Chapter 19
The silence was deafening, so thick that Elara could hear the pounding of her own heartbeat and the faint whisper of her clothes rustling as she trembled in the Hunter’s grasp.
Her eyes remained fixed to that spot on the wall, the place where the rift had just been, as if her gaze alone might summon it back into existence.
The Hunter’s grip loosened, and her boots hit the floor with a solid thud. She faced him—the painfully familiar pillars and tapestries of Osin’s court swirling into view.
This was the reckoning, wasn't it?
Elara had always feared the day she would step into this room and never step out. Yet she hadn't expected that her own actions, her own desperate bid for a sliver of control, would hasten that end. Her vision swam, the edges of the room dissolving into a haze until only the Hunter remained.
His posture was rigid, as if locked in an internal battle. He took a step forward, then stopped.
“Don’t fall behind.”
His hands curled into fists before he turned on his heel and walked away without a glance. His heavy stride echoed down the aisle, cloak snapping behind him like black waves in a choppy sea.
What exactly had happened back in the forest? She had barely touched his ring, and then... it felt like everything inside her had detonated—and from the shock in his eyes, he'd felt it too. Yet there he was, striding away as if their worlds hadn't just momentarily fused and fractured...
Elara willed her legs to carry her forward, each step sending a tremor through her as she walked down the familiar path, her gaze fixed ahead.
But as they approached the dais, every fiber in her body tensed, instinctively ready to drop into the ceremonial kneel ingrained in her since childhood.
However, to her surprise, the Hunter didn't stop.
He veered right, leading her toward the iron doors—doors she hadn't passed through since being sent to Aewora.
Her feet stumbled as surprise flickered through her, mingled with a rush of curiosity that tempered her fear.
They stepped into the grand reception hall that connected the royal chambers.
It was just as she remembered: opulent and imposing.
Vaulted ceilings soared overhead, adorned with intricately carved beams and massive chandeliers dripping with crystals that cast shimmering light across the polished stone floor.
Richly colored banners hung from the walls, each embroidered with Ulrith's totem, fluttering slightly as they passed.
Around them, staff whisked by, their eyes—trained to ignore—glossing over her.
Yet, when it came to the Hunter, there was an unmistakable shift in their demeanor.
They’d straighten a bit, their eyes widening with both respect and apprehension.
Each person they passed instinctively gave way, bowing slightly in reverence.
It was as though the Hunter commanded a stature akin to Osin himself.
Elara's jaw locked, a hard, tight clench that felt like it could crack her teeth.
Watching Osin and the Hunter—the so-called heroes, lauded as saviors—made her want to scream.
It felt as if the very notion of goodness had been eradicated from this world.
Maybe there had never been much of it to begin with.
Maybe the last flicker had died with Fenlin.
The Hunter stopped short, and she nearly collided with him, scrambling to catch her balance. He turned, eyes raking over her. Silence pressed in before he finally spoke.
“You're in no state to meet the Lord Sovereign.”
Elara blinked. “What?”
“Your appearance. It’s not…befitting. You’ll need to change.”
She glanced down at herself, noting the smudge of dirt on her cloak and the slight tear along its hem. Still perfectly presentable. Her gaze snapped back up to his. “You can’t be serious.”
His eyes sparkled with a hint of amusement before he turned and strode forward, silent once more.
Bastard. That was the first word that came to mind. The only one that seemed fitting. Did he really expect her to primp before being tortured? Cruel, heartless bastard. She glared at him, wishing her eyes could somehow morph into daggers and just…stab him.
He guided her down another corridor, then vanished around a corner. Reluctantly, Elara trailed after him, only to halt at the threshold of a bizarre chamber.
Dominating the space was a grand copper tub, massive enough to fit at least ten people.
Her gaze swept the room: ornate mirrors framed with intricately carved wood, rows of shelves laden with crystal vials and jars filled with colorful salts and oils, lush towels stacked neatly on brass racks, and a vast array of clothing in rich, deep colors hanging from the walls.
Beside the tub, a small fireplace was built into the wall, its soft glow casting a warm light over a collection of plush, inviting chairs.
The room was a strange mash-up of bath and wardrobe, like some disturbing grooming station where Osin morphed his guests into whatever twisted version he liked best. The whole setup was unsettling.
The Hunter cleared his throat and glanced toward the attendants, who promptly lowered their eyes. “She has an audience with the Lord Sovereign.” He shifted his stance to face Elara’s direction, though his eyes never met hers. “I’ll be outside.”
Elara lifted a brow, a trace of a sneer playing on her lips. “What, you’re not here to handpick my lacy bits?” She waved dismissively at the piles of intimates arrayed on a table behind her.
The tension in the room grew as the women shifted uneasily, their eyes darting between her and the warrior, obviously shocked by her audacity. But truly, what was the point in playing docile? She was furious and itching for a fight before any chance of confrontation was stripped from her forever.
The Hunter didn’t slam the door or raise his voice as she’d braced for. Instead, he cocked his head and stepped closer, closing the space until it felt impossibly small. He loomed over her, lashes casting shadows beneath the mask, dark eyes glinting.
Her breath hitched when he reached behind her and lifted a dark red slip of fabric, letting it dangle from his finger.
“Should I take this as a personal invitation?” he asked quietly.
Heat surged through Elara. She snarled, yanked the fabric from his fingers, and flung it into the fire. “Pig.”
Dark amusement flickered in his eyes. He turned to the attendants with a dismissive wave. “Make sure her dress is nothing short of spectacular. Perhaps add some extra lace? She seems to favor it.”
He left without another glance. The door shut with a finality that made her teeth grind, the urge to rip it open and claw at his mocking eyes nearly overwhelming.
There was no time to indulge the fury.
The attendants descended, hands cold and efficient, stripping her without a thought for dignity. She stood bare and exposed, every inch of vulnerability laid open.
She folded her arms across her chest, shoulders curling inward, trying to make herself small beneath their stares. Always the outsider. Always the oddity. She was used to it—but under their scrutiny, it still cut like thorns. They were searching for something. A flicker of the divine.
Let them look. Let them dig and prod. All they’d find was flesh and bone—human, breakable, just like theirs.
One of them turned away to ready the tub, and Elara’s eyes narrowed as a simple twist of the tap released a rush of steaming water.
Warmth fogged the air almost instantly, the putrid tang of ether making her head swim.
She’d heard rumors of such luxuries—hoarded by the upper crust while places starved of ether treated them like legend.
In Verdara, Druids gathered around open flames, heating water in soot-blackened pots, every drop of ether counted and conserved. To waste it on a bath felt obscene.
And yet, as the heat seeped into the room, she understood the appeal.
The attendants eased her into the tub, hands gentle as steam curled around her. Fragrant soap—almond and honey—slicked her skin. One worked a fine comb through her hair, oiling it as she teased free leaves and knots.
Once clean, they lifted her out and wrapped her in plush linen, already murmuring over what she would wear, speaking as if she weren’t there at all.
They chose a gown the soft blue of a robin’s egg.
Pearls and crystals caught the low light as she moved, as though the night sky had been stitched into the fabric.
The laces were drawn tight, the square neckline dipping lower than she’d ever dared, her skin prickling in the cool air.
Edgar may have imprisoned her—but he’d never paraded her like this.
With deft motions, the attendants summoned a gust of ether, lifting and shaping her hair until it settled into a regal coiffure threaded with pearls and crystals to match the gown.
Elara met her reflection and barely recognized herself—alive, color blooming in her cheeks and lips against the shadows in her sea-gray eyes.
But no amount of skill could erase the scars circling her neck and wrists.
Their attempts to hide them felt almost ironic.
Those marks were a twisted point of pride for their master.
Finished, they guided her back into the corridor, dipped quick curtsies to the Hunter, and vanished like whispers.
Her gaze caught on his, and the hollow look there sent a shiver down her spine. Whatever sharp retort had been waiting on her tongue withered. The process she’d just endured left her feeling… diminished. There was a particular cruelty in dressing someone up for torture.
“Come.”
He set off down the corridor at a relentless pace, too well matched to the pounding in her chest. They stopped before massive oak doors, their polished surface gleaming. For a beat, the Hunter stiffened, as if bracing himself, then raised his gloved hand.
Ether sparked. The doors swung open.