Chapter 28 #2
A warm breeze stirred through the gardens, twisting through Elara’s thick curls and bringing with it the heavy scent of jasmine and the sweetness of stardust roses.
The party was a sight meant to dazzle—an intricate maze of silver-leafed trees, their branches shimmering like molten metal under the moonlight.
But the air was too warm, unnaturally so for mid-autumn.
Elara could feel the ether woven into the atmosphere, sticky and cloying, clinging to her skin like a layer of sweat.
It coated everything—the food, the drinks, even the flowers.
A faint, deadly undertone, like candies dipped in poison.
She’d been sure, when Osin had led her into the gardens, that he’d force her to parade around at his side like last time.
But tonight he had something else in mind.
He’d stationed her among the statues, making her stand there like a piece of stone while the rest of the party carried on around her.
Not quite part of it, yet not entirely separate.
Just another ornament for the elites to admire and forget.
She knew the feeling well enough.
Her gaze swept over the guests that were scattered across the clearing, limbs tangled in impossible configurations as they played some ridiculous game.
The game was simple—players spun a crystal dial that hovered in the air, its glassy surface shimmering with runes that shifted with every spin.
When it stopped, the runes would glow, marking a place on the enchanted grid beneath their feet.
The tiles moved and shifted beneath them, charmed to keep everyone just a little off-balance.
The more they drank, the more chaotic it became, laughter spilling out as bodies twisted, arms and legs crisscrossing in a drunken tangle of silk and gold.
Everyone was already halfway to oblivion, the wine flowing freely, but there was an edge to it. Their eyes shone a fraction too bright, their laughter cracked and wild, teetering toward madness—like their drinks were laced with a bit of something else.
Laughter echoed off the marble statues that loomed over the garden, silent watchers carved in the likeness of gods long forgotten, their stony faces indifferent to the revelry below.
Elara stood rigid beside the towering figure of Aine, her hands outstretched, as if she held eternity in them.
Her own hands, though far less steady, reached out to the nearest nightbloom, her fingertips grazing the cool, velvety petals.
She clung to that small sensation, grasping for any distraction from the incessant ache screaming through her legs.
But even without looking up, she could feel him—Osin’s gaze burning into her.
She looked up to find amusement glinting in his eyes, his lips curled into a lazy, predatory smile.
Everyone else was lost in the game, limbs tangled and slipping as they laughed, but not him.
Osin had hardly looked away from her all night.
He watched every twitch of her muscles, every slight falter. He enjoyed it—her struggle.
From across the gardens, Elara could sense the anger simmering beneath his smug exterior—a tightly coiled beast barely restrained. She knew he was furious over what she’d done. But she’d expected something worse from him, something harsher than this quiet glee he seemed to revel in.
Unease curled low in her stomach.
Elara tore her gaze away, tugging uncomfortably at the too-tight bodice, the cheap, thin fabric clinging to her skin.
Layers of flimsy lace and low-cut satin, dyed in garish shades of crimson, left little to the imagination.
If, at the last party, Osin had wanted her to resemble a goddess, this time, after her insult, he’d made sure she looked like a harlot.
A mockery wrapped in gaudy material, designed to humiliate.
And it worked.
Their gazes crawled over her like the cheap fabric she was forced into, clinging tight.
Lust. Obsession. It radiated from them, lingering on every inch of bare skin, on every scandalous curve Osin had chosen to display.
The whispers weren’t even subtle, low murmurs filled with heat, with a desire that made her stomach churn.
Her skin prickled under their attention, but.
.. she couldn’t bring herself to care. Not tonight.
Let them look. Let them think whatever they wanted. It didn’t matter.
Because her mind was locked on one thing—finding Lady Calista Thorne.
Elara had thought of the young woman endlessly during her days in the infirmary. The look Calista had given her at the last party—the faint glimmer of recognition—paired with those fragmented memories...
They had known each other. Elara was certain of it.
Maybe Lady Thorne could fill in those missing pieces, the gaps torn from her past. Maybe even more than that.
It was reckless. Elara was grasping at the thinnest of threads, but at this point, it was all she had left to hold on to.
And cling she had—four vials of Stonebrew downed, waiting for the night to spiral—for Osin to drink himself deep enough into his cups that he wouldn’t notice her slip away.
He was nearly there. His glances had grown fewer, lazier, drifting off as the wine took hold.
At the moment, he was stretched out on the grass, telling the story of his pilgrimage.
A swarm of admirers—men and women alike—gathered around Osin, utterly enraptured by his every word.
Their eyes were glowing with admiration—or lust, by the looks of it.
It seemed as though they were but a breath away from flinging themselves at his feet, and Osin, ever the opportunist, basked in the attention, soaking it in as if it were his natural due.
"The climb," he said, "was treacherous, as you’d expect.
The air so thin, I could scarcely breathe.
But I pressed on, knowing the fate of the realm depended on me.
On my strength, my will." His audience gasped, wide-eyed and enthralled, as if they hadn’t heard the tale a hundred times before.
Hands reached out, fingers brushing his arms, his chest. "When I finally reached the summit, Aine appeared to me.
Radiant, divine, her voice thunderous. I knelt before her, pleading for the return of ether to our land. And she listened. She listened to me."
One of the women, eyes bright with awe, gasped. "How could she not?" she said breathlessly. "A man of your strength, your devotion..."
Osin grinned, soaking in the adoration. "Indeed," he purred, "how could she not?"
Elara rolled her eyes, unable to hold it back anymore.
She endured his tale for a while longer, watching him sink further into his drink, half hoping he might let slip some new detail.
But it was the same tired story she’d already read in Osin’s Sacred Journey, repeated word for word, as if he had rehearsed his own legend.
And after all she had come to learn, she found herself doubting whether any of it had ever been true.
Her gaze flicked to the banquet tables, and her stomach twisted.
She’d never seen so much food in one place, enough to feed the guests three times over, maybe more.
Her tongue flicked across her lips instinctively.
Silver platters gleamed under the soft glow of lanterns, each one piled high with figs dripping in honey, roasted pheasant with perfectly crisped skin, and sugared pears that shimmered like they were plucked from a dream.
She tore her gaze from the food, forcing herself to focus on the courtiers instead.
Their chatter filled the air, a constant hum that blended with the soft strains of music.
The courtiers drifted between tables, plucking bites from the decadent spread, sipping wine from crystal goblets.
Elara’s eyes scanned the crowd, searching for Calista, but a floating platter of sparkling wine slid into her line of sight, nudging her to take a glass.
She shot a quick glance over her shoulder at Osin.
He hadn’t noticed. Good. “No, thank you,” she murmured, edging away from the floating platter, moving closer to the nearest table.
At the edges of the feast, desserts sat in neat, tempting rows—rich cakes dusted with powdered sugar, pastries oozing with spiced cream, delicate bowls filled with candied flowers that shimmered in the light like tiny jewels.
Everything was lush, indulgent—a feast meant to overwhelm the senses, to pull you in, and never let go. Elara’s fingers hovered just above a candied flower, its soft petals practically begging to be touched, the faint scent of honey and vanilla curling up toward her.
"I wouldn’t eat that if I were you."
The voice, low and smooth as silk, stopped her at once.
Elara glanced up and met a pair of striking hazel eyes.
The young man before her was effortlessly handsome, with sharp features framed by dark hair that fell artfully out of place, as though nature itself intended it to rest just so.
His heavy-lidded gaze, sultry and aloof, held a flicker of amusement.
He was dressed in a cravat of deep indigo, tied with the kind of precision that made him look like he belonged at court, yet there was something unruly about him.
Rings glinted on his long, slender fingers, each one more ornate than the last, and his posture was all casual arrogance, as if he knew exactly how he looked.
It was him. The same man from the first party. The one whose eyes had raked over her like he was just waiting for the chance to take a bite.
The hunger in his gaze hadn’t changed—if anything, it had sharpened. His smile held something dangerous, the kind that made her heart stutter and her instincts flare.
"Unless, of course, you wish to share their fate," he said, nodding toward the crowd through the gardens, still entangled in their drunken game.
So, she had been right—they’d all taken something extra.
"Thanks for the warning."
He dipped his head slightly, that smirk never leaving his lips. "Anything for the Hallowed."
Elara huffed, the title grating as it always did. But there was something in the way he said it—light, teasing, as though he, too, did not take it seriously.
"Tristan." He extended his hand, palm up, and Elara simply stared at it, bewildered. No one from Ulrith greeted her with such familiarity—hell, most didn’t greet her at all. She was used to the reverent bows, the stiff nods, the distance. But a handshake? That was beyond strange.
Her gaze dropped to his wrist, catching the unmistakable sunburst etched into his skin.
Beneath it, intricate lines traced his veins, symbols that spoke of lineage and privilege—glyphs that told a story of wealth, power, and old blood.
Someone born into the heart of Arinthel, raised under its golden towers and the shadow of the throne.
He was no outsider; he belonged here in a way few did.
Still, his hand lingered, his hazel eyes gleaming with challenge, as if daring her to take it.
“Elara,” she finally said, slipping her hand into his, her voice steady even as her heart gave a slight stutter.
Tristan’s brow arched, his lips curving into something far too smug for her liking. "Is that so?"
A reluctant smile tugged at her lips, much to her annoyance.
He was undeniably flirtatious, and worse, it was working.
She couldn’t afford to be distracted right now.
Tearing her gaze from his, she quickly glanced over her shoulder, scanning the crowd in hopes of spotting Calista. But there was no sign of her.
Perhaps she isn’t coming tonight after all...
"Anyone catching your eye tonight?" Tristan asked casually as he circled the table, coming to stand beside her. Elara barely glanced at him before he added, "That old bastard with the blonde wig over there? He’s been undressing you with his eyes for the better part of an hour."
A snort escaped her before she could stop it. The man was ancient, and the wig he wore was perhaps the most obvious one she had ever seen.
"And how, exactly, would you know that?" she asked, side-eyeing him.
Tristan leaned in slightly, his voice lowering to a murmur that only she could hear. “Because I’ve been doing the same, and I like to know who I’m up against."
Elara’s gaze snapped to Tristan, her eyes wide. “What—”
But before she could finish, a sudden clap echoed across the party, slicing the hum of conversation. Silence fell instantly.
Osin stood in the center of the gardens, a smirk playing on his lips, his posture casual, almost too relaxed. He spread his arms wide. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. At last, the moment you’ve all been waiting for has arrived.”
The crowd erupted into cheers, anticipation thick in the air. Elara’s heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing. Tristan shifted closer, the heat of his body brushing hers, but she barely registered it.
“Tonight," Osin continued, "we honor those of you who have proven your loyalty, your.
.. resourcefulness. You see, a little birdie told me there were rebels hiding among us, traitors intent on disrupting our peace.
" His eyes gleamed, sweeping over the crowd.
"But thanks to you, my dear guests, we found them.
Those who sought to sow discord in our land have been captured. "
A murmur of satisfaction rippled through the gathered elites, and Elara’s blood ran cold. Her thoughts spun in a frenzy. Dominic had spoken of spies, of Keepers within the Pit... Had they been betrayed?
“So, to celebrate such initiative,” Osin drawled, “we are going to play a little game. One that rewards not just speed, but cunning and luck.” His eyes gleamed with twisted amusement as he surveyed the eager faces before him.
“Each of you had a hand in catching these rebels—whether through whispers, discreet actions, or more direct means. And as we know, to the victor go the spoils.”
Osin’s grin only widened. “And what better reward for your efforts, than a chance to win something truly priceless?” His gaze landed on Elara. “The first to reach the center of the grid will win. And the prize, of course, is her.”