Chapter 24
“I will not,” Elara stated, lips pressed into a thin line as she fixed Reynnar with a determined stare. “You need to eat.”
As if on cue, their breakfast arrived with a metallic clatter, the sparse meal tossed carelessly onto the floor of the cell. And just as predictably, Reynnar nudged his portion toward her.
He hadn’t eaten the night before—not after they’d thrown him back into his cell. He’d spent the night sprawled near the bars, and she’d watched him the whole time, the steady rise and fall of his chest her only reassurance. By morning, a dark bruise bloomed across his jaw, swollen and angry.
It explained the untouched meal. But Elara wasn’t about to let him miss another. She couldn’t—when every bite might mean the difference between him surviving this or not.
“You need it to heal,” she insisted, her voice threading through the chilly cell air as she pushed his portion of what looked like pig's feet and potato stew toward him. At least this meal was hearty. It would do him some good.
Reynnar studied her beneath the dim orb-light. He seemed to weigh every shift of her expression before the corner of his mouth twitched into a tentative smile, cracking the scab on his lip and drawing a bead of fresh blood.
“íosfaidh mé, mura mbeadh ann ach go mbíonn tú chomh gleoite sin nuair a bhíonn tú tiarnúil.9”
She watched, barely breathing, as Reynnar finally took a bite. The tension in her shoulders eased, just a little. Only then did she lift her own spoon, though the knot in her throat made each swallow feel like stone.
She tracked his movements as he ate, relief settling in when he finished the last bite.
He pushed the tray aside and stretched, muscles in his chest and stomach pulling taut—catching her gaze for a heartbeat too long.
She looked away. She was used to seeing him shirtless by now, but that didn’t mean she needed to ogle him. Even if sometimes it was hard not to.
When she looked back, Reynnar was smiling—that half-smile she’d come to love, the one that showed just the faintest tips of his fangs.
Elara gestured toward her teeth, curiosity getting the better of her. “Do you… what are those for?”
She had heard stories of the gwyllgi, the black hounds known to stalk travelers through the night, draining the life from both humans and beasts. She couldn’t help but wonder if there was some truth to those tales when she looked at his fangs.
Reynnar mirrored her gesture, fingers brushing over one of his fangs, his eyes gleaming with something almost playful.
“Fiosrach fúthu seo? I gcomhrac, tá siad ceaptha greim a fháil san fheoil - díreach anseo.10” He tapped his neck.
“An áit a tapúla a ritheann an fhuil. Gasta, éifeachtach - níos úsáidí ná lann i ndlúthchomhrac.10 Ach is féidir iad a úsáid ar bhealaí eile freisin,10” he added, his grin deepening.
“Ní le haghaidh troda ... nó ar a laghad, ní sa bhealach a shílfeá.10”
Elara blinked. “That was a lot of words.” She laughed, shaking her head as a small smile tugged at her lips, mirroring his. But then, a sudden flash caught her eye—an errant ball of light drifting into her cell.
In an instant, they were on their feet. What—
The orb hovered midair, softly glowing, one of the thousands that drifted through the Pit like aimless stars in the dark.
But they never entered the cells. Never.
The faint light flickered, casting strange shadows across the rough-hewn floor as it hovered just before her.
A chill swept over her skin, her breath quickening.
“Gabh siar, a Eilíara.11”
She snapped out of her daze, instinctively stepping back from the orb before freezing mid-step.
Her heart pounded louder in her ears as she turned back to it.
Could this be the signal? After all this time?
The thought sent a rush of ice through her veins.
She had given up weeks ago. Had nearly crushed the pill beneath her heel more times than she could count.
But something—some small, stubborn part of her—had kept her from doing it. Had kept her waiting.
The orb pulsed brighter—once, twice, three times—before darting out of her cell, vanishing as quickly as it had come.
The signal comes in threes. This was it.
Elara’s hands shook as she glanced toward the center of the Pit, where the guards had started to gather, their armor clinking as they laughed, taking bets on which prisoner would break first today.
Her eye twitched.
The note had been clear—make sure there’s an audience when it kicks in.
It was right before the shift change—her only window. She had maybe ten minutes, if that. Elara glanced at Reynnar, nerves coiling as she bit her lip. She wished she could warn him.
His gaze stayed locked on hers, steady, as if he already sensed what was coming. The familiar intensity burned there, and she echoed the gesture he’d made that first day—pointing to her face. A signal. One he’d understand.
Reynnar stilled. Something dark flickered in his eyes. Then his lips curved into a slow, wicked smile.
A thrill shot down her spine.
“Not the prey.” She whispered into the space between them.
Heart hammering, Elara edged to the side of the cell, careful to keep her distance from the wards. Her gaze drifted to the wall near the bars—to the loose stone she’d discovered during her first week. The vial was still there. Waiting.
Whoever had left the note—Saria, most likely, though Avis crossed her mind as well—expected her to trust a mystery pill? She almost scoffed. Trust was a luxury she no longer afforded. Not without proof.
Still, that didn’t mean she couldn’t play along. See where the game led.
On her terms.
Don’t hold back on the theatrics.
Oh, she’d give them a show.
Elara raked her fingers through her hair, tugging free a few pins and pocketing the cool metal.
Her hair spilled loose in messy waves over her shoulders.
She untucked her tunic, rumpling the fabric, then reached for her cloak.
Her hand lingered on the edge—her last scrap of warmth—before she tore it from her shoulder.
She winced as the ruined cloth fell away and set her shoulders, ignoring the cold seeping in.
Focus.
She cleared her throat, a smirk tugging at her lips, tipped her head back, and launched into a song—loud, and deliberately off-key.
“Oh, I knew a bloke from down the street, his breath was foul, his socks were sweet, he’d boast of women, wealth, and fame, but couldn’t remember his own damn name.”
Elara grabbed what remained of her breakfast and dumped it down the front of her tunic, smearing the greasy mess into the fabric. She slammed the plate against the stone—clang. Again. Harder. Then against the bars, rattling them as she made as much noise as possible.
She wanted them to think she’d snapped. That she was losing it. Her movements grew wilder, more erratic, as she kept singing.
“He’d swagger ’round like he owned the place, with an ale-stained shirt and dirt on his face, claimed he’d bedded a duchess or three, but when it came to it, he’d wilt like a tree.”
“Shut your bloody noise, you daft woman. You sound like a dying goat.”
Malak.
Elara didn’t stop. She locked her eyes on him, widening them in exaggerated madness, and belted out the rest of the song at the top of her lungs, banging the tin plate against the stone with every word.
“So raise a pint to men like him, who can’t tell their arse from a proper whim, for life’s a mess, and so are we, at least we drink ’til we’re piss’d for free!”
“She’s cracked,” another guard muttered, and soon enough, a small cluster of them gathered outside her cell.
They stood there, arms crossed, weapons hanging lazily at their sides, as if they couldn’t quite decide whether to laugh or be concerned.
Elara didn’t bother acknowledging them, though she caught a glimpse of Reynnar from the corner of her eye, watching silently. He probably thought she’d lost it too.
She started the song over, tugging at her clothes, rolling her eyes like a madwoman as her voice climbed higher with every line. But even through the act, something inside her twisted. A cutting pang, right in her gut.
Avis. That night. The one time they’d gotten well and truly pissed together.
Sneaking Algernon’s whiskey, laughing so hard they couldn’t breathe, drunk on more than just the booze.
It felt like a lifetime ago. The memory sparked, uninvited, and she snuffed it out, hard.
Buried it deep where it couldn’t touch her.
“Maybe we should call for Saria,” one of the guards muttered under his breath. Elara caught the words and ramped up the performance, her voice rising into a full-blown wail.
Yes, she thought. Call the healer. Call the bloody healer.
“Can’t. She's out for the day,” Malak muttered, the words just loud enough to pierce through the racket of her own voice.
Shit. Shit.
Could it be that the note wasn’t from Saria?
“I’ll take it from here.”
Her head jerked up, the voice cutting through her like ice down her spine. The Hunter stood at the entrance, fully armored, mask in place, exuding that terrifying, unshakable calm.
Oh, she was cursed. Well and truly cursed.
He barely bothered to look at the guards, just flicked his hand, lazy, like they were nothing. The men shot her one last confused look before scuffling off. All but Malak.
“No one goes in or outta that cell but me,” he growled, chest puffing out like some overstuffed bird, the leather of his armor groaning with the strain.
The Hunter didn’t so much as blink. “She’s my charge. I’m here to reinforce her bind, and I will see her regularly. If you have an issue, take it up with the warden. My orders come from Osin, not you.”
Malak’s jaw clenched, the scar on his cheek pulling tight. Silence stretched before he gave a slow, grudging nod. The wards flickered, energy humming once before sputtering out, leaving the cell exposed.
The Hunter cocked his head. “I need privacy. To concentrate.”