Chapter 34 #3
She blinked, once, twice, but her vision seemed to blur around the edges.
Her hands trembled at her sides, curling into fists, nails digging into her palms. She tried to focus, to pull in air, but it felt like every breath caught in her throat.
The low murmur of Sidhe voices grew louder, warping into a dissonant hum in her ears.
"Eilíara."
Her throat constricted, and the room seemed to tilt, narrowing in.
"Eilíara."
Broad, calloused hands cupped her face. Elara flinched, her gaze snapping up to meet a pair of amber eyes. His eyes. Warm, like the sun breaking through a storm, like safety itself.
“Déan anáil, a Eilíara.22”
She gasped, a sharp, ragged breath filling her lungs.
“Go maith. Arís.23”
Reynnar's voice wrapped around her like a shield, firm but soothing, a tether to pull her out of the spiral. So she followed it—one breath, then another, and another, until her heart slowed—until his grip on her loosened.
Her eyes darted across his face, taking in every line, every flicker of emotion, while his hands still cradled her.
How had they endured so much pain? It was all too much.
She wanted to ask him, needed to—wished she could say anything to him.
But the gods, in their infinite cruelty, had stripped that from her too.
They hated her—she was certain of it. Her life, from its beginning, had been nothing but a testament to their contempt, a constant reminder that she was never meant to have anything good.
Of course she wouldn’t have this either.
A sudden shout sliced through the air, freezing the room in place. Elara’s head jerked up, her breath catching as her eyes darted toward the source.
Malak stood rigid near the entrance, his wide eyes fixed on her. His gaze flicked from her to Reynnar and back again, the recognition dawning in slow horror.
Shit.
His face contorted, veins bulging at his neck as he shouted something at her—something venomous, a threat, but the words blurred in her mind.
Elara’s pulse thundered, a dizzying rush of panic surging through her.
Stupid. So stupid. She should have stayed locked in that cell, but she had let fear blind her.
The guards surged forward, a storm of fury and steel, their boots slamming against the stone floor like a rolling thunder that reverberated in the pit of Elara’s stomach.
Her eyes flicked to Caelion the second he moved.
It wasn’t much, just a slight shift, like the surface of a pond catching a breeze—but she felt it.
The quiet authority in the way he stepped in front of her, his broad frame suddenly between her and the guards.
Arms at his sides, not clenched, but ready, like he could tear them apart without even trying. And they stopped.
Then, like the ripple spreading, the others followed. One by one, the Sidhe moved forward, deliberate and steady, forming a protective wall. A barrier. A shield between her and the advancing threat.
Elara’s heart jolted when Reynnar stepped up beside Caelion, his gaze meeting hers for a fraction of a second. Just long enough to make her stomach twist. He turned, eyes hard, ready.
Her thoughts spun as she watched the guards freeze, disbelief clear in their wide eyes.
Not rage—something worse. Shock. They hadn’t expected this.
She hadn’t been in the prison long, but it didn’t take a genius to see how things worked here.
The Sidhe didn’t push back. They moved when told, obeyed without a word, never once raising their heads. No resistance. No fight.
Until now.
Now, Caelion stood like he’d never bent to anyone. His spine straight, unshakable, and the others followed him—slowly at first, like they were remembering what it felt like to stand for something. To stand for themselves.
It was happening. The shift she’d felt creeping closer, the lines being drawn—and they were standing on hers.
Aoife shoved her way through the Sidhe, each movement pulling at the scars that twisted across her back. Her gaze swept over the guards, a sneer curling her lips.
“An é seo an méid atá ag teastáil chun eagla a chur ort?24” She eyed them up and down, disdain dripping from every word. “Go hainnis. Casadh babaithe beaga ní ba chróga orm.24”
And then, as if to punctuate her words, she spat at their feet, the sound cutting in the silence, her eyes daring them—begging them—to make a move.
Malak blinked, like he was just now waking up from the shock, and then he stepped forward, his arm jerking back, ready to strike. But it was in that heartbeat—that fleeting, suspended moment—that Reynnar moved.
No, not moved—exploded.
With a ferocity that seemed to tear from the depths of his soul, he lunged at the guard, a growl tearing from his throat.
It was a sound that spoke of wild, untamed lands, of freedom fought for with tooth and claw, a call of the wild that echoed in the caverns of Elara’s heart, stirring something fierce within her.
But Malak, with a mere flick of his wrist, sent out a gust of ether.
It was a gesture so effortless, yet it unleashed an invisible force that crashed into Reynnar like a tidal wave against a cliff.
Elara's heart lurched as he was flung back, his body a plaything to the whims of Malak's power, crashing to the ground.
And then, as though Reynnar's insolence had been the very signal they’d waited for, the guards converged.
Like a dark tide swelling with intent to drown everything in its path, they gathered around him.
Fists and boots became weapons forged from bone and sinew.
Each one of them was ready—eager, even—to stamp out that flicker of rebellion before it had the chance to ignite into something more.
The scream that ripped from Elara’s throat wasn’t just a sound—it was primal, a desperate howl that cut through the Sidhe like an arrow and shot straight to Malak.
His head snapped toward her, but she was already moving, already tearing through the wall of bodies, shoving past limbs and faces that blurred together.
Her heart pounded in her ears as she forced her way into the circle of guards, fists and boots raining down on Reynnar.
She clamped onto the nearest guard’s arm. A feeble attempt to stop the onslaught, to slow the storm of fists crashing into Reynnar. But it was like trying to hold back the sea with her bare hands, and she was flung back.
The ground rushed up to meet her, knocking the breath from her lungs as her body hit with a force that rattled her bones. Blood bloomed in her mouth, the rusty, pungent tang bursting as her teeth sank into her lip from the impact.
Through the haze of pain, she caught sight of Aoife and Caelion.
Their movements were a dance of fury. Aoife’s teeth found their mark, sinking deep into the guard’s arm—flesh tearing, sinew snapping beneath the force of her bite.
The guard’s cry barely escaped his throat before Caelion struck, his fists a hammer against the man’s body.
Elara’s breaths came in quick, ragged gasps as she watched how their actions ignited the will of those around her.
One after the other, they stepped forward, their movements a symphony of controlled chaos as their bodies melded into the struggle, limbs, and fury intertwining, as they threw themselves against their captors with a desperation born of too many silent grievances.
This wasn't just a fight, but an uprising.
It was a clash of wills, a battle for freedom fought with every ounce of strength they possessed.
Witnessing this, Elara saw not the beaten and broken individuals she had come to know in the dim light of their prison, but a united force of warriors, each fighting not just for their own survival, but for all of them.
Instinct took over before her mind even caught up.
She was on her feet in a heartbeat, the stonebrew pulsing like fire through her veins, steadying her limbs.
Her hand closed around the nearest thing—an abandoned guard’s baton, cold and heavy in her grip.
It didn’t matter. In her hands, it became something more.
It became the manifestation of her fury, her will, and she wielded it without hesitation.
The first guard went down with a crack to the jaw, teeth splintering, a spray of blood following.
The next barely had time to register the blow before her baton smashed into his nose, the sickening crunch fueling the storm raging inside her.
She wasn’t gentle. She wasn’t merciful. Every swing, every crack of bone beneath the baton, was a release. A pathway through the chaos.
But her eyes—they stayed locked on something beyond the blood and violence. Malak. He stood just out of reach, untouched by the storm swirling around her. And that—more than anything—drove her forward.
Bodies clashed and fists flew, but Elara slipped through the violence, her movements fluid, dodging blows that grazed too close, slipping past flailing arms. Her focus was razor-sharp, driven by something deeper, something raw, and all-consuming that swallowed everything else.
His back was to her, oblivious. That mistake was all she needed.
Elara summoned every shred of rage, every piece of herself, and poured it into the swing of her baton.
It cut through the air, connecting with a sickening thud against the side of his face, right at his ear.
He grunted, his body stiffening at the impact, but she didn’t stop.
Couldn’t. Again and again, she struck, pouring every ounce of fury, fear, and desperation into each blow.
Each swing was fueled by the untamed, wild need to make him feel it—every drop of her anger.
Blood gushed from his ear, staining the side of his face, but he spun around, and his hand cracked across her face. A white-hot burst of pain shot through her, exploding in her skull. Her jaw screamed in agony, the impact radiating through her bones as her body stumbled backward.
Malak yanked the baton from her hands, his face twisted with rage.
Elara had no time to brace before the first strike slammed into her ribs, the crack of bone against metal ringing in her ears.
Pain exploded through her side, sending her stumbling back.
But Malak didn’t stop. The baton came down again, this time against her shoulder, the force of it knocking her to the ground.
She gasped, her breath stolen by the blow, and tried to push herself up, but another hit crashed against her thigh, agony shooting down her leg.
The baton whipped through the air with a sickening whoosh, slamming into her side, her back, her arms—anywhere it could find purchase.
Elara curled into herself, trying to protect what she could, but it was no use.
A savage blow landed against her spine, forcing a scream from her lips, her body arching involuntarily from the impact.
She closed her eyes, feeling the dirt that clung to her sweat-drenched skin as she shook against the earth.
Every nerve screamed, every muscle tensed, but then—it all stopped.
The blows ceased, but the darkness remained.
It was different now, heavier, more real, pressing in from every side like something solid.
She cracked her eyes open, barely a sliver, and a harsh shard of light sliced through the shadows, cutting her vision in two.
A gasp tore from her throat, not from the pain she expected, but from the sight in front of her.
Reynnar. His body draped over hers, a shield.
Every inch of him soaked up the violence meant for her, his fangs bared in a snarl.
Bruises bloomed across his skin, deep purple and sickly green under the flickering light, glistening with sweat.
Every hit twisted his expression, pain ravaging him, but even in the midst of it all, his eyes—gods, his eyes—they never left hers, cutting through everything: the pain, the chaos, the fear.
Tears burned trails down her cheeks, each one an ode to the tangled mess of sorrow, gratitude, and a deep, gnawing despair within her. In that brief, fragile moment, Elara could almost swear his heartbeat echoed against hers. But then it was ripped away as they dragged him off her.
In seconds, chains—not of iron or steel, but of writhing vines—burst forth from the ground beneath them, binding every captive in the room.
With a mere gesture, Malak reclaimed dominion over the space.
He could have wielded that power from the beginning, Elara realized with a jolt.
They were merely toying with them, likely bored with their routine guard duties and seeking amusement by allowing the captives a glimmer of hope in a fight.
Her fists clenched as she took in the smug smirks and heard the mocking cackles of the guards, even as some looked decidedly worse for wear.
“You’ll bleed for that,” Malak bit out. Blood smeared his sneer, dripping from his nose—broken, no doubt, by Reynnar’s fist. It should’ve felt like a win, but any sense of triumph was strangled by the vines ensnaring her, tightening with every twitch, every breath.
Aoife's voice cut across the room. “Bí socair nó gheobhaidh tú do bhascadh!25”
Her words sounded as though she meant to guide and save.
But it only fueled the panic coiling tighter inside Elara.
The vines slithered like snakes, creeping higher, winding around her throat, squeezing until her breath cut off.
Her vision blurred, narrowing to a tunnel, and at the end of it, a raised boot, poised like the final judge and executioner.
The last thing Elara saw before darkness claimed her wasn't the hope of rescue or a face filled with concern—it was Malak, and the boot that swung down to meet the side of her head.