Chapter 22
Why would the Hunter lie?
The question thundered through Elara’s chest—louder than her heartbeat, louder even than Malak’s heavy footsteps as he dragged her back to the cell.
Despite Osin’s words, lies were the true currency in Ulrith. She knew that. They were traded like silver in the markets above, passed from tongue to tongue with a smile. But what had his lie cost? What price did his deceit demand? Power? Fear?
Elara bit her lip.
Perhaps he was stalling—buying himself a few precious seconds before Osin’s fury came crashing down. The ritual had failed. That much was obvious. Any competent observer could see it.
But then… perhaps it hadn’t failed in the way Osin believed.
Something about the bind unsettled him. Something he didn’t want Osin to uncover.
Elara knew he had no desire to be bound to her—no more than she wished to be bound to him—but men like the Hunter never acted without calculation.
If he was lying, it wasn’t for Osin’s sake. And it certainly wasn’t for hers.
Her stomach twisted, a sharp, sudden pang cutting through the thought. Hunger. When had she last eaten? A day—barely more? Fear and upheaval had pushed the need aside, buried it beneath more urgent concerns.
But now… now it made itself impossible to ignore.
As the hunger settled, something else followed. A spark. Small but stubborn.
Osin had wanted her broken. Had wanted to watch the light die in her eyes. Instead, she felt the opposite. A faint pulse thrummed beneath her skin. The ritual hadn’t crushed her. Not the way he’d intended. Somehow, she’d held on, even without understanding how.
But with every step deeper into the Pit, her grip on the Hunter’s seal began to loosen. Bit by bit. Like water slipping through her fingers. Does distance weaken the connection?
Her cell door waited open at the end of the tunnel, iron-bound wood groaning as they neared. Malak shoved her forward, fingers digging into her arm, rough and careless.
Then someone cleared their throat behind them.
Malak froze mid-step, his grip tightening before he let her go. Elara looked back to see a Druid striding toward them, emerald robes billowing with purpose. A Greenheart. The color alone marked her, but the tension in her face made it clear she hadn’t stumbled on them. She’d been waiting.
“I have orders from the Hunter to tend to the Hallowed’s wounds,” she announced, voice firm. Her gaze flicked over Elara in a swift assessment before snapping back to Malak, daring him to object.
Elara blinked, startled. The cut on her wrist had slipped her mind entirely. After the ritual, she hadn’t even registered the lack of pain. She glanced down now to see the wound had finally clotted.
The Greenheart handed Malak a neatly folded missive. He hesitated, eyed it as if it might bite, then unfolded it, parchment crackling as he read. His expression darkened, his lip curling in distaste.
With a grunt, Malak crumpled the paper in his fist. No explanation. No argument. Just that sour look. Then he turned on his heel, stomping off into the darkness.
Elara watched him leave, her brow knitting. When had the Hunter found time to send the order? And why, after everything, was he still watching out for her?
“Follow me,” the Greenheart said. Her gaze lingered on Elara for a heartbeat before she bit her lip and turned away.
Elara fell into step beside her as they took the far-right tunnel.
The air grew colder. The passage was similar to the one leading to her cell—narrow, dimly lit, the stone walls damp with moisture.
The tunnel seemed to shrink around them, the ceiling lowering, the walls pressing closer until finally, at the very end, there was a door.
The Greenheart pushed it open, revealing yet another tunnel, but this one was different. It yawned wide, massive, the ceiling arching high above as it stretched endlessly into the dark.
Elara's gaze traveled upward, where cells stretched out in every direction, not just on the ground but rising level upon level, tier after tier, like some twisted library of the damned.
Iron catwalks crisscrossed between them, suspended in the air, barely wide enough for a person to walk, their railings rusted and thin.
It wasn’t the size of the place that hit her—it was the people. Elara’s movements slowed, as if the world around her had blurred. Her mind numbed, unable to fully process what she was seeing.
The cells—they were filled. Packed. Figures huddled in the shadows, pressed against iron bars, their faces pale and sunken, skin stretched tight over bone.
Eyes, so many eyes, staring out—blank, hollow, lifeless.
The stench of rot and sweat clawed at her nose, thick and sour. Her mouth went dry, her stomach twisting violently. She tried to breathe, to swallow, but she felt like she was drowning in it—drowning in the sight, the smell, the sheer number of people trapped here.
No, not people—Fae. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of them crammed into cells like animals. Elara’s heart stuttered, then kicked into a frantic rhythm, pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.
How? How was this even possible?
She doubled over, pressing a hand to her mouth as if she could physically hold back the bile rising in her throat. The sheer scale of their suffering—it was overwhelming.
“Come,” the Greenheart urged, now standing in front of her, but she shook her head, refusing to move. She leaned back against the wall, only to jerk forward when wards crackled against her skin, sending a sharp sting through her body.
Elara shuddered and met the Druid’s gaze, throat tightening as she swallowed. “How are they here?” she rasped.
The Druid said nothing, not a flicker of emotion passing over her features. The silence felt intentional, like she was forcing Elara to draw her own conclusions, to see more than what was in front of her.
Her chest tightened as her hands curled into fists at her sides. “Why show me this? Why not just heal me in my cell?”
The Greenheart’s eyes danced with something unreadable as she stepped closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper.
“Because there’s nothing anyone can do for them.
But there is power in knowing, in seeing.
To witness what’s hidden is to carry the burden of truth, and truth, as you know, has a way of making itself known.
” Her gaze drifted down to Elara’s chest, where the seals had revealed themselves just an hour ago, now concealed within her flesh once more.
“What hides in shadow does not remain so forever,” she added, a faint smile touching her lips. “Light, in its own time, finds its way.”
The Greenheart’s hand was warm and steady, grounding Elara as she led her out of the chamber and through another door.
“The infirmary is just through here,” she murmured, but Elara wasn’t listening.
The space they entered was nothing like the nightmare they had left behind.
It felt ancient, as though it had existed long before the cavern walls were hollowed around it.
As if the earth itself had cradled the place, protecting it—keeping it sacred.
The air was cool, heavy with damp stone and a faint, almost floral trace, like incense sunk into the walls. Her footsteps vanished into the vastness, but the low hum of power did not. It pressed against her skin, a subtle vibration.
Dominating the room were four monoliths, massive stones thrusting up from the ground as if they’d clawed their way out of the earth.
They towered above the women, worn smooth in some places, rough and scarred in others.
Elara couldn’t tear her eyes away. They felt holy, untouched, like the gods had left their fingerprints here.
She stepped closer to the stones, and that strange prickling at her skin intensified. “What is that?” Elara whispered, almost afraid to disturb the air.
The Greenheart’s steps faltered, just for a moment, before she forced herself to keep moving, her pace quickening as if to escape the question.
“We aren’t to speak of the stones.”
“Why?”
The healer shot her an exasperated look over her shoulder, but there was something else there too—fear.
“Do your best to keep the wound dry. Constant exposure to moisture will interfere with the scabbing process and delay healing,” the Greenheart said briskly, moving from her cluttered worktable to where Elara sat on the edge of a low stone slab.
The infirmary was dimly lit by flickering candles set into the rough-hewn walls, their light skimming shelves lined with jars of herbs, dried roots, and ancient tomes. Earthy, medicinal scents hung close, prickling Elara’s throat.
The Greenheart picked up a tub of salve and began rubbing it into Elara’s cut. “Wounds tampered with by ethereal means—”
“I know,” Elara interrupted, her voice flat. “They take time to heal and always scar.”
The Druid paused, then dipped her chin in acknowledgment. “Of course you do. My apologies.”
Elara winced as the woman worked the salve in, biting back a hiss. She fixed her attention anywhere else, her gaze lifting to the Greenheart’s face.
She looked to be in her late thirties, faint threads of gray slipping from beneath her hood. Exhaustion lined her eyes, yet there was an enduring grace to her features, a quiet beauty worn thin but not erased. Her eyes caught Elara’s attention most—deep, rich brown, steady despite the fatigue.
Elara’s gaze drifted to the woman’s totem. A familiar tree wrapped in a scroll. Aewora.
A southerner.
“What’s your name?”
The healer had thrown her earlier, those cryptic words still echoing in her mind.
What hides in shadow does not remain so forever.
A hint, clearly. But at what?
The woman paused, fingers stilling at Elara’s wrist, her mouth pressing into a thin line as she looked up. “Saria,” she said at last.