Chapter 31
The great city of Arinthel was… grimy. At least, this part of it was.
The city sprawled across rolling hills and valleys, its expanse interrupted by the jagged silhouettes of towers and spires that pierced the sky. In the distance, the grand domes of the upper city glinted faintly, but here, the splendor was lost beneath layers of soot and grime.
Rain drizzled steadily, dripping from the rooftops, and running in small rivulets down the alley.
The Hunter and Elara walked through the narrow passage, their footsteps muffled by the slick cobblestones.
The streets twisted like veins through the district, a maze of alleys and side passages that seemed designed to confound.
Some alleys narrowed to the width of a doorway, while others opened unexpectedly into small courtyards cluttered with debris.
It was almost as if the buildings were erected without a plan or purpose other than to fill space.
Elara barely noticed the cold rain biting at her skin, the droplets sliding down her face and soaking into her clothes.
The wind tugged at her hair, plastering wet strands against her cheeks.
It didn't matter. She was out—out of the Pit, free from that cursed castle.
For the first time in ages, she could breathe.
The air wasn't fresh—it was heavy with pollution and the scent of the city's underbelly—but it was better than the Pit, better than the stench of spent ether that clung to Mordenhall.
She tugged at the cloak the Hunter had tossed her—one of his spares, thick and worn, smelling faintly of clove and earth. He’d rifted them out of the castle with ease, pulling her through the strange nothingness between worlds, only to stop just outside the city.
She had asked him why, and his answer had been simple, almost bored—he was one of the few allowed access to rift into Mordenhall, a privilege granted by Osin himself.
But the city was different. Arinthel was the hub of trade, politics, and diplomacy—rifting into the heart of the capital would mean bypassing the checks and balances, allowing people to circumvent the rules that kept the city running smoothly.
Osin couldn’t risk that. None of its residents could.
The city's power structure was too fragile for that kind of ether to run rampant. It wasn’t about keeping people safe—it was about keeping power in the right hands.
Elara had no clue how it all worked, but it fascinated her.
She’d always thought the capital was drowning in power and wealth, that it dripped from the walls, that everyone inside was living in excess.
But that had been another lie. Maybe it was only a select few.
Osin’s inner circle. The ones close enough to him to hoard it all while the rest of the city fought for crumbs.
The necklace the Hunter had made for her bounced lightly against her chest as they turned into another alley, his pace steady but carrying that quiet tension she’d come to expect from him.
Elara stayed close, her mind half lost in the misty rain, half still spinning from everything she’d learned when he stopped—so suddenly she almost collided into him.
Before she could ask, his hand was on her shoulder, firm but gentle, guiding her back around the corner they’d just turned. Her heart skipped a beat. “What—?”
“A checkpoint. They’re verifying totems.”
Elara’s pulse kicked. “I don’t have one,” she whispered.
His gaze flicked to hers. “I know.” His jaw tightened as he scanned the alley ahead. “Stick close. Don’t make a sound,” he muttered, already moving.
They slipped through the back door of an empty warehouse, the heavy wood groaning as it swung shut behind them.
The scent of rust and mold filled the air, mingling with the faint tang of old machinery.
Puddles had formed where the ground dipped, reflecting the sparse light that managed to seep through boarded-up windows.
The only sound was the soft scuff of their footsteps as they moved deeper inside, boots brushing against debris that crunched softly underfoot.
The Hunter didn't say a word as he led her toward a rusted ladder bolted to the far wall.
The iron rungs were slick with rain that had seeped through the cracked skylight above, each bar coated in a thin layer of grime and flecks of peeling paint.
The ladder stretched upward, disappearing into the ceiling where a cracked window beckoned—a jagged hole with shards of glass jutting like teeth.
He barely hesitated before grabbing hold, his movements fluid, climbing with that effortless grace she couldn’t help but envy.
Elara hesitated for a beat, eyeing the ladder warily.
So far, the double dose of Stonebrew had kept her steady, but she didn’t want to push it.
She glanced up at the Hunter, who had stopped, waiting for her.
Sighing, she wiped her palms against her cloak and started climbing.
The cold metal bit into her hands, the chill sinking deep, but she matched each breath to her steps, forcing herself to climb.
Her fingers tightened on the slick rungs, knuckles blanching as she pulled herself higher, the ladder creaking under every shift of weight.
Elara blocked out the burn in her muscles, the dizzying thought of how far she’d fall if she slipped, how the wind whipped her hair into wild strands, stinging her face with every gust.
Her world narrowed to the rungs under her hands and the Hunter’s boots just above her, so close to the roof. Just a little more.
But then her boot slipped, and she was falling.
The Hunter’s hand shot out, lightning-quick, his grip closing around her wrist like iron.
One arm threaded through the ladder, his other steadying her as if he had known—felt the shift in her balance before she had even realized it herself.
Her pulse hammered in her ears, wild and frantic, but when she looked up at him, she swore—just for a breath—that he felt it too.
The panic. The fear surging through her veins.
His gaze flickered, something raw flashing through his eyes, the faint ring of amber glowing like embers in the dark.
Maybe it wasn’t just her...
She closed her eyes, reaching out with her senses, and there it was—his heartbeat.
Steady, powerful, but faster now.
Like her near fall had sent a ripple of something through him as well.
The Hunter bit down on one glove, pulling it off with his teeth before glancing at her. “You get your grip back?”
Elara tightened her hold on the ladder, steadying herself. “Yeah,” she breathed.
Only then did he release her, his other hand pulling off the second glove before handing them both to her. “Put these on.”
She blinked, caught off guard by the gesture. His gloves—still warm from his skin. Something so personal. She snapped out of it. Hooking her arm through the ladder for balance, she took them, slipping them on. They were too big, the fingers loose and awkward, but the grip—they helped.
Then, a warmth spread through her hands, not just the heat left in the gloves, but something else. His ether. A slow, soothing fire winding its way through the leather, shrinking the gloves until they fit her perfectly.
Elara couldn’t bring herself to look at him. The weight of his kindness, from him of all people, was almost too much to make sense of. It was confusing. Unsettling. And she hated how it made her feel vulnerable.
“Good?”
She cleared her throat, still staring at her hands. “Good,” she muttered, her voice quieter than she meant it to be.
They climbed in silence, the world narrowing to the steady rhythm of their ascent, until, at last, they reached the top.
The rain had eased into a fine mist, barely more than a whisper against her skin.
Elara crouched down beside the Hunter at the edge of the roof, the wind biting at her cheeks as they gazed out over the dark sprawl of Arinthel.
Above, the sky was a ribbon of indigo, stars obscured by drifting clouds.
From somewhere distant came the sound of a bell tolling the late hour.
Below, the streets were veined with flickers of torchlight—Legionnaires, hundreds of them, their fire weaving faint threads of gold through the shadowed city.
Elara bit her lip, the rain cool and metallic on her tongue. “Which direction?”
“Just over there,” the Hunter said, pointing to a narrow passage where the edges of a market came into view. "The stalls are packed in tight, which means plenty of cover. We stay low, move fast. No one will see us in the crowd.”
Elara nodded, the damp weight of his cloak pulling at her shoulders. "Then what?"
He glanced sidelong at her, his eyes not vacant as usual, but not quite revealing any clear emotion, either—perhaps a glimmer of scrutiny if she had to peg it.
Raindrops clung to his lashes, trailing down the sharp planes of his face, but he seemed indifferent to the cold seeping through their clothes.
"Then, Hallowed, we meet with a friend."
She let out a derisive snort. "I didn't know you had those."
It was a half-truth. She knew Tristan counted as his friend, but the idea of him engaging in anything resembling normalcy remained an oddity to her.
He went quiet, the silence stretching between them filled only by the rhythmic drumming of rain. After a long pause, his voice came again, softer this time, rougher around the edges. "I don’t have many. Not ones who last."
Elara’s throat tightened, something uncomfortably heavy settling inside her chest. She watched a droplet slide off his jawline, disappearing into his cloak.
The vulnerability in his admission caught her off guard.
"I don’t either," she admitted softly, her gaze dropping to the puddles forming at their feet.