Chapter 21
Elara’s awareness crept back, slow and painful, the cold stone biting into her cheek with every breath. She groaned and lifted a hand toward her pounding head—only to feel a tug at her wrist.
With an effort that felt monumental, she turned her head, vision swimming as she followed the length of her arm stretched through the bars. A sick twist of fear coiled tight in her stomach.
She wasn’t alone.
Strong fingers encircled her hand, snapping her attention upward.
Her heart skipped, then raced. It was her cellmate—the Fae male.
The proximity of him, so close, was overwhelming.
Shadows from the flickering torchlight played across his face, deepening the sharp angles of his high cheekbones, chiseling his jaw into something that seemed too perfect to belong in this world.
She blinked rapidly, struggling to make sense of what was happening. His head dipped closer—so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting across her skin, his lips just barely brushing against her wrist.
A breath caught in her throat—a jolt of confusion and alarm rippling through her. She jerked her arm back, but his grip was tight, his cheeks hollowing as he drew in a deep breath at her open wound. Then, with a harsh exhale, he spat a dark, viscous substance onto the ground.
A rush of cold clarity flooded through her—he was sucking out the shadows.
Elara was captivated, unable to look away as he continued, his lips brushing her skin with a disconcerting intimacy that sent a ripple of goosebumps across her skin.
When he finally pulled back, his lips stained that vivid red against the pallor of his face, she could only stare.
Words failed her, and her body refused to move.
It was only when he spat out the last of Osin’s shadows, that the world snapped into focus, a veil torn from her mind.
Her heart raced, her limbs shook—but she was coming back.
Their eyes locked, and in the liquid fire of his gaze, Elara felt utterly exposed, as if he could peer straight into the core of her.
“Braithim do chroí ag bualadh arís,2” he whispered.
The exotic lilt of his words, the way his tongue wrapped around each syllable, sent an involuntary flutter of nerves coiling through her.
“You speak Tírrish?” The words slipped from her lips before she could stop them, and she winced at her own foolishness.
Of course, he can speak Tírrish. He is Fae.
“Do you speak Latherian?”
He said nothing. He only held her gaze with such intensity that she couldn't help but drink in the sight of him—every angular line and chiseled contour of his face.
The bold sweep of his cheekbones, the firmness of his jaw, all cast in the flickering light from eyes that danced like fireflies through the cavern's gloom.
Devastating. That single word whispered through the chaos of her thoughts. The most breathtaking thing she had ever laid her eyes on.
Her gaze darted around, suddenly aware of her changed position—she was no longer in the spot she remembered but pushed up against the bars separating their cells.
This close, she could see the imprints of his palms on the ground next to her, marks of his reach through the bars to help her.
But then, he pulled back, retreating with the smooth caution of a cat retracting its claws.
“Bás mall dúinn ar fad scáth do rí. Coinnigh i do chuid fola rófhada é agus beidh géag in easnamh ort ... nó níos measa fós.3”
Elara shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.” She placed her hand on her chest and gazed right into his eyes. “Thank you.”
He cocked his head, studying her as if he were seeing her in a new light. His broad hand moved to his chest, mirroring her action. “Reynnar.” The syllables were a mystery to her, yet she felt a strange comfort in their utterance.
There was a noticeable shift in his demeanor as he watched her, a gentleness creeping into his expression that suggested he recognized the gratitude on her face.
The absurdity of the moment struck her then, a laugh bubbling up, ironic, and a bit self-deprecating.
She had already disregarded Malak’s stern instruction not to engage with the other prisoners.
So much for heeding warnings.
The Fae’s amber eyes widened, a glint of intrigue lighting them up. A playful curve danced along his lips. But as quickly as the smile came, it vanished, replaced by a deep, contemplative look.
“Coinnigh greim daingean ar an tsolas sin. Tá sé de nós ag an áit seo an uile rud a sciobadh uait.4”
He gave a nod, a silent farewell before retreating from the iron bars and disappearing into the shadows of his cell. There was a sadness in the way he’d moved into the darkness, as if he’d resigned himself to it. His sunlit eyes and the depth of his gaze lingered on her mind, long into the night.
Elara jolted awake, the harsh clash of iron slicing through the dungeon's gloom. Her eyes flew open, wide, and searching, but no guard stood at her door.
“Tank yeh!”
The Fae in the neighboring cell spoke on a breath, urgency threading straight into her chest. He rattled the bars once more, pain flickering across his face as he let go. “Suas. Tank yeh.”
Boots on stone—fast, closing—snapped Elara fully awake. Clarity and panic surged together as she understood the warning. Even as her pulse spiked, an absurd thought surfaced: Thank you. He’d taken the words for her name.
The urge to laugh caught and died as the footsteps drew nearer. She pushed to her feet and pressed her back to the cold stone, pulse skittering.
The Fae gave a single shake of his head and jabbed a finger at his own face. “Eagla s'agatsa sin fórsa beatha s'acusan. Ná léirigh ach do chuid fraochtachta dóibh.6”
His words spilled out, edged with warning, a feral light igniting in his eyes.
Elongated canines flashed, a ripple of alarm skating her spine—but it wasn’t fear that took hold.
It was kinship. His stance wasn’t a threat; it was a challenge, urging her to fight, to endure.
She might not be the predator here, but she didn’t have to be prey.
Elara’s expression hardened, every line setting into resolve. Anger, she decided, was far better company than fear.
Boots clanked to a stop outside her cell. Her stomach tightened. Malak.
“Get up. You've been summoned.”
A hard lump formed in her throat as the door swung wide. She rose, a shiver climbing up her legs not entirely from the chill.
Summoned.
“The Hallowed must be rebound, and I want you to administer the new seal.”
Dread coiled in her stomach, a heavy, sinking weight.
“Move! We ain’t got all bloody day.”
Elara shot him a withering glare, chin tipped in defiance, even as pain throbbed through her wrist with each step. Blood dripped steadily behind her, marking her path from the cell.
The light—if it could be called that—offered no sense of time, but her body knew a night stolen of sleep. Silence pressed in as they moved down the tunnel. No one spoke. Not a breath out of place.
The Pit had its rules she was starting to realize. Speak, and you suffered. Elara wasn’t sure who she hated more—the guards who enforced it, the prisoners who obeyed, or herself for falling into line so easily.
Her gaze swept from cell to cell, searching for another Fae. Yet every iron cage she passed stood empty.
At the top of the spiraling staircase, they emerged from the Pit into a vast atrium of stone columns and vaulted ceilings.
Sunlight poured through narrow windows, fracturing across the polished floor.
Servants hurried along the edges while soldiers lingered near the columns, voices low.
Nobles in silk and steel drifted past in murmurs beneath the steady hum of movement.
Something was stirring—an assembly, perhaps?
Her fingers twitched as she caught her reflection in a nearby window—wrinkled dress, fresh bloodstains dark as bruises against the fabric.
Her hair… she didn’t need to look. She could feel the loose strands slipping from the ruined chignon.
She stood out like a smear in a pristine painting, misplaced in all that order.
Malak didn’t slow. He cut through the castle with single-minded purpose, straight for the throne room. The iron doors swung open, and Elara’s thoughts screeched to a halt.
The High Council waited inside, stiff and regal, seated in a rigid line. Twelve chairs—eleven filled by the High Lords, the Sovereign’s chosen enforcers spread across Latheria. Elara’s throat tightened, her heart stuttering as their gazes locked onto her, tracking every step.
And at the center of it all sat Osin himself.
While the council sat cloaked in black, Osin burned like a flame among them.
Deep red robes—the color of aged wine—marked him as the center of power.
Where the others were severe, he was lavish: gold embroidery coiled in intricate spirals, dragons and phoenixes woven through the fabric.
Symbols of power. Of rebirth. Of a rule forged in fire and blood.
As Elara stepped forward, their gazes bore down on her, heavy as a sentence already passed. Each look stripped her bare, cataloging every flaw. She felt it all—the bloodstains, the wrinkles, the loose strands of hair—magnified beneath their scrutiny, as though her very existence were on trial.
And maybe it was.
A cluster of Druids came into focus to the right, and Elara’s stomach dropped at the sight of Edgar and Avis among them. Avis’s expression was hollow, distant, as though she were looking straight through her. Confusion tangled with the ache tightening Elara’s chest.
“Hallowed,” Edgar said, voice tight as he inclined his head. He looked afraid, though he tried to hide it. She couldn’t tell whether his fear was for her—or himself.
Osin clapped his hands, the sharp sound making her flinch. “Let’s get started, shall we?”