Chapter 30
“Tristan!” Osin’s voice rang out, slicing through the fading buzz of the game as he crossed the grid. His boots clicked against the stone tiles, shadows curling lazily around him.
The players scattered across the board watched as Osin approached Elara and Tristan—some with bitter glares, others barely paying attention, slipping back into their drinks, their poisons, already bored.
Osin clasped Tristan’s arm and pulled him off Elara, yanking him to his feet. “I expected nothing less,” he said, “from someone of your bloodline. Though I must admit, fortune seemed particularly fond of you tonight.”
Tristan let out a low, rich laugh. "What can I say? The fates do love me."
Osin’s eyes gleamed, his smile stretching just enough to show teeth. “Indeed,” he murmured, gaze sliding back to Elara, pinned to the grid. “So,” he drawled, that wicked glint in his eyes, “was she worth all that fuss?”
Tristan glanced at her briefly, his eyes barely skimming over her disheveled form before flicking back to Osin. "I’d prefer not to leave her looking like a drowned rat. A proper cleanup first, then we’ll see what she’s worth."
Osin's fingers tapped against his thigh thoughtfully. "See that she isn’t... damaged. No marks, no blemishes. She already bears enough of those. But the other pleasures," his voice lowered, "those that don’t leave a trace—by all means, indulge."
Tristan dipped his head, a playful glint still in his eyes. "You honor me, my lord."
Tristan yanked Elara up fast, her legs barely catching her weight before they gave out.
She almost hit the ground again, but his arm shot out, grabbing her under the ribs before she could fall.
Gasping for breath, she glared at him, grinding her teeth against the pain that throbbed through every inch of her.
Her fingers, trembling with effort, sank into his arm, her nails pressing hard enough to elicit a wince from him, but he didn’t let go.
His amethyst ring flared to life, the air around them humming with energy as he lifted his hand to tear open a rift—when Osin’s voice slid through the tension like silk over steel.
“Oh, Tristan,” he purred, “the Hallowed is to remain here, in the safety of my castle. After all, we wouldn’t want her wandering where she shouldn’t, would we?”
The power in Tristan’s ring flickered, the glow snuffed out as his hand dropped to his side.
His jaw tightened, but only for a breath before a soft, almost careless laugh slipped out.
"I am your humble servant through and through," he said smoothly, bowing just low enough to appear sincere. But as soon as Osin turned away, Tristan’s gaze flicked to Elara, a sly wink following.
"When it suits me," he murmured under his breath.
Elara’s eyes widened, but no words came. She couldn’t force them past the tightness in her throat, every ounce of her energy focused on just staying on her feet, her body trembling under the strain.
Osin didn’t spare her another glance, a flick of his hand enough to summon the guards as he melted back into the party, swallowed by the swell of laughter and music.
Two of them moved in—flanking herself and Tristan, as the last dregs of Stonebrew's false warmth slipped away.
She was weak, vulnerable. She tried to breathe, tried to grasp a single thought, a single thread of hope, but her mind was drowning in a sea of slow, choking fear.
Her gaze darted frantically through the fading twilight, searching for a raven, for anyone—someone who could pull her from this waking nightmare.
But the world had turned away.
There was no winged savior, no outstretched hand. Just the cold, crushing weight of inevitability as the party carried on like she wasn’t about to be assaulted.
She was alone.
The bedroom was massive, almost overwhelming so. High, arched ceilings soared overhead as towering windows claimed an entire wall, framing the Northern Ridge in silver moonlight. But the bed. The bed was the centerpiece, sprawling across the middle of the chamber like a throne.
Elara, leaning heavily against the doorway, barely had a moment to take it all in before Tristan breezed past her, that familiar glint of trouble dancing in his eyes.
Without a moment’s pause, he flung himself onto the bed, his body sinking into the layers of blankets with a casual, unbothered air, as if the room—and the night—were his to claim.
“We’ll be right outside,” one guard muttered, his eyes trailing over Elara like he half-expected her to bolt. As if she could. She didn’t bother giving him the satisfaction of a response, her attention locked on Tristan instead.
His grin stretched wide, all self-satisfaction, arms folded behind his head, completely at ease. The door clicked shut behind the guards, leaving the two of them alone.
"Must you look so murderous?" he drawled.
Elara’s fists clenched, her fingers itching to grab something—anything—heavy enough to throw at him. He might’ve won the game, but she wasn’t about to make it easy for him. Not a chance.
"Relax," Tristan chuckled, propping himself up on one elbow and patting the bed. “There’s plenty of space for both of us, if you’re feeling tempted.”
Elara’s lip curled in disgust. “Touch me, and I’ll break your nose.”
Tristan’s grin only widened, eyes gleaming with that insufferable, cheeky confidence that made her blood boil. “You’re adorable when you’re angry, you know that? You’ve got this lovely habit of looking like you want to stab me. Which, honestly, is the most fun I’ve had in weeks.”
“Keep talking, and I’ll make good on it.”
Tristan’s brows shot up, but instead of backing down, he looked thoroughly amused—no, worse. He looked turned on. Ugh.
“Spirited and dangerous—just my type.”
"You're foul."
He sat up, his expression still annoyingly casual, though there was a hint of something darker in his eyes. "And you, darling, are forbidden fruit."
Elara's eyes narrowed, but then the atmosphere shifted, a ripple tearing through the room with a force that nearly knocked her off her feet. The crack of it ricocheted, splitting the air, and before she could steady herself, a rift appeared, dark and swirling in the corner.
"Ah, but it seems we won’t be playing after all," Tristan said, his voice dripping with mock disappointment. "Ivan—always the killjoy—has other plans for you."
Elara’s mouth fell open as the Hunter stepped through the rift, no armor, no mask, nothing but a dark cloak draped over his shoulders.
The dim light caught his form, highlighting the broad span of his shoulders against the Void that cloaked around him like a mantle of night.
He pushed a hand through his curly hair, brushing it back from his eyes as they scanned the room.
Dark and intense, his gaze finally settled on her, stealing her breath.
She looked between the two men. “What the hell is going on?”
Tristan slid off the bed with that easy grace, walking over to the Hunter as if this was all perfectly normal. They clasped hands, murmuring to each other in low tones too quiet for her to catch.
Finally, they turned to her.
“My friend here has some business with you,” Tristan said, his voice light. “Osin announced a tournament to win a night with the Hallowed, and, well, it was the perfect chance to get you alone. Though Ivan couldn’t exactly compete, being all disgraced, and whatnot, so I did him a favor.”
The Hunter crossed his arms, face unreadable except for the faint trace of wry humor tugging at his lips. “Disgraced is one way to put it. I prefer ‘selectively avoiding unnecessary theatrics.’”
But Elara barely registered the words. Just noise. The perfect setup to get her alone. Tristan had played his part, winning the game to hand her over to the Hunter so he could try again—try to finish placing the seal on her. He must’ve figured out why it hadn’t worked the first time.
Elara took a slow breath, steadying her mind, clearing the chaos in her thoughts.
In seconds, she found the Hunter’s pulse—a steady, rhythmic beat under her skin.
She latched onto it with lethal focus, and a slow, wicked smile crept across her face as his control slipped.
The barest wince tugged at his features, his jaw tightening.
But she saw it. And she savored every second.
Tristan glanced between them, sensing the shift. “Unhand my friend.”
“And why would I do that?” she said, a trickle of blood dripping from her nose.
“Because” Tristan took a step toward her, voice as smooth as ever, “we’re trying to help you.”
Elara let out a sharp laugh. “You must think I’m an idiot.”
“No, we think you're smart enough to know a good offer when you see one.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Which one is it, help or an offer?”
Tristan gave a casual shrug. “Why can’t it be both?”
Elara braced herself against the wall, tension buzzing through her body, her mind spinning as she weighed her options.
The Hunter’s pulse beat fast and uneven under her hold, and the flicker of pain in his eyes was enough to tell her she still had the upper hand—at least for now.
Slowly, she let him go, more curious than anything to see what he’d say.
The moment she released him, the strain melted from his face.
“Lovely,” Tristan said, clapping his hands together, his grin spreading like wildfire across his face.
He glanced at the Hunter, who stood like a statue, his eyes never leaving Elara, like he was waiting for the slightest twitch, ready to strike if she so much as blinked wrong.
"Now, can I trust you'll be on your best behavior? "
"Fuck off," Elara snapped, wiping the blood from her nose.
"Right." Tristan turned to the Hunter, raising an eyebrow. "Maybe I should stick around?"
The Hunter's eyes shifted to Tristan, hard as ice. "I can handle her."