Chapter 26 #2
He stood tall, unflinchingly so, but there was something dangerous in the way his gaze lingered on her.
He wasn’t hiding behind a mask this time.
Just him, in gleaming armor that seemed to swallow the light, all hard edges, and lethal grace.
But his eyes—they were the same. Dark, unrelenting, like he was dissecting her every breath. And she couldn’t look away.
“Why did you summon me?”
Elara shivered. She couldn’t help it—her eyes drifted over the hard lines of his face, searching for... something. Anything. A flicker of recognition, maybe. Or warmth that she knew wouldn’t be there.
What did he feel when he looked at her? Hatred? Duty? Something else?
She swallowed, the tension pulling tighter.
He hadn’t always been this—this hunter in the king’s service.
No, he had once been a lordling, a man of status, his family one of the most powerful in the realm.
Until the day his brother had tried to kill her.
Until the day they’d lost it all. Stripped of their titles, their land, their legacy.
What had happened to them after that? What had happened to him? She’d never let herself wonder before.
Elara ripped her gaze away, her cheeks burning as shame knotted in her stomach.
What is wrong with me? So he hadn’t left her to freeze on the cold cell floor—big deal.
That didn’t make him a good person. It didn’t mean he deserved anything more from her than animosity.
And now, here she was, her mind spiraling with thoughts about him, clinging to the smallest scraps of kindness like they meant something. Like they mattered.
But he wasn’t kind. And the dream...
That's all it was, she reminded herself, not a real interaction between them.
Gods, she was losing it.
“Look pretty now,” Osin murmured, his voice a velvet whisper that snapped her out of her reverie.
“All eyes will be on you.” Without so much as a glance in her direction, he turned to face the court, lifting his crystal glass with an ease that commanded the room.
At once, a hush fell over the assembled guests.
“Lords and Ladies of this esteemed realm, welcome.” He let the silence stretch, allowing the weight of his words to settle before continuing.
“It is always a pleasure to see so many gathered in the name of peace and prosperity.
A testament, truly, to the strength of our unity.
Tonight, marks the start of Luminalia, and I ask you to reflect on the greatness we've built together—on the stability we so generously maintain. And as your sovereign, it is both my duty and my privilege to ensure that our legacy endures, unshaken and unchallenged.”
His gaze shifted to Elara, a calculating gleam in his eyes.
“The Hallowed stands among you as proof of that legacy—a divine assurance from the gods that our path is righteous, our future secure. In the days leading to the winter solstice, we will revel in this fortune, strengthening the bonds between us. This time, with our Hallowed in attendance—a living symbol of the gods’ favor. ”
He lifted his glass again, and the entire hall followed, crystal chiming. “Let tonight serve as a reminder," he said, "of the order we’ve built, the future we protect. A future that we—together—will ensure forever.”
A cheer erupted, loud and deafening, a roar of approval that rattled the very air. Elara stood there, frozen, as the crowd drank, their loyalty on full display.
Luminalia? Already? Time had become a strange, malleable thing, stretching and compressing until she could no longer keep its measure. She could hardly remember what it was like to care.
The night blurred together as Elara trailed Osin like a dog on a leash.
He moved through the crowd with a king’s ease, trading whispers laced with honey and venom, lifting goblets of golden wine, his laughter ringing hollow in her ears.
Servers wove past with trays of roasted meats glistening under the chandeliers, pastries layered with promise, fruits shining like jewels.
Her mouth watered—an instinct she couldn’t silence.
But not a bite for her. The Hallowed, it seemed, was above hunger and thirst. She drifted on, a silent ghost in a pretty dress.
Her stomach was screaming when Osin decided he was done.
“Rolfe,” Osin snapped and a guard appeared at his side before the sound had even faded. “Escort the Hallowed back to her quarters. I daresay the court has had its fill of her presence for one evening.”
They certainly had. Elara had felt eyes on her all night—just not his. The Hunter had vanished after the welcome speech, swallowed by the crowd, his absence louder than all the stares that tracked her every step.
“Of course, my lord.” Rolfe’s bow wavered, his words thick. Elara’s gaze narrowed as she caught the flush creeping up his neck, the unsteady shift of his feet. He was drunk.
Great.
“Good lad,” Osin said with a hollow smile, clapping Rolfe on the back. But his attention had already drifted, his gaze locking onto a young woman across the hall. The gleam in his eyes turned Elara’s stomach.
She watched as he crossed the room and slid a hand possessively around the girl’s waist. She turned to him, her smile blooming wide—too wide. Elara caught the subtle hitch in her shoulders, the brief tension beneath the polish. A performance. One Elara knew all too well.
The girl laughed at something Osin murmured, head tipping back, her facade flawless. Then, for the briefest moment, her eyes flicked to Elara. Quick. Controlled.
Cold splashed through her all the same.
It was her. The girl from her memory. Those same cruel green eyes.
A throat cleared behind her, pulling her gaze. Rolfe.
“Are you quite ready?”
Elara blinked, startled by the softness in his tone. It had been so long since anyone had spoken to her with kindness at Mordenhall that it pushed her to ask,
“What is the name of that woman?” she said carefully. “The one with the Lord Sovereign?”
Rolfe glanced over her shoulder. "Oh, that’s Lady Calista Thorne."
Calista. The name stirred nothing in her mind.
Elara's shoulders sagged.
“She's been angling for Osin for the past six months, and it looks like she’s finally managed to catch his eye.”
Elara paused again. He wasn’t just being polite—he was offering her information, unprompted. Why? Maybe he had a taste for gossip. Her eyes flicked to the weapons strapped to his belt—sleek, efficient, and oddly familiar. They were much like the ones Dario used. Could he, too, be from the west?
“How fortunate for her,” she said, her tone deliberately light, though her mind whirled with possibilities.
Rolfe snorted derisively, then seemed to remember who stood beside him. He straightened at once, cleared his throat, and muttered, “Let’s get you back.”
They walked in silence, the weighty doors of the Great Hall creaking shut behind them.
Gradually, the distant murmur of voices faded as they wound their way through the dim corridors that led toward the Pit.
Elara bit down gently on her lower lip, her thoughts racing.
She combed through every scrap of knowledge Dario had ever shared about the steel craft of Bravell.
She could almost hear his voice recounting the details. Their weapons weren’t like the grand swords favored by other provinces—Bravellians were known for their ingenuity, crafting weapons with dual purposes. Their blades were light but lethal, often serrated, or hooked to maximize damage.
The crixis, a short, curved blade with a secondary grip at its base, was perfect for close combat, allowing its wielder to twist and disarm with one fluid motion. Then there were the vorr spikes, slender spears with barbed edges that hooked into flesh, tearing muscle when pulled free.
Weapons designed not just to kill but to break.
To make sure the enemy never got back up.
Elara’s gaze flicked to Rolfe’s arsenal, noting the unmistakable gleam of a crixis hanging at his side, the spikes strapped across his back. He wasn’t just any guard. He was Bravellian—a survivor, a fighter forged in a kingdom that had been left in ruins but refused to die.
A spark ignited in her chest, her pulse thrumming with new purpose.
She could use this. He could be useful.