Chapter 33 #3
“For information, and your discretion,” she replied.
The shame of it hit her immediately. But she was desperate, and there was no point pretending otherwise.
Her hand found a jagged rock on the floor, and she pricked her finger, wincing at the sting.
She could only hope the Hunter wouldn’t sense it.
She held out her hand, watching as the small bead of crimson welled up on her fingertip. “Where is Reynnar?”
The guard’s eyes stayed glued to her finger, transfixed. “He’s… with the others,” he mumbled, never pulling his gaze from the crimson bead. “They’re gathering them for the next extraction.”
Elara’s stomach twisted. “Where?”
“The third tunnel,” he finally answered, his eyes flickering up to meet hers for a brief moment. “That’s where they conduct the alchemical work. Perform the trials.”
A dull throb pulsed behind her eyes, the pressure mounting with each second. Extraction? Trials? Were they torturing the Sidhe right now? What was Osin doing to them?
Her eyes burned with tears but she forced her expression to remain neutral. She couldn’t let him see how close she was to breaking. “How long until he’s back?”
The guard shrugged, his eyes back on her finger. “Could be days. Usually takes about a week.”
“When did the trials begin?”
“A few days back.”
Elara swallowed hard, piecing the timeline together. She’d been gone for six days—Reynnar must have been taken right after her.
“Can I see him?”
The guard blinked, as if snapping out of a trance. He shook his head. “Not until the trials are done. Then he’ll be sent back.”
Elara nodded, her finger throbbing with each pulse. “Where’s Godfrey?”
The guard frowned. “Who?”
“The Lord Sovereign’s former healer.”
His brows drew together, clearly irritated. “How the hell should I know?”
Elara clenched her jaw, teeth aching as she ground them together. The guard stepped closer, sweat and iron thickening the air between them. She exhaled, resolve faltering, and reached through the bars. To her surprise, her hand slipped through the wards—just far enough for her fingers to pass.
The guard wasted no time. His rough, calloused hand clamped down on her wrist as he yanked her closer, his lips closing around the tiny wound on her finger.
The moment his mouth touched her skin, Elara's stomach churned violently.
His breath was hot and sticky. His eyes fluttered shut, and a soft, guttural sound escaped him as he sucked on her finger like a man starved.
Elara's skin crawled, revulsion rolling through her, every muscle in her body screaming for her to yank her hand back, but she held still, forcing herself to endure it. She tried to focus on anything but the revolting sensation, and then she caught sight of his ring.
The dull quartz embedded in the tarnished band glowed, its surface awakening in soft pulses. The sight of it made something cold curl in her gut.
“That’s enough,” she snapped.
Elara tried to pull her hand free, but his grip tightened. For one sickening moment she thought he wouldn’t let go—then, with a shuddering breath, he released her. His fingers slackened. He blinked, disoriented, as if waking from a dream, and slowly licked his lips.
“If you need help in the future… We can arrange this again.”
Elara forced the bile back, her face carefully neutral. "Maybe," she bit out, her fingers curling into a fist as she drew her hand back.
The guard stumbled away, leaving Elara to collapse against the bars, her body sinking under the weight of exhaustion and shame.
Her skin still crawled from the feel of his lips on her.
She wiped her hand on her cloak, scrubbing at the spot as though she could erase the moment, but the disgust lingered, festering under her skin.
Her mind drifted back to the alley, to the words of the Legionnaires.
Shortages. Withdrawals. They needed her blood.
For more than just the Convergence. Why?
Her thoughts spun, circling back to Fenlin, to the Script Keepers.
Was that all they had wanted from her? Just her blood?
Had everything been as simple—and as brutal—as that?
Elara dragged herself toward the cot, each movement sending fresh stabs of pain through her body, harsh enough to draw a cry from her lips.
Her muscles trembled, too weak to pull her up.
With a frustrated sigh, she grabbed the blanket instead, crumpling it onto the cold stone floor.
It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.
Curling into herself, she tried to block out the pain, her eyes slipping shut, when something rippled across the opposite side of the cell.
Her heart lurched as she pushed herself up on trembling arms. The ripple grew, and something thin and pale floated through.
Parchment? She blinked, incredulous, as it drifted toward her.
With shaking hands, she snatched the note from the air and unfolded it; a pencil rolled free.
Elegant, precise script stretched across the page.
“Summoning me already? You’re impatient. I’ve got a few loose ends to tie up. Think you can refrain from acquiring more injuries until I’m finished?”
So, he had felt it. A few loose ends? She shuddered, the memory of him cutting down his men flashing vividly in her mind. She didn’t envy anyone who met that kind of end. With a sigh, she grabbed the pencil, and scribbled her response, her fingers trembling slightly.
“Considering I don’t have working legs at the moment, I’d say I’m done collecting injuries for the day.” She paused, biting her lip, then added, “And for the record, I wasn’t summoning you. I’m just clumsy, not desperate. How exactly did you manage to get through the wards in my cell?”
Elara rolled up the note, tucked the pencil inside, and studied the ripple in the air. After a moment’s hesitation, she crawled closer and pushed the parchment through. Then she waited.
A minute passed. Her curiosity got the better of her, and she poked a finger through the ripple.
A shock of ice ripped through her.
Elara cursed under her breath, but before she could dwell on it, the parchment slipped back through. She unrolled it, finding the familiar elegant handwriting again.
“I made some adjustments last time. Now I can rift directly to you. Also, are you absolutely certain you’re not desperate?”
Elara narrowed her eyes at the note, only for her gaze to catch on three vials floating in front of her—Stonebrew.
Pyrewarmth. Sleeping draught. Her fingers trembled as they closed around the glass.
Relief hit her so hard she almost sobbed.
She didn’t think. Just uncorked and swallowed them all in rapid succession.
The Stonebrew worked its magic first, sliding through her veins, calming the violent tremors in her limbs.
The Pyrewarmth followed, sending a rush of heat from her core, radiating to her fingertips, her toes—gods, she could actually feel them again.
And the sleeping draught was a gentle tug, a sweet lull that dragged at her eyelids.
Her breath steadied, chest no longer tight, and she scribbled a hasty response on the note, “Arrogant prick.” With a flick of her wrist, she shoved it back through the rip in reality, already feeling the pull of sleep as her body hit the cot.
Warmth. Strength. Comfort. Things she hadn’t felt in… gods, how long had it been?
As she curled into the blankets, sleep already pulling her under, something like laughter echoed in her mind—a low rumble that might’ve been real, might’ve been imagined. It didn’t matter.
For once, everything was quiet.