Chapter 7
Beatrice was not one to bother with formalities like invitations.
The door groaned softly as she nudged it open, her head slipping through the gap.
“A fine afternoon, Hallowed,” she crooned, her velvety voice dripping with ulterior motives.
She glided into the room, the very picture of fragility with her slight, bent frame, but there was nothing frail about the sharpness in her gaze.
“The Sanct is abuzz with whispers of last night's events at the capital. There is talk of traitors and plots against the Lord Sovereign.” Her brow pinched, a perfect portrait of concern.
Elara kept herself tightly wound, every muscle, every expression carefully controlled.
Any crack, even the tiniest slip, and Beatrice would pounce.
In the dangerous dance of court politics, Beatrice was a master at twisting words and emotions into deadly weapons.
With a mere look of irritation, she could spin a tale of treason by evening.
“Thank the Mother that your association with that traitor hasn’t tarnished your own reputation.” Beatrice's lips curled into a knowing smirk. “One shudders to think what the Lord Sovereign might do if he were to discover such... questionable connections.”
A hot flush crept up Elara's neck, coloring her cheeks a bright, angry red.
So much for staying composed.
“If you're looking for a tale to satiate your thirst for drama, I suggest you look elsewhere,” she snapped. “I have no intention of discussing the matter.”
Beatrice's eyes glinted with feigned innocence. “My, my, someone's prickly today. I merely thought you'd want an ear. But very well.”
Her gaze held Elara's for a moment longer, a hint of calculation flickering behind her eyes before Elara broke away and seated herself at the vanity.
Beatrice sifted through the wardrobe, scrutinizing each gown.
“These vibrant hues would be splendid if not for your ghostly pallor,” she muttered dismissively.
Each sharp word felt like a needle pricking at her patience, but Elara held her tongue.
Even as Beatrice chose the solemn gray dress from the back of the wardrobe and yanked Elara’s hair into an elaborate updo, causing waves of pain to crash against her temples, Elara maintained an unwavering mask of calm.
By the time she reached the refectory for dinner, the tension in her head had morphed to a full-blown migraine.
“You're late.” Edgar’s frigid voice sliced through the air.
The High Priest sat near the center of the refectory, beneath a massive tree whose roots burrowed through the floor and branches stretched up to the rafters.
Around the room, members of the Druidic Sect sat, their robes blending seamlessly with the autumnal hues of fallen leaves and moss-covered stones.
Elara's eyes darted across the room from one group to the next: Scribes, Greenhearts, Elmweavers, Soothsayers, and Astromancers.
Each cluster was deeply engaged, some poring over age-worn tomes, others softly speaking to young seedlings that sprouted eagerly around them.
They came from every corner of Latheria: Scribes on the storm-lashed cliffs of Valdor’s Reach, keepers of history and lore; Elmweavers in the rain-soaked groves of Elderglen, herbalists who worked in harmony with root and leaf; Greenhearts in Bravell’s fertile valleys, healers who drew life from soil; and in Ulrith, Soothsayers reading futures on Mistwatch’s fog-bound cliffs, while Astromancers traced the heavens from Nightspire’s starlit peaks.
Each year, as apprenticeships ended, they gathered at the Verdara Sanct to serve the High Priest and await their fates, handed down like cards in a game they could never play.
Perhaps that was why none sought her friendship, Elara thought bitterly; attachments meant nothing when everyone was destined to be scattered in the end.
Candles set in hollowed-out logs cast a warm, flickering glow over the feast of glistening meats and bowls brimming with bright fruits and vegetables. Elara’s stomach twisted.
She shut her eyes, breath hitching as memories crashed over her. A Legionnaire’s shove. A harsh collision with the table. Fenlin’s eyes—wide, terrified.
She swayed, the room tilting under her.
“Are you well?” Edgar asked, his voice carrying a rare note of genuine concern.
“Fine,” Elara managed to say, pressing a hand against her chest where her heart hammered wildly.
She knew better than to reveal her true feelings to him; it would only lead to lectures, judgments, or worse, punishment.
So, taking a deep breath that barely steadied her nerves, she moved to sit beside him, keeping her expression carefully neutral.
Before her, a massive eel was coiled and skewered from end to end, its mouth frozen open to reveal rows of sharp teeth. Its glassy eyes seemed to follow Elara's every move, twisting her stomach and completely erasing her appetite.
“Algernon mentioned you fared well during the purification,” Edgar began, taking a sip from his chalice. “He's optimistic about your return to the archives by tomorrow.”
Elara snorted. She knew Algernon didn’t truly care about her well-being; he just wanted to avoid the tedious task of organizing the scrolls the acolytes had scattered throughout the archives. His laziness was legendary.
“How utterly generous of him. Perhaps if I prove myself worthy, he might even grant me the honor of sorting his socks by color.”
The thrill of drawing one of Edgar's scowls was like collecting treasures, rare and delightful.
But now, as his gaze fixed on her with that usual blend of annoyance and reluctant tolerance, she felt nothing.
No spark of triumph, no secret thrill. Just an unsettling numbness spreading through her, quiet and deep.
And he saw it—the lack of fire in her eyes.
His gaze lingered on her face, probing, but after a moment, he seemed to give up on whatever he was searching for in her expression, his attention shifting to the Druid waiting to serve them.
Desmond, a stoic Astromancer on duty to serve the Sanct this evening, avoided her gaze as he heaped food onto her plate—enough to overwhelm even the heartiest of warriors. She must look truly awful if Edgar had quietly instructed him to bury her plate under a small mountain.
Elara shot a glare at the priest, but Edgar paid her no mind, already engrossed in his meal.
No matter, the wine was better company anyway. She knocked back her glass like it was water, not even pausing to taste it. Then, for a lark, she threw a casual glance over her shoulder.
“Desy, would you be a dear and refill my glass?” Elara asked, her tone dripping with sweetness.
“Elara,” Edgar warned, his fork clattering onto his plate.
She knew the rules—one glass per dinner. And although Desmond was aware of this directive, it had never stopped her from testing the boundaries.
“I understand the events at the capital were... taxing for you,” he began, his voice dipped in faux sympathy as he took another sip of wine.
“Taxing?”” Her eyebrows shot up. “Fenlin is dead!” Her voice boomed through the chamber like a thunderclap. Wide-eyed, the Druids all turned to look at her, their faces showing everything from surprise to mild concern.
A heavy silence fell over the room, only interrupted by the gentle clinking of utensils and the soft crackling of the fire in the central hearth.
Edgar's jaw clenched as he leaned in toward her. “The boy was a traitor and deserved a traitor's death,” he hissed, the veins on his forehead standing out against his flushed skin.
A sharp pain gripped Elara's chest, radiating through her entire body.
Every word sliced into her, each one twisting the knife a little deeper.
Memories of Fen flooded back—laughing, challenging, vibrantly alive—hitting her with the force of a tidal wave.
Her fingers curled tightly, nails pressing into the tablecloth.
“Leave us, Desmond,” Edgar said gently, waving a dismissive hand. His gaze softened as he looked at her, a flicker of understanding replacing the earlier coldness. He gripped her hand, and despite herself, she felt comforted.
His touch had a bewildering effect on her—calming yet infuriating all at once, a contradiction she couldn’t make sense of and deeply resented.
Despite her resistance, she felt a strange vulnerability, one she couldn’t fully explain.
But under the weight of his gaze, she felt trapped.
Stifled. Silenced, until every roar within her dimmed, leaving only the faintest piece of herself intact.
“You mustn't champion traitors, Elara. It paints a target on your back.”
“I doubt there’s a brush large enough to paint me the traitor,” she murmured, picking at her plate.
Edgar raised a brow. “People talk. Whispers have already infiltrated the High Council.
Rumors of your supposed assault on the Lord Sovereign are spreading like wildfire.
Osin has chosen to dismiss it as the mere hysterics of a fragile woman.
You should thank the gods he didn't cast you into the Pit.”
At the mention of the prison, a chill prickled across her skin, and she fought the urge to wrap her arms around herself.
She had never seen it, but the terrifying stories of that hellish place were infamous throughout the realm.
Rumors circulated that once you were thrown into the Pit, you never came back.
Is Godfrey there now? Is he even still breathing?
“Why did he take it?” she blurted out.
Edgar blinked, clearly surprised. But it didn't make sense. Both Godfrey and Fenlin had already bonded with their elements—what other use could they have for her blood? “Is Lord Osin blessing the realm on Luminalia?”
The Festival of Reverence—another excuse for Osin to bleed her dry, a “ceremony” dressed as a blessing of the elements.
Loyalists from across the realm flocked to the capital, praising his leadership and thanking the Mothers for their mercy.
To them, Osin was the bridge between mortal and divine.
She’d never seen it herself; she wasn’t allowed to.
All she knew were whispers of endless feasts and gilded masks, extravagant parties culminating in the solstice spectacle when the capital became a shrine to Osin.
Most believed his pleas had swayed the Mothers to spare the world, crediting him with their salvation. But Luminalia was more than deliverance—it marked a miracle: the day the Goddess Aine appeared for the first time in nearly two millennia, ending the Great Divide’s long silence.
Elara had come with Aine, a divine gift to purify the world.
She’d been eleven, not an infant, when the goddess presented her.
Only years later did she realize how strange that was and pressed Edgar for answers.
His answer had been unsettlingly simple: the goddess had created her as a young woman from the outset; she had never been a babe.
A revelation that had disturbed her deeply.
During her first year in Latheria, Elara stayed in Arinthel under Osin's watchful eye. However, after Thane's attempt on her life, Osin deemed it necessary to shield her from the world. So, he sent her away, exiled her to the Verdara Sanct, deep within the southern province.
A decade passed, and to Elara, it seemed that the people of Latheria had allowed her to fade into the background of their history. They had forgotten—or perhaps chosen to ignore—that her arrival marked the return of ether.
But maybe… maybe Fenlin and Godfrey had seen through the spectacle, glimpsed the truth beneath the pageantry. What if they were trying to twist it, to make her blood a true offering to the Mothers?
It made sense; after all, most people wholeheartedly revered and believed in it.
“Of course he is,” Edgar said, his voice taut.
Elara kept her gaze steady and stayed resolutely silent. She’d learned something useful over the years: if she waited him out, the silence would press in, prodding him to fill it, often with more than he intended. She almost smiled when he let out a weary sigh and settled back into his seat.
“You want to know why traitors turn against their own? Because they crave power. They plot and scheme, desperate to seize it for themselves, hoping to wield it against those of us who uphold the sacred plans of the Mothers. If the goddesses deemed them worthy, they would have been chosen. But they weren't. So, it falls to us to protect what’s sacred. To protect you.”
He gave her shoulder a single, reassuring squeeze before resuming his meal, and Elara couldn't help but feel dulled, like a blade that had lost its edge.
Could the drive that fueled Fenlin and Godfrey be so simple, so painfully mundane, as mere lust for power?
The thought of it scraped uncomfortably against her insides.
It was too neat, too convenient. There had to be more...
Her gaze trailed upward, locking onto Edgar as he sat across from her, a forkful of something unremarkable halfway to his mouth.
There was a certain... artifice in his casual demeanor, a carefully constructed facade he wore as easily as his well-tailored clothes.
It was a feeling that surged within her, a knowing without words. He was masking something.
His eyes flicked to hers, as if her sudden insight had summoned his gaze, and something stirred within her—subtle and undeniable.
But when his hand closed over hers, a creeping numbness bled into her skin, crawling up her arm and flooding her veins.
Her thoughts dulled, corners blunted, as if her mind were wading through heavy water.
Blinking felt like dragging stone lids over her eyes, and the vibrant colors around her leeched into a wash of gray.