Chapter 48
Cold bit into Elara’s knees, her freshly scrubbed skin raw against the polished floor of the throne room. Every shift sent fresh pain up her legs, muscles trembling—but she didn’t move. Not with twenty guards standing watch, eyes fixed on her like she was a cornered animal, waiting to bolt.
What is taking so long?
She kept her gaze forward, but Osin’s onyx throne lingered in her periphery, its smooth black surface catching the flicker of torchlight.
Empty. Cold.
A jagged monument to the power crushing them all.
She shut her eyes, but the image clung—like everything else in this cursed room. When she’d first entered, her gaze had swept past the throne, searching the ranks of guards for Dario.
He wasn’t there.
Only a sea of hard, unfamiliar faces.
After bathing and dressing her in a gown far too perfect for what was coming, they told her to wait. So, she had waited. And waited. Each second dragging, pressing down on her until it felt unbearable.
She was meant to return shattered—a broken thing stripped of pride, barely surviving days on the run: fleeing a Cailleach across the wilds of Latheria, a week in the Hunter’s grasp.
But how, in the gods’ names, was she supposed to act?
Like you’ve been hunted. Like your spirit’s been trampled to dust.
A flicker of unease crawled up her spine, a warning hiss from some primal part of her. If Osin saw through the deception it would unravel everything they’d worked for, everything they’d set in motion.
One slip, and it would be over before it even began
Her entire body stiffened, every nerve drawn tight as the grand iron doors groaned open, the sound dragging through the chamber.
She couldn’t see who entered, not from where she knelt, but the footsteps—slow, measured—echoed behind her, each one a hammer to her nerves.
She fought the instinct to turn. Forced herself to breath.
Then, from the corner of her eye, Osin appeared. His pale hair was slicked back with meticulous care, not a strand out of place. Immaculate robes draped his narrow frame, his expression cool, indifferent—as if the moment bored him.
Another figure stood beside him, wrapped in the deep crimson of the Soothsayers, the fabric flowing like fresh blood across the polished floor. Elara’s breath caught as the figure turned, and her control slipped for a heartbeat.
Branwen.
“Hallowed,” Osin said, looking down his nose at her. “Lovely as ever to see you. I believe you’re already acquainted with this young man?” He gestured toward Branwen, a cruel gleam in his pale eyes. “He’s expressed interest in replacing poor Godfrey, after that… unpleasantness.”
The rage hit her like a flame to oil, burning through her veins.
“But I don’t expect we'll have the same issues with Branwen here.” Osin smiled, serpentine. “He’s quite eager to serve, aren’t you, acolyte?”
Branwen nodded stiffly, his dark hair falling over his eyes, “Yes, my lord.”
Osin turned to her then. “I expect your best behavior tonight, none of your usual tricks.” He took a step closer, forcing Elara to lift her chin. “I can count on you, can’t I? To be a good girl?”
Her teeth clenched, bile rising in her throat. She held his gaze a beat too long, defiance burning in her chest, before looking away.
“There’s my girl,” Osin purred, yanking her upright as shadows coiled tight and held her fast. With a snap of his fingers, the shadows lifted her, just enough that her toes skimmed the ground.
“We’re going to have another rite today.
Now, I know it hasn’t been three months, but I thought, why wait?
You’re here, after all. Might as well make the most of it. ”
Elara’s heart slammed against her ribs, each beat a heavy thud that roared in her ears. But her body wasn’t her own anymore, just a lifeless weight as Osin dragged her through the twisting corridors.
The Grand Hall came into view—long, gleaming tables stretched endlessly, laden with glistening meats, overflowing fruits, and rich pastries that shimmered under the warm glow of chandeliers.
But it wasn’t the feast that stole her breath.
It was the faces around the tables—they were the real spectacle.
The High Lords sat with their families, draped in silk and fur. Opulence clung to them—crowns gleaming, jewels heavy at their throats—but none of it softened the viperous glint in their eyes. Every gaze fixed on her, watching, waiting.
Whatever drove that attention had nothing to do with the feast before them.
“A little treat for my most loyal,” Osin announced to the crowd as they moved further into the room.
A chorus of murmurs rippled, heads dipping in demure gratitude. But one head caught her attention—chocolate brown waves that fell just so, lifting from a bow as his gaze landed squarely on hers.
Tristan.
He sat there like he belonged. And, she supposed, he did.
She had always known he held a rank, a status high enough to be on a first-name basis with the king, to win a night with the ‘Hallowed’ if he wanted.
But what really struck her was who he was sitting beside: Chancellor Vellon.
The resemblance was impossible to ignore now—the angular jawline, the haughty set of their mouths.
How hadn’t she pieced it together before?
Vellon was his father.
To Tristan’s left sat another surprise—Lady Calista Thorne. She spoke with effortless poise, as if this were nothing more than idle gossip over tea. She barely glanced at Elara, her gaze sliding past her like she was part of the décor.
Tristan was different. His eyes burned into hers as if trying to say something—then, just as quickly, he looked away. His expression smoothed as he turned to acknowledge whoever had spoken to him.
Osin glided to the head of the table and settled into his seat, folding his hands over the polished surface. “Go on, Branwen.”
Shadows seized Elara, dragging her down and forcing her to her knees beside the table—placed just far enough back for everyone to see. Shame burned hot beneath her skin.
Beside her, Branwen’s expression tightened as he watched her pinned to the floor. His hand twitched, lifting as if he might act—then stilled, fingers curling back.
Elara flicked a glance at Osin from beneath her lashes.
His perfect smile faltered, just enough for the corner of his mouth to twitch.
“Do your duty, acolyte, or I will find someone else who can.”
Branwen’s throat bobbed as he lifted his trembling hand. A gust of wind tore through the room, snapping against her wrists like fractured ice. Elara squeezed her eyes shut, biting hard into her cheek—then felt warmth spill over her hands, blood pooling beneath her.
She blinked her eyes open, vision swimming, and looked up at the faces looming above. They watched like vultures over fresh prey, eyes gleaming with a twisted fascination she knew too well.
But not Tristan. Not Calista. They leaned close, heads bowed, murmuring.
Hope stirred in Elara’s chest. Tristan had promised to speak to Calista about her—was that what he was doing now?
Osin lifted his goblet, swirling the dark wine before taking a slow sip, his gaze never leaving hers. When he lowered it, crimson stained his teeth, a smile twisting at his mouth.
Branwen carried on in silence, siphoning ether from her blood into waiting vials. The drain left her weak, strength bleeding away by the second. Through the haze, she clung to the low murmur at the table—the High Lords dining and debating as if nothing were amiss.
As if she weren’t kneeling there, bleeding at their feet.
Snippets of conversation drifted toward her—ether shortages in the western provinces… Yes, more soldiers have gone missing in the north… Trade routes disrupted, patrols stretched thin… The king’s latest military campaign, the push to secure the borderlands, their forces already spread too far.
It was all politics and war, the cold calculus of power.
The kind of talk that decided the fate of realms. This was how kingdoms rose and fell—not in grand battles, but in quiet rooms like this, where decisions were made over feasts and wine, where the game was played with lives, and no one at the table ever got their hands dirty.
Movement snapped her focus back to Osin. He rose, robes whispering once before the room went still. Without a word, he crossed to Branwen and lifted a filled vial. The air held as he moved down the table, tipping a single drop of her blood into each goblet, the dark swirl vanishing into the wine.
She wanted to look away, to shut her eyes against the sickening sight, but she couldn’t. A cold inevitability washed over her as each lord raised their glass.
“Drink,” Osin crooned, “and let the rewards of your loyalty flow through your veins.”
At his command, they obeyed, lifting their goblets in unison. Elara’s stomach twisted as she watched her blood vanish down their throats without hesitation, treated like a rare vintage—something familiar, savored, undeserving of a second thought.
Why?
The question tore through her, relentless. Her whole life, she’d been told her blood was meant only for the Convergence—to bridge a caster to an element. But now she saw the cracks in that lie, the pieces that didn’t add up. The shortages. The withdrawals.
Osin’s eyes locked onto hers from across the room, his smile faltering the moment their gazes collided.
The anger simmering just beneath her skin must have been written all over her face, a challenge she didn’t bother to hide.
His expression hardened, and that cold, familiar menace settled over his face.
It was the kind of look that usually sent her gaze darting away, spine curling under his unspoken threat. But not this time.
He stood. The blue of his eyes vanished into an endless void, leaving behind something inhuman—something deadly.
Elara's pulse thundered in her ears, a frantic drum signaling danger, every instinct screaming at her to break the connection, lower her gaze and cloak herself in the mask of subservience she had worn too many times before.
But with every agonized breath that rasped in her throat, she vowed silently, fiercely; she would not grant him a show of weakness.
No, let him choke on his wicked feast, let him find her spirit indigestible, a morsel too stubborn to swallow down. Let her mettle be the bone that lodged itself in her throat, her resilience the flavor that soured upon his tongue.
A faint twitch in his eye was all the warning she received.
His shadows erupted, coiling through the air, a blur of black that sent a ripple of screams across the room.
Chairs scraped against stone as people scrambled back—but Elara didn’t flinch. She lifted her chin, teeth clenched, refusing to give Osin the satisfaction of fear.
Then the grip closed around her wrists. Cold. Crushing. Shadows coiled tighter, forcing her veins open as blood spilled down her arms.
Pain detonated—sharp, absolute—like ice ripping through her marrow, spreading with every heartbeat. The world swam, darkness creeping in as something heavier than pain, colder than fear, crashed over her.
Death.
It pressed close, whispering of stillness. The room blurred into distant noise—rustling, shouts—until only Osin remained. His head tilted, curiosity flickering.
Elara sagged as black swallowed her sight.
Her breath hitched as all-consuming night stretched out in every direction, but this time, the chill crawling over her skin wasn’t enough to fool her. She knew she was dreaming.
To her left, a faint glow flickered—sickly, wrong, like light that had forgotten what warmth was supposed to feel like.
It whispered to her, just as it had before.
Every step she took felt like an act of treachery against her own sense of reason, a submission to a force far beyond her will. Even so, she kept going.
In the distance, there was another light, smaller, weaker.
But the Hunter's light burned.
The veil between their minds felt paper-thin now, and the air shifted.
A rush of icy cold swept over her skin, stealing her breath, freezing it in her throat as she came to an abrupt stop. She reached out, but the connection slipped through her fingers.
And then she felt him.
Elara turned, but there was no one there. Just that familiar, steady presence. The beat of his heart unmistakable.
His voice came, echoing softly, wrapping around her like smoke.
“Where are you?”
“The Grand Hall,” she whispered into the darkness.
She closed her eyes, feeling him draw closer.
“I can barely feel your heart,” he murmured, concern threading his voice—and only then did exhaustion crash over her, dragging her deeper into the dark.
“Where are you?”
The question was barely a thread in the air, dissolving the moment it left her. But even as it unraveled, she felt the pull—like that thread was tugging back, drawing closer, tightening around her.
“I’m already here,” he said, so close now that his words seemed to brush against her skin. “Open your eyes.”