Chapter 44
Slowly, the thread began to loosen, delicate and glimmering, a current of energy pulsing between them.
Elara matched her breath to the Hunter’s, her inhales and exhales syncing with the rhythm of his chest. She focused on the thread, feeling its pull but refusing to yank, instead coaxing it, guiding it with care, unraveling the tangled edges with the gentlest touch.
Each frayed strand she found, she carefully rewove, connecting new threads, building new links where there had been breaks.
Blood trickled from her nose and sweat pricked at her brow despite the cold wind whipping against her back.
Every ounce of focus, every fragment of energy, poured into the delicate balance of unraveling and rethreading.
The sheer effort—controlling the flow, pulling without pulling too much—left her breathless, her skin damp with strain.
After days of practicing, something finally clicked.
She could feel it now, the subtle differences woven within the link—elements pulsing with their own distinct rhythms. It had taken time, and the Hunter's connection to all four only added layers of complexity she hadn’t anticipated.
But today, at last, she could separate them, could feel their individual signatures.
Earth was the strongest—steady, unmoving, a deep, slow thrum.
Fire came next, a wild, crackling heat she could almost feel sparking at the edges of the thread.
Water was smoother, flowing like a cool current slipping between the others, weaving in and out like a river cutting through stone.
And air danced at the surface—elusive and free, always shifting, never still.
Surprisingly, once she mastered the slightest bit of control, the Hunter allowed her to practice whenever she liked throughout the day.
The first time she tried it without warning him, however, he practically leapt out of his skin, muttering something about needing a bit of notice before she decided to burrow inside his chest.
He still didn’t trust her casting indoors—not after the last two…
three incidents. This morning, he had her working with the wind again, insisting she had a natural affinity for it.
Elara hadn’t had the heart to correct him.
She wasn’t about to admit that she’d stolen the spell, taken it from somewhere she definitely wasn’t supposed to.
And she certainly wasn’t going to mention how she’d been rifling through his things to find it in the first place.
No, that little detail was staying firmly buried.
“Move the fallen leaves around us,” he instructed.
“You haven't given me a spell.”
“You don’t need a spell. Ether bends to your will, not just your words. Spells are for precision. But right now—focus on the wind, feel the leaves. Move them.”
It should have been simple. But simple, she was learning, was much harder than brute force.
The precision it took to unweave the air thread, to pull just enough energy without letting it spiral out of control—it required an almost maddening level of focus.
The leaves barely stirred, a pathetic twitch, yet the strain ran deep, all the way to her bones.
The Draoth Cara beneath her skin hummed, whispering for more. Always more.
But water kept tugging at her this morning, slipping through the threads each time she tried to pull on the wind.
It moved as if it had a mind of its own, weaving through the strands, and insistently brushing against her senses, almost as though demanding her attention.
She’d push it back, trying to reweave it into the main thread, only for it to return, persistent and unruly.
“Focus,” the Hunter grumbled. Mornings were always a challenge with him—Tristan had warned her about that—but Elara had figured out that if he had his tea before lessons, he was at least marginally tolerable.
Today, though, he had skipped breakfast, and the bags under his eyes indicated he hadn’t slept either.
There was a restless energy rolling off him.
He was still wound tight, still reeling from the night before—another failed attempt to tear that thing—whatever it was—out of her.
Parasite.
That’s what she called it, though she didn’t really know what it was. All she knew was that every time the Hunter got too close, it struck back, as if it had a mind of its own. And each time she opened her eyes afterward, those dark, twisting vines had crawled a little farther across his eyes.
He’d barely spoken—just vanished in that infuriating way of his, rifting out without a backward glance. She’d almost asked where he was going, but his foul mood that morning had stopped her.
Still, he hadn’t forgotten. Every night, without fail, a dose of Stonebrew and a sleeping draught waited on her bedside table.
She didn’t think she needed them anymore.
Her muscles had mostly recovered, just as Saria promised; a few days of rest had worked wonders.
She’d told him as much—reassured him she was fine, that the brews weren’t necessary.
But every night, they were still there. Small, unspoken gestures he never acknowledged, as if he didn’t want her to dwell on them.
As if he didn’t want her to think he cared.
She saved the Stonebrew, hiding it away for her return to the Pit. She had no idea what awaited her there—but she intended to be ready.
The sleeping draught, though—she had to admit—it was nice. It pulled her into dreamless sleep, quiet and empty, no more spiraling thoughts. After hours spent practicing Tírrísh and secretly poring over his journal, it was a relief she hadn’t known she needed.
Every night, like clockwork, he would disappear—off to do whatever it was he did—and she would sneak back into the library, working on her translations until her eyes burned from exhaustion.
The draught was the only thing that kept her from collapsing under the weight of it all she intended to accomplish.
But if Elara were being honest with herself, she suspected the sleeping draught wasn’t just for her but for him, too.
He didn’t want to see her in the dreamspace; he didn’t want any awkward, unintentional run-ins.
Dreamless sleep meant no shared dreams, no strange moments where they ended up together without meaning to.
He was keeping things distant.
Clean.
And, frankly, she understood why. It made everything less complicated because the gods knew their waking hours were already tangled enough.
Truthfully, she wasn’t even sure he slept at all. Wherever he vanished to at night kept him occupied until dawn—she heard his footsteps in the halls just as first light broke, every morning without fail. He always seemed angry, though she couldn’t quite tell why.
And if there was one thing Elara couldn’t stand, it was people who spread their foul moods like contagion.
You’re angry? Fine. But keep it to yourself. She wasn’t anyone’s emotional punching bag. There was a baseline of decency she believed the world should operate by, and today, the Hunter was failing spectacularly—short-tempered, silent, brooding.
An absolute wet blanket.
Which, actually, gave her an idea.
Without thinking, Elara yanked the water thread. A heartbeat later, the Hunter was drenched. He gasped, sputtering—and when she opened her eyes, she nearly doubled over. He looked like a soaked cat, wide-eyed and utterly stunned.
Laughter burst from her before she could stop it. It echoed once—and then his eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. Immediate regret hit her full force.
Elara sprang to her feet and bolted.
Because, obviously, running would save her.
The ground shifted beneath her almost instantly, waves of earth rippling under her feet.
She barely managed to leap over one before the wind kicked up, pushing her back.
She could hear him gaining on her, his footsteps heavy and determined.
In a last-ditch effort, she tugged at his wind thread, breaking through the gale with a triumphant grin—for all of one second—before he tackled her from behind.
They hit the ground hard, the breath knocked clean out of her. Before he could pin her down, Elara scrambled, grabbing a fistful of dirt and slammed it into his face.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snarled, wiping furiously at his eyes.
She couldn’t stop it—a wild, breathless laugh burst out of her.
“Quite a bit, actually.”
He let out a string of curses, one after the other, and honestly, she was almost impressed by his sheer creativity. Then, with a deep, exasperated huff, he rolled off her, and flopped onto the ground, glaring at the sky as if it had personally offended him.
Elara’s breaths came in shaky bursts as she watched pale morning light filter through the clouds. For a moment, happiness flickered—warm, weightless. Then it faded, leaving a hollow ache in its wake. The smile she’d been holding unraveled, bit by bit, until it was simply gone.
The sky felt too big, too endless, and for a brief moment, it pressed down on her. Her stomach twisted, panic spreading as a lump formed in her throat, refusing to go away no matter how hard she swallowed.
Everything she had learned—everything still left to do—felt like it was piling up faster than she could manage.
No matter how hard she pushed, it never felt sufficient.
She wasn’t learning fast enough. The parasite still lurked beneath her skin, and her control over the Draoth Cara was shaky at best. They were likely weeks—weeks—away from mastering the spell to guide them through the Void’s currents.
Weeks when they had only hours.
The Hunter exhaled beside her, the sound heavy, almost resigned, like he’d made the decision to let her off the hook—at least for now. She could sense the anger draining out of him, leaving behind only exhaustion.
“You know, normal people don’t solve their problems by throwing dirt in someone’s face.”
She turned her head to look at him. “Normal people don’t spend their mornings grumbling like an old man and acting like they’ve never heard of breakfast.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I was trying to teach you something, in case you missed that. You’re supposed to be practicing control—not hurling soil at me like a child.”
“Or maybe you’re just irritated that my unpredictable methods caught you off guard,” she quipped, a small smirk on her lips.
He arched a brow. “Unpredictable? That’s the word you’re going with?”
Elara turned away, hiding her smile. She shifted her weight, starting to push herself up, when something cold and gritty smacked her in the face.
She gasped, inhaling a mouthful of dirt, sputtering as her gaze snapped to him.
And there he was—grinning. Not just any grin, but a full, unapologetic, infuriating smile that made her stomach flip.
He stood, brushing off his trousers. “You might actually be onto something with those unpredictable methods of yours.”
Elara glared at him, lips pressed into a thin line, but he only grinned wider. “You know,” he drawled, “I’ve always thought you looked better with a little dirt on you.”
Before she could snap back, he crouched and brushed his thumb over her nose, wiping away a speck of dirt. She stopped breathing.
“Filthy suits you.”
Her glare deepened, but he only laughed, straightening.
He turned on his heel and strode toward the manor, his parting words lingering in the air like a challenge.
For a moment, she just sat there, dirt clinging to her skin, sinking into her thoughts, her boots, her hair.
Her mind raced, teetering between irritation and—gods, something else, something warmer, twisting tight in her chest. She shook her head, refusing to acknowledge it, biting back the laugh that threatened to spill out.
Elara scrambled to her feet, brushing dirt from her cheeks as she hurried after him, that unwelcome warmth settling deep inside her.