Chapter 26
Elara’s skin burned, every inch of her feeling like it was under siege. Who knew you could be attacked by an entire army of beauty potions?
Malak had barely shoved her into the readying chamber before the attendants descended with their bottles and brushes.
Something was worked into her hair until it shone; lotions tightened her skin until it felt stretched over bone.
And the body oils—she refused to dwell on those.
Not a single inch was spared. She was scrubbed, coated, polished to a humiliating sheen.
Now, standing beside Osin as he held court, Elara fought the urge to scratch the maddening itch beneath her left breast.
The Great Hall stretched out before her, swathed in a splendor that must have out-valued anything the Sanct had ever laid eyes on through all its years.
Elara, her arm looped through Osin's, could hardly believe the decadence—every corner gilded, every surface sparkling as if determined to outshine the next.
As they moved through the crowd, Osin was the picture of regal grace, greeting each lord and lady with a smile that was both a welcome and a display of his unwavering authority. His laughter rang out—rich, haughty—as he accepted compliments and gifts, each more extravagant than the last.
Elara did not speak. She didn’t dare. Osin’s command had been clear: do not speak, scarcely breathe. She was a symbol at his side, ornamental and silent.
So she played her part—smiles measured, nods demure, gaze lowered in practiced deference.
She had learned this performance long ago.
But beneath it, anger coiled low and tight.
Quiet. Smoldering. How many could be fed with the gold dripping from these chandeliers?
How many homes warmed with the cost of a single night’s indulgence?
Her smile faltered for a heartbeat, her fingers tightening in the fabric of her gown.
“Cheer up, pet. This is a celebration, not a funeral,” Osin’s voice flowed over her like silk, smooth and effortless, yet with an edge so calculated, that for a moment, Elara wondered if he could hear the thoughts screaming in her head.
Her pulse spiked, panic flooding her veins.
She sucked in a breath, the air too tight in her chest as her mind raced, searching for any sign of intrusion—any breach into her mind.
But there was nothing. Just her own spiraling thoughts. Just her.
She forced a slow breath and settled the serene mask back into place, though her hands trembled.
Osin lifted his goblet and took an unhurried sip of dark red wine, staining his teeth as he swallowed.
Tonight, even his usual excess had been elevated.
Sapphire silk rippled over his frame like liquid light; phoenix-shaped cufflinks glittered with gemstones; silver thread stitched his high collar so finely it gleamed like moonlight.
Even his boots shone to an absurd polish—wealth and power he was all too eager to parade.
And at his side, the sunlit blade rested in its sheath, incongruous against the opulence, its presence a quiet, unspoken threat.
Osin led her through the throng of guests, his hand firm on her elbow, guiding her with an air of authority that parted the crowd without a word.
The lords and ladies of Latheria didn’t even try to hide their stares, their gazes crawling over her, full of lust, disdain, and judgment all at once.
These were the same people who nodded along with every word Osin spoke, whispering their approval while his reign of terror bled the land dry.
They smiled, toasted their victories, and pretended not to see the blood staining their hands.
As they moved through the crowd, Elara’s attention caught on a young man leaning casually against a pillar, his dark, tousled hair falling effortlessly over his brow, the faintest hint of a smirk playing on his lips.
He wore a green velvet jacket with a cravat loosely tied at his throat—careless, yet somehow intentional.
He was already watching her, dark eyes gleaming with amusement, like he was in on a secret she wasn’t. His gaze held hers for a beat longer than it should have before he gave her a slow, deliberate nod.
She looked away, heat creeping up her neck, forcing her focus anywhere but on the way his gaze lingered. Thankfully—or perhaps not—she didn’t wait long for a distraction.
Osin pulled her forward and stopped before an older man. Ashen hair, thinning and slicked back in a futile attempt to mask his age, only sharpened the hard lines of his face. A goblet rested loose in his hand, untouched, as his fingers tapped idly against the glass in a slow, measured rhythm.
“Chancellor Vellon,” Osin said smoothly, offering a smile, “allow me to formally present our Hallowed.”
The old man dipped his head, the movement barely more than a formality, his pale, hawk-like eyes settling on her.
Elara did not flinch beneath his gaze. Up close, she recognized him. He was a member of the High Council—the very one who had hidden behind the table.
“Lord Sovereign, you honor us with such a distinguished guest,” Vellon murmured, his tone thick with practiced civility. “Tell me, my dear, does the evening meet the expectations of one so... exalted?”
The word "exalted" slid from his lips, laden with such thinly veiled disdain that Elara’s fingers twitched, her instinct to roll her eyes barely restrained. Exalted, indeed. As if the gown Osin had chosen for her didn’t already make her feel like a mockery.
White, blindingly so, with edges dripping in gold, draping her in all the wrong ways.
It was so sheer, so absurdly delicate, that she might as well have been standing there in nothing at all.
When she’d first entered the hall, her arm entwined with Osin’s, every gaze had snapped to her.
Her gown shimmered beneath the chandeliers, its folds catching the light and scattering faint gold across the room like fleeting blessings.
Was that his aim—to parade her like a porcelain doll, drenched in perfume thick enough to smother anyone who drew too near?
Each step felt like floating, the hem barely whispering over marble, yet she had never felt more trapped—bound to an image made for others, not herself. Admired, displayed, and utterly unseen.
And yet, beneath the layers of silk and perfume, Elara's thoughts drifted to forests and rivers, to mud beneath her feet and rain in her hair.
Osin’s grip on her arm tightened ever so slightly.
“It’s lovely,” she managed, forcing a smile. “A truly... grand affair.”
Vellon’s smile broadened. He inclined his head once more, a gesture indulgent, and almost patronizing.
“I imagine such a grand spectacle must be quite the stimulation for you, Hallowed. After all, it must be some time since you have witnessed anything so fine. A welcome change, no doubt, from your present circumstances.” His gaze lingered upon her for a heartbeat longer, the faint smile still playing at his lips, before he turned his attention back to Osin.
Elara’s pulse raced, heat creeping through her despite every effort to stay composed.
Bastard. Evil, smug bastard. He knew—knew exactly what they were doing to her, what her "present circumstances" really meant. And he didn’t care.
He was a chancellor, for gods' sake, wasn’t there supposed to be some shred of decency in that? Some sense of moral justice?
Her fingers twitched at her sides, itching to lash out, to tear that arrogant expression from his face, but she clenched them into the fabric of her gown, willing herself to remain still. Breathe. She forced a tight, brittle smile.
After what felt like hours, Osin finally ended his conversation with the Chancellor, whose endless droning about titles and achievements had long since turned to white noise for Elara.
So, when Osin led her back through the crowd, she almost welcomed it—even with his hand on her back as a constant pressure.
They moved toward the high table, the towering stone edifice looming over the hall.
From this vantage point, Elara finally took in the full scope of the room—and the sheer number of armored guards stationed everywhere.
At least a dozen stood near the dais alone, their hands resting on their swords, while another twenty or so lined the perimeter.
Even more—maybe ten—were positioned at strategic intervals around the columns, half-hidden in the shadows, yet their presence was unmistakable.
It was excessive. Even for Osin, who was never one to take chances.
But this felt like overkill. Her eyes flitted across the room, catching the hushed exchanges between nobles, their heads bent close, military leaders murmuring in tight circles, courtiers fidgeting with their fans, and high-ranking Druids watching everything with unnerving calm.
Elara couldn’t shake the feeling settling like a stone in her stomach. Yes, this was a gathering of power—nobles, generals, Druids, all in one place. Of course, security would be tight. But this? This felt like more than just protection; it felt like preparation.
Elara's skin tingled, a prickling awareness creeping through her like a brush of fingers across her neck. Slowly, almost unwillingly, she turned, her eyes sweeping across the hall, her gaze drawn to him as if pulled by some invisible thread.
There, at the edge of the hall, standing just within the shadows, was the Hunter.
The sight of him stole the air from her lungs, and for a heartbeat, the murmur of the crowd faded to a distant hum. It was only then—when she focused—that she felt it: a whisper-thin pulse, a ghost of a beat that wasn’t hers but somehow mirrored her own.