Chapter 13
Under the dance of sun and moon, Elara tapped her foot impatiently on the cobblestones, its rhythm drowned by the nearby minstrels’ lilting song.
All around the square, laughter mingled with the swish of costumes as masked revelers danced, lost in the moment. Her gaze flicked across the crowd, seeking a familiar face, even as the wine Dario had given her to soothe her nerves sat beside her, untouched.
Where was he?
Godfrey had left the details frustratingly vague, and with each ticking second, Elara's window of opportunity shrank.
Her anxiety mounted as she chewed on her lip, scanning the bustling square.
She couldn't just stand here doing nothing; she needed to act, and quickly.
If she couldn't go directly to Godfrey, maybe there was a way to make him come to her.
She yanked at the ribbons securing her mask.
“What are you doing?” Dario's hand snapped out.
“He won’t recognize me with this on.”
Dario tensed, his grip tightening on his drink.
“We’re running out of time,” she urged, glancing at the moon’s position in the sky.
He exhaled slowly, the dim light catching the faint mist of his breath. “Fine, but if we’re going to do this, we’re going to do this right.”
Without waiting for her reply, Dario headed to a bustling stall adorned with golden liquids in ornate bottles.
After a brief exchange with the vendor, he exchanged some coins for two shimmering drinks.
Returning, he handed one to her and removed his mask, his eyes twinkling.
“To bold choices,” he toasted, downing his drink in one gulp.
Elara lowered her mask, her attention drawn to the gleam of her drink, the fragrant notes of citrus and mint blending with the sharp bite of spirits in the air. She wrinkled her nose. Surely one drink wouldn’t wreak the same havoc as the entire bottle of whiskey she’d shared with Avis...
“Wait! You have to finish your wine first.”
She peered over the rim of her glass, one brow arched in bemusement. “And why’s that?”
The corners of his eyes crinkled. “It’s bad luck otherwise.”
“That’s absurd.”
“I swear on it. Ask anyone. If you begin your next drink without finishing the last, you’re doomed to reverse your dance steps all night.”
“You’re a liar, Dario Voland.”
He tilted his head. “Merely a bit of local lore,” he teased. “But if you find yourself tripping over your robes, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She rolled her eyes, quickly downing her wine before chasing it with the citrus concoction.
Dario laughed and extended an arm. "Dance with me."
Her gray eyes widened in disbelief. "We're not here to dance, Dario."
“Indulge me,” Dario suggested with a wry smile. “What better way to blend in than to lose ourselves in the crowd?” His gaze flicked to the towering buildings around them. “And if you're set on showing off that face, let's at least find a spot where we don’t stick out like sore thumbs.”
Fair point.
With a resigned sigh, Elara set her empty cup on a nearby table and took his arm. He deftly navigated them through the sea of gilded masks and whispering gowns, dodging dancers in sweeping costumes until they found an open spot.
The melody shifted, pulling at memories tucked away in the corners of Elara's mind—from her first year in the capital. She closed her eyes, letting the rhythm paint vivid images of the grand ballroom and the regal dances she had watched from the sidelines.
Céilí—the name of the dance rang in her mind. It was a social dance that revolved around patterns and pairs, with lines of couples executing a sequence of steps with their partners and those next to them. But she didn't know the steps.
Dario's lips twitched into a half-smile as he caught her eye. “Just stick with the beat—and me,” he whispered, his breath lightly teasing the wisps of hair by her ear.
Warmth spread across Elara's cheeks, and her heart fluttered.
Before she could second-guess herself, she tightened her grip on Dario's hand, letting him lead her into the dance's first step. Her first attempts were clumsy, resulting in apologetic winces as she stumbled over Dario’s toes and jostled nearby dancers.
But as the music swelled, something within her clicked.
Gradually, her movements found harmony with his, their steps weaving together seamlessly like the ebb and flow of the ocean—cascading, retreating, and surging anew.
As the music crescendoed, the rest of the world seemed to fade away.
But out of the corner of her eye, a figure appeared.
He stood broad and imposing, cloaked in black, with a raven mask hiding his features.
Elara’s pulse spiked as he approached, and before she could react, he effortlessly severed her connection with Dario.
She stumbled over the cobblestones, but the stranger caught her hand, steadying her with a firm grip. He confidently pulled her back into the dance's rhythm as Dario vanished into the swirling crowd.
“Stay calm and dance,” he murmured, his voice smooth as velvet. It hit her then—the raven mask wasn't just a disguise; it was a signal. She was dancing with her contact.
“You're not Godfrey.”
Her head spun, a warm flush from the drinks coloring her cheeks as the stranger twirled her smoothly. When she faced him again, his dark eyes were narrowed.
“I’d be concerned if I were.”
An icy shiver ran up her spine. “Is he alive?”
“For now.” His voice was low, meant to be chilling, but his eyes betrayed some other emotion. Elara could see the heaviness in them, the strain they carried.
The stranger spun her again, and as she twirled, Elara caught sight of Dario watching her from the sidelines.
“Your friend?”
Elara's attention jerked back. “Yes.”
There was a brief pause before the stranger spoke again. “Do you trust him?”
Her eyes darted back to Dario. His gaze was steady, piercing in a way that made it seem like he could read her thoughts. She knew, with just one nod, that he would cut through the crowd to her.
Her heart squeezed as she turned back to the stranger. “I trust him.”
The stranger gave a slight nod. “Call your watchdog, then. We need a quieter place to talk.”
Elara ducked behind a stack of crates in a shadow-laced alley, glancing between Dario and the stranger, their eyes locked in a silent, wary standoff.
“How did Godfrey send word from the Pit?” she asked, drawing the stranger's attention. Another question pressed against her lips, heavier and even more dangerous: And how did it end up in Algernon's hands?
But she kept that one to herself.
“We have eyes and ears within the prison.” The stranger's words were brief, clipped.
Then, off came his raven mask, revealing a face that even in the muted light was striking.
Deep-set, almond-shaped eyes with long, dark lashes, a strong jaw giving way to unexpectedly soft lips, and sleek, black hair that flowed past his shoulders.
“We?” Dario echoed.
The stranger nodded, and a surge of understanding washed over Elara like a cold wave. “You're a Script Keeper?” she breathed, disbelief lacing her tone, and Dario tensed beside her.
His eyes flashed. “Fen and Godfrey, too. They were some of the last Keepers we had in Osin's employ.”
Elara wasted no time. “Why did they steal my blood?” Her directness didn't seem to faze him.
“They flouted orders.” His jaw tensed. “Thought they could—” He cut himself off, looking over at Dario before shaking his head as if to dispel the memory. “It doesn't matter anymore.”
Elara saw a flicker of something in his gaze—remorse, perhaps?
“What does Godfrey want with Elara?” Dario asked, practically buzzing with unease. He looked ready to bolt.
But the stranger didn't address him, didn't even look at him. He only had eyes for Elara. “He wants to save you.”
Footsteps thundered down the alley as figures clad in raven masks appeared, their silent numbers swelling behind the stranger as if conjured by ether.
Dario's grip tightened on Elara, his body instinctively moving to shield hers, but a heartbeat too slow. A masked assailant emerged from the dim, his sword raised high. And with a ruthless swing, it came crashing down, its pommel connecting with a sickening crack against the back of Dario’s head.
Elara screamed, reaching for him as he collapsed, but the stranger yanked her back against his chest. She thrashed in his grip as one of his men knelt beside Dario and forcefully rolled up his sleeve, revealing the totem beneath.
“You were right. He's got one.”
What?
Elara's gaze darted from wrist to wrist, a tight knot of dread coiling in her throat with each glimpse of bare skin where a tattoo should have been. Vredians.
The stranger's grip tightened. “Cut it off.”
Elara's breath caught in her throat as the man holding Dario swiftly pulled out a knife, but, instead of removing the totem, he sliced off the map of stars tattooed just below it.
Blood spurted from Dario's wrist, and Elara tore herself free from the stranger's loosened grip. “Get away from him!” she snarled, pressing one hand against the wound to stem the flow while the other frantically searched Dario's bandolier, fingers closing around the hilt of a dagger.
“He'll survive,” the stranger said, his tone dismissive enough to make her see red. He gestured to one of the taller figures in a raven mask, then looked back down at her. “Save your concern. He was no true friend to you.”
Rage ignited within Elara, her grip tightening on Dario's dagger. She was no fighter; her understanding of blades limited to the basic idea that the pointy end was meant for the enemy. And this man... he was most certainly her enemy.
Her heart thundered, a rush of heat flooding her veins as Elara lunged at the lanky figure advancing.
Her attack was awkward, untrained, and he swiftly parried it with a casual flick of his forearm.
The dagger slipped from her fingers, spinning perilously close to her leg before it clattered to the ground.
The stranger’s face twisted into a scowl.
“You'll likely end up stabbing yourself before you get a hit on anyone else if you can't even keep a grip on your weapon,” he snapped, striding toward her.
“Bryn,” he barked out sharply. A figure stepped forward, tearing off their mask to reveal a woman with deep auburn hair and round brown eyes that glinted in the dim light.
“We can't rift,” she said. “There are new wards set up. I—it must have just happened.”
The stranger blew out a sharp breath. “He knows she's missing. We need to move—now.”
Elara pulled against his hold. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
He met her gaze, his eyes deep and earnest under his lashes.
“Look, I get it, Hallowed. You've got no reason to trust me.
But believe this—I don't want to hurt you.
" He squared his shoulders, a determined stance that matched the resolve in his voice.
"I'll do whatever it takes to get you out of here. Work with me, and we can make this easier on both of us.”
Yeah, not happening.
Elara kicked out, aiming for his shin, and his sigh morphed into something like a growl. “Gideon!”
“Got it!” the tall one snapped as he moved swiftly behind Elara, his hands clamping onto her face. Before Elara could even flinch, a bitter tonic was forced down her throat, sending a shiver rippling through her body.
It started as a faint stirring—a barely noticeable tickle of unease at the crown of her head that snowballed into a wave of dizziness.
The sensation spread through her body, turning her insides into a churning vortex.
She took a shallow breath, her chest tightening as the lanterns overhead merged into a blur.
“Dario.” The whisper barely escaped her lips.
“Sleep, Hallowed,” the stranger's voice faded in and out. “Everything will make sense soon. You're safe.” He repeated those words, a steady mantra as Elara's body went limp in his arms. She wanted to scream, to brand him a liar, to tell him she'd never felt so exposed, so utterly defenseless.
But the scream never came.