Chapter 27
“Your blade… it’s not like the ones the other guards carry.”
Elara kept her expression neutral, watching as Rolfe hesitated just long enough to make her wonder if she’d overstepped. But then he pushed open the heavy door to the Pit, casting a glance back at her.
“A Bravellian forge doesn’t craft for looks,” he said with a faint smirk. “We make what lasts, not what pleases the eye.”
Elara let out a slow breath, relieved. He wasn’t bothered by the question. Good. She decided to push her luck a little further. “It’s not just anyone who could handle a weapon like that… must take a certain kind of skill.”
Rolfe’s face flushed at the comment, his gaze darting away as he stumbled slightly on the spiraling stairs. “It’s served me well enough.”
Elara watched him descend, a flicker of guilt stirring over what she was about to do.
Almost. A small smile tugged at her lips as she timed her steps, deliberately catching the hem of her gown beneath her heel.
The fabric snagged, and with a soft, calculated yelp, she pitched forward, hands flying out as she stumbled.
Rolfe’s arms shot out, catching her before she fell.
“Are you all right, miss?” His concern sounded genuine as he steadied her and helped her upright. Wine lingered on his breath, mixed with the clean salt of sweat and the solid warmth of his body. Elara leaned in just a fraction, letting the closeness linger.
“Fine,” she murmured, looking up at him from beneath her lashes. “Though I think I might’ve twisted my ankle.”
“Shit” He eased her down onto a nearby step, already crouching to inspect her. “Let me take a look.”
Elara hid her smile. Gods, this was almost too easy.
His brow knit together. “It looks fine to me,” he murmured, eyes flicking over her skin, “but I’m no healer.” When he looked up, the haze of wine seemed to clear slightly from his hazel eyes. “We should get you checked out, just to be safe.”
Elara gave a small nod, keeping her expression soft, innocent, letting him take her weight as he lifted her to her feet, her arm sliding around his shoulders for support.
“Is this all right?”
Guilt flickered in Elara’s chest. He was young, earnest—perhaps the only genuine kindness she’d found in this wretched place. She pushed the thought aside. She couldn’t afford it. Focus.
She dipped her head and let him guide her down the remaining steps and into the narrow corridor leading deeper into the Pit.
A cold sweat prickled her skin. The silence here felt wrong—too heavy.
Her gaze slid to the guards lining the passage, expecting their usual rigid stares.
Instead, one swayed on his feet, gripping his spear like a lifeline.
Another lay slumped on the stone, his helmet rolling away with a soft clatter.
Elara’s eyes widened as they passed another, his steps unsteady, mouth slack, and it finally clicked.
Drunk. Every last one of them. Her pulse spiked.
How? How could the warden allow such negligence?
Was this normal? Did they all just lose themselves like this every time there was a grand event?
The entire castle, drunk and stumbling, armor half-falling off.
It was absurd—dangerous. Sure, it worked to her advantage, but still. .. the sheer recklessness of it.
She swallowed her disbelief, forcing herself to stay focused.
If ever there was a moment, this was it—the opportunity she had long been waiting for to gather more information.
She couldn’t afford to waste it. Manipulating Rolfe was a necessary evil, and she repeated that to herself, again and again, until the words began to feel like truth.
Until the knot in her chest began to loosen.
Five times, she told herself—this is survival. Five times, until she believed it.
It didn't help that with every step closer to the heart of the tunnels, Elara felt Rolfe grow tense, his body stiffening beneath her touch.
“Have you never been down here before?”
Rolfe froze, glancing around before scratching the back of his neck. “I—haven’t, no. I was quite surprised when the Lord Sovereign tasked me with bringing you here. I’ve heard of the place, of course, but…”
“It’s horrible, isn’t it?” she finished for him, her tone cooler now.
His grip tightened briefly at her waist before he let go. “It is.”
They continued on in silence once more until reaching the entrance to the labyrinth of tunnels. Rolfe’s brow furrowed as his gaze darted uneasily between the dark, winding paths. “Which of these leads to the infirmary? They do have an infirmary, don’t they?”
“They do,” Elara replied, watching as the strain in his posture gradually eased. She inclined her head toward the rightmost tunnel. “It’s down there.”
Rolfe exhaled, a flicker of relief crossing his face as he adjusted his grip and guided her on. His arm stayed steady beneath hers while the torchlight dimmed behind them, swallowed by the dark ahead.
“How much further?” Rolfe’s voice wavered, his concern clear as Elara leaned harder against him. She could feel his gaze flick to her every few seconds, his worry palpable, just as she had hoped.
“Do you need to rest?” he offered, his kindness almost unbearable.
She winced dramatically, casting him a tired look. “I think I might.”
He nodded without hesitation, and gently helped her settle against the tunnel wall—right next to the large, jagged rock she’d noted on her first trip through this tunnel.
Elara sank to her knees with a slight groan, feigning a weakness that brought Rolfe to her side at once.
“I don’t think I can manage the rest of the way.” Her fingers brushed against the rock beside her, wrapping around it carefully, feeling the weight of it in her palm. “Do you think you could fetch someone to help me?”
Rolfe hesitated, biting the inside of his cheek as his gaze shifted from her to the dark tunnel ahead. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea to leave you alone. Maybe… if you don’t mind, I could carry you—”
Elara didn’t let him finish. She swung her arm in one swift motion, the rock cracking against the back of his head. Sharp. Cruel. He never saw it coming.
His body jolted, shock flashing across his face before his knees buckled. He crumpled at her feet, unconscious before he hit the stone.
Elara squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the tears that surged before she could stop them.
Curse it all.
“I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry,” she whispered, her voice trembling as she carefully lowered him onto his back.
Her eyes darted to the spot where she’d hit him, her heart stalling at the sight of blood—just a small amount, enough to stain the skin beneath his hair.
Her hands shook as she searched for a pulse.
There it was—steady. He wasn’t dead, just unconscious.
Relief flooded her as she slumped back against the wall.
Tears welled in her eyes again, blurring everything, but she swiped them away with the back of her hand—rough, fast—then pinched her arm hard, the pain cutting through the swirl of emotions.
Get up. Move.
Elara pushed herself up on unsteady legs, her whole body trembling.
She had to decide, and fast. Find Godfrey and drag the truth out of him, or dig deeper into the stones? There was something about them—she’d felt it the moment she first saw them, a pull she couldn’t shake. And her dreams had only confirmed it. They meant something.
Something important.
Her gaze flicked between the path behind her and the shadowed corridor where she knew the stones were kept. She swallowed hard, her pulse quickening. Maybe, she could manage both.
The stones first. Then Godfrey.
Elara clutched her gown and sprinted down the dim corridor, fabric bunched in her fists.
Torches flickered along the walls, their shadows lurching and warping the space around her.
At the end of the hall, a heavy door stood ajar, a sliver of light spilling through like a beacon.
She shoved it open, breath ragged, chest heaving—
And stopped dead.
Every single Sidhe stood at attention. Silent. Watchful. Their faces pale in the low light.
They hovered at the bars of their cells, their otherworldly eyes fixed on her, tracking her every move with an intensity that made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.
Their expressions were unreadable, faces as smooth as marble, yet there was something beneath it—an understanding, as if they knew—knew exactly what had transpired between her and Rolfe.
Elara’s throat tightened, her mouth suddenly dry as her eyes darted from one figure to the next.
Their features too beautiful to belong to this wretched place.
No one spoke. No one moved.
They were waiting.
Elara instinctively reached for the nearest cell, her fingers just shy of the iron bars when a female lunged forward.
Her skin was unnaturally pale, like the very walls had drained the life from her, and her silver hair hung in tangled mats down her back.
Dark circles bruised the skin beneath her eyes.
“Tá fáinne ag teastáil uait,15” she hissed, her trembling hand rising to point at the glowing wards etched into the stone—wards Elara had missed in her haste.
Heat flooded Elara's cheeks. Stupid. Of course she couldn’t just open the cells.
She needed a ring—the right ring. Something powerful enough to break the wards.
But even if she could manage that... then what?
Where could she take them? Osin had eyes everywhere.
She could barely keep herself out of danger, let alone protect a group of Sidhe.
Her throat tightened. She needed help, someone who knew how to handle this. She needed Godfrey. One thing at a time.
Elara barely breathed the words. “I’m going to help you.” Her gaze locked with the female’s, the vow settling between them. “I’m going to get you out of here.”