Chapter 37 #2
She hurried after him, boots tapping. He stopped without warning, and she nearly collided with him. He rubbed the back of his neck, stiff and uncertain.
“Are you hungry?”
“Uh, yeah,” she said, her voice betraying her surprise. Always hungry. The nagging ache had become a constant companion ever since she’d been thrown into that cell.
His shoulders tensed, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I don’t have any food.”
“Oh.” Does he not eat?
A beat of silence.
“I’ll get you some. After.”
“Okay, thanks,” she said, unsure of what else to say.
He dipped his chin and without another word, they continued down the long, decrepit hallway.
Doors lined the walls, each one leading to rooms she mentally cataloged—parlor, drawing room, something else probably equally fancy and equally dusty.
Too many rooms for one person, but all of them bore the same story: a place forgotten by time, abandoned to its own decay.
The kitchens, when they passed by, looked like they hadn’t seen food—or a living soul—in years.
Finally, the hallway opened up into a large receiving room. At the far end stood a set of tall wooden doors. The Hunter stepped ahead, pushing them open, and the moment they swung wide, Elara’s breath caught in her throat.
It was a library—yes, but not just any library.
This was a cathedral, a holy place dedicated not to gods but to knowledge.
Books—so many books—surrounded her, immense shelves of them curving around the room in a circle, rising like mountains.
Between them, floor-to-ceiling windows arched gracefully into a magnificent stained-glass dome.
The light filtering through painted the floor in a kaleidoscope of colors—gold, blue, and ruby that shifted with each cloud passing overhead.
She moved slowly, reverently, her steps soft on the marble floor, afraid to disturb the hush.
It was like stepping into a painting, one of those grand scenes from an old master where everything was still and perfect and awash in light.
And as she walked, the colors danced across her skin, played in her hair.
Elara felt something awaken inside her—a wild, keen joy mixed with an insatiable hunger to devour every page in this temple.
From where she stood, she could already tell this room was overflowing with texts she’d never been allowed to read, let alone touch. They practically hummed with possibility. Not like the carefully censored collection she’d been granted back in Verdara.
A thrill shot through her, the kind of excitement that only came from the idea of getting her hands on something she shouldn't have access to.
“You’re drooling,” his voice was low, laced with dry amusement.
“I’m not,” she shot back, though she discreetly wiped her mouth just in case.
The Hunter arched a brow, the barest hint of a smirk pulling at his lips, his brooding mood evaporating as if it had never been there. “Right. If I wasn’t standing here, you’d be rolling around in those stacks like a puppy.”
Elara lifted her chin, giving him her best unimpressed stare. “Just because you probably use these books as doorstops doesn’t mean I won’t treat them with respect.”
He gave her a strange look, the hint of a frown creasing his brow before he turned away, sauntering deeper into the library.
He made his way to the massive desk in the center of the room, lazily clearing away a pile of scrolls with a careless wave of his hand, like they were nothing more than discarded scraps. Typical.
She drummed her fingers against her side, trying desperately to focus on something, anything, other than him. Her gaze landed on a portrait resting on the corner of his desk, drawing her in before she could stop herself.
“Your family?”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him stiffen—just a fraction, but it was enough to confirm what she already suspected.
In the painting, a striking woman with silver hair that fell like a waterfall stood beside a man whose deep mahogany skin contrasted sharply with his vivid eyes—one a blazing blue, the other a deep brown.
Two young boys flanked them. The older one, even as a child, had the same sharp cheekbones and mismatched eyes that marked him unmistakably as a young Thane.
His features were so distinct, so familiar, and Elara had to force herself to shove down the surge of memories that threatened to rise to the surface.
She glanced back at the Hunter, his gaze still fixed on the portrait, as though he was a thousand miles away.
“I didn’t see Thane in the Pit.”
It wasn’t a question. Not really.
Without sparing her a glance, he replied, “That’s because he isn’t in the Pit.”
Elara fiddled with the fabric of her dress, turning his words over in her mind.
She hadn’t actually believed Thane was there—rumors had been swirling for ages that he’d been banished.
But something about that answer didn’t sit right with her.
If he’d been cast out, where had he gone?
The question burned on her tongue, but she swallowed it, deciding to stick to something less… volatile.
“And your parents?”
The shift was immediate, like a wire pulled taut.
His shoulders drew back, eyes darkening as they locked onto hers, anger rolling off him.
“Let’s get one thing straight.” He bit out the words.
“Being in my home doesn’t give you the right to dig into my past. Stay out of what doesn’t concern you…
unless it’s directly related to our work. ”
He hadn’t flinched when she asked about Thane, hadn’t even batted an eye. But his parents, it seemed, were off limits. Huh.
“Fine,” she muttered, crossing her arms, more curious now than ever.
His nostrils flared as he exhaled sharply. “Good.”
She arched a brow. “By 'work' do you mean to say you've found a way to sever the Draoth Cara or are we researching different options?” Her fingers twitched, aching to reach for the nearest book, but she forced herself to stay still.
He studied her for a beat, clearly debating something, then spoke quietly. “Come here.”
Her guard shot up immediately, but she forced herself to move forward.
The moment she neared the desk, her breath hitched.
He was holding the book—the tome Osin had handed him.
The title stared back at her: Transcendental Bonds.
Bold. Ominous. Her fingers twitched again, nerves prickling beneath her skin.
“Two and a half seals are on you,” he said, voice flat and matter-of-fact. Elara’s gaze snapped to his, confusion and something like alarm flaring in her chest. “I’m going to break my half. See if it helps.”
Her throat tightened. “Why?”
He hesitated for a beat, glancing away before he muttered, “It might help dampen the Draoth Cara. Or at least make it more bearable.”
She narrowed her eyes, nodding slowly. Sure, it made sense, but something in the air felt charged now, heavier than before. “Right,” she said carefully, “But won’t Osin notice?”
He shook his head. “Not unless he digs into it himself, which he won’t. He trusts me enough not to question it.”
“Okay.” She reached for the book, half-expected him to pull it away, to stop her, but he didn’t. Her fingers brushed the worn cover. “What does severing your half entail?”
The Hunter moved closer and Elara's heart thumped an extra beat. He didn’t say anything at first, just opened the book, his fingers flipping through the brittle pages until he landed somewhere in the middle.
He dipped his head as if to say 'go on' and Elara scooted closer, reading.
The act of severing an Echoing Seal is no less treacherous than the creation of one.
Unlike the initial application of the seal, which involves carefully weaving layers of resonance to suppress ethereal power, the act of breaking such a seal is far less precise and considerably more hazardous.
To understand the inherent risks, one must first comprehend the nature of the Echoing Seal itself—a construct that reflects and restrains power through harmonic resonance, tethering the energy not only to the self but to the binder’s will.
An Echoing Seal functions as a constant, echoing suppression—a feedback loop of ethereal energy that mirrors and dampens the bound power’s natural state.
Over time, this resonance becomes deeply ingrained, almost symbiotic in nature, making its removal akin to tearing apart the very fabric of one’s soul.
Severing the seal, therefore, is not merely the destruction of a bond but the destabilization of an intricate system designed to regulate and control volatile energy.
The primary danger in breaking such a seal lies in the unpredictability of the power it contains.
Power, once constrained, does not dissipate; rather, it accumulates, often in unpredictable ways.
Upon the removal of an Echoing Seal, this repressed energy may not return to its prior, dormant state but instead may surge uncontrollably.
The power, having been forcibly muted for an extended period, can manifest violently, presenting a significant risk of cognitive, emotional, and even physical destabilization.
The consequences of such a release may range from the fragmentation of the wielder’s consciousness to a complete dissolution of their ethereal cohesion.
Elara couldn't take it anymore. With a sharp snap, she slammed the book shut, the sound echoing through the room.
“Isn't there an easier way to get us both killed?” She threw him an exaggerated glance, pretending to peer under his cloak. “Why not just pull out that shiny weapon of yours and slit our throats now? It’d save us a lot of trouble.”
"Keep going."
Elara huffed, rolling her eyes, but she flipped the book open again.