned to the moon, eyes lifted in silent reverence, murmuring their thanks to the Mothers for their endless blessings.
Elara sat among them shivering, and by the time they decided she was ready to leave, dawn was painting the sky in shades of pink.
She’d barely gotten a few hours of sleep before Randall, the cook, shook her awake, and she dragged herself to breakfast duties, groggy and irritable.
After that came her usual rounds with the Greenhearts.
The healers always had her restocking supplies—bundling fresh herbs, sorting dried ones, refilling tinctures and salves.
Sometimes she ground ingredients into powders, labeled vials, or ensured the healing poultices were ready.
Linens needed washing, bandages had to be folded, shelves reorganized.
Always something to keep her hands busy.
She was just getting into the rhythm of things when Avis pulled her away, reminding her they needed to forage before the sun climbed too high in the sky.
Elara opened her eyes, pointedly ignoring the Druid, and focused on the task before her.
She sifted through the underbrush, fingers brushing through the cool, damp soil as she plucked a few sprigs of fennel.
Its bold, earthy scent mingled with the sweet, honeyed fragrance of red clover blooming in nearby patches.
Her basket was heavy now, brimming with herbs and berries.
She slipped a plump one into her mouth, its skin bursting as sweet-tart juice coated her tongue.
The Sanct gardens were vast, stretching like a sea of green and gold behind the towering citadel.
Rolling hills dipped and rose, framed by the stone walls of the Sanct but still enclosed within the protective barrier.
Light shimmered off the surface of the veil—a delicate, translucent layer of ether that rippled like silk with every breath of wind.
A rustling nearby drew Elara's gaze up to Avis, who now stood beside her, the burnished copper folds of her robes shifting softly in the breeze. “I think we’ve done enough for one day.”
Elara straightened, brushing the dirt from her hands.
Foraging was only part of their routine—the rest would be spent inside, surrounded by stacks of parchment and paints.
Avis had been diligently adding to the Sanct’s archives for months now, her journals filled with detailed, hand-painted illustrations of the plants they gathered.
Every leaf, petal, and root was captured with painstaking care, the colors mixed just right to reflect the vibrant greens and soft purples they’d found in the fields.
Elara’s job was simple enough—filling in the details, listing each plant’s properties, its uses in salves, teas, remedies, and how it adapted to the changing seasons.
But she didn’t mind. There was a certain satisfaction in the quiet work, a sense of purpose in knowing they were building something that would last.
She followed Avis, the soft rustle of their baskets the only sound as they wandered through the gardens.
With each step, the air shifted—the fragrance of earth and herbs gradually fading into something colder.
The damp, stony scent of the courtyard crept in, and the peace of the gardens, that fragile calm, began to slip away.
Then it came—the jarring clang of steel on steel, cutting through the air. Elara sighed, feeling the tension creep back into her shoulders.
The courtyard buzzed with energy. Sparring rings were marked out in the dirt, thick ropes tied to iron posts anchoring the borders.
Inside them, men and women faced off, the sharp clash of swords cutting through the air with every strike, the metallic rhythm echoing around them.
Elara’s gaze swept over the scene, tracing the sweeping arcs of the blades, until settling on Dario.
There was something almost hypnotic about the way he moved, his sword an extension of his will, each parry and thrust delivered with a grace that made it easy to forget just how lethal he could be.
Had he actually tried to break in this morning, like he’d threatened? The thought of him squaring off against the Druids just for a chance to see her almost made her smile. Almost.
He was panting, flushed and breathless, his cheeks glistening with sweat as his eyes locked onto hers across the field.
He stilled, eyes flicking over her quickly before settling back on her face.
And then that slow, lopsided smile spread across his lips, the kind that made her heart stumble.
She hadn’t even noticed she was smiling too until she felt the ache in her cheeks.
Her chest tightened. Gods, why had she let herself kiss him? Foolish, reckless—selfish.
The image of his gaze, that soft, almost fragile look he’d given her when she’d pulled away, lingered, haunting her.
When she’d broken the kiss, his eyes had flickered with something raw, a hope he’d tried to hide but couldn’t quite suppress.
As if that was the moment he’d been waiting for—her, finally stepping over that line, finally saying she was ready.
And she hated herself for it. For being the one to put that unguarded joy in his eyes, for giving him something she couldn’t take back, even when she knew she could never give him what he wanted.
Elara had once dared to imagine a different life—a quiet cottage filled with books and trinkets, a corner of the world that was wholly her own—but it was only ever a fantasy.
Her fate was bound to Osin and the Mothers, her path carved before she could choose it, leaving her as little more than a puppet to divine whims with no strings to sever.
That flicker of hope had been nothing but selfish grief, a weakness born of losing Fen.
Never again, she resolved.
Dario was too precious to jeopardize.
Elara’s eyes narrowed as Lorien sidled up beside Dario, his gaze finding hers. A cruel smirk spread across his freckled face.