Chapter 49
Elara’s eyes flew open, the world around her a blur of shifting shadows and flickering light.
Her pulse thudded dully in her ears. She blinked again, and Tristan’s face swam into view. His expression was tight with focus, brow furrowed as he worked over her.
A cool, soothing pressure brushed her wrists, like mist skimming still water. Elara’s gaze dropped—Tristan’s hands hovered there, a glow tracing her skin. His ether pulsed through her in a steady rhythm, knitting flesh as if it had never been torn.
Tristan.
He was risking everything by healing her, and she wanted to scream for him to stop—to run—but no sound came.
Then muffled voices cut through the haze.
The Hunter.
“They’ve breached the northern border,” he said, voice clipped and cold. “Faster than we anticipated. Two outposts already wiped out. If we don’t reinforce the ridge, the whole stretch from the river to the foothills will be theirs before the next full moon.”
The air in the chamber seemed to grow heavier, a ripple of unease passing through the council like a chill wind.
A few leaned in close to the Lord Sovereign, speaking in hushed tones, their words lost to the room but the stress clear in their furrowed brows.
One by one, they turned and filed out, guards following closely behind, hands resting on their weapons.
Elara's head throbbed as she struggled to focus on what Osin was saying, but then, as if he could sense her attention, Osin's gaze shifted, landing on her.
His expression tightened. “Tristan, my boy. What are you doing?”
Tristan froze, hands suspended, then straightened and stepped back.
“One night with the Hallowed was all it took for you to warm to her?” Osin’s lips pressed together as he glanced at her healed wrists.
Tristan bowed low. “Of course not, my lord. But it would be imprudent to allow her to die. A waste.”
Osin raised an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably.
Then, with a single nod, he spoke. “Quite. I applaud your due diligence.” The praise slid from his lips, smooth and polished, though his eyes held only cold calculation.
“Malak,” his voice cracked through the air like a whip. “Return the Hallowed to her cell.”
Elara barely had a moment to steady herself before Malak strode forward and hauled her to her feet.
Her legs wobbled under the sudden force, but she managed to stay upright.
She shot a glance at the Hunter, but his back remained turned, his head lowered, engrossed in conversation with the remaining High Lords.
She closed her eyes, willing the world around her to fade, and reached through the Draoth Cara, searching for that thread between them.
The pull was faint at first, but then she felt it—the frantic rhythm of his heart, beating against his ribs.
She latched onto it, feeling the pulse in her own veins, and squeezed, just enough for him to notice. A silent thank you.
He had come for her, helped her. Again.
Malak’s grip tightened as he dragged her toward the door. Her body jerked forward, feet stumbling to keep up, but then—shockingly—there was tightness in her own heart, a gentle, answering pressure, a squeeze.
She froze as the realization sank in. He had been able to do it all along—reach through the Draoth Cara, hold her heart in his grasp. He could have broken her with a flicker of thought, could have punished her a hundred times over.
He could have. Should have. But he hadn’t.
Not once.
Her chest felt heavy, the ache spreading like a burn.
Why? Why hadn’t he?
Malak yanked her into the corridor, but her thoughts were far from the cold pull of his hands. She lingered in that hidden space—where their hearts collided, tethered by a bond neither of them had chosen.
The softest mercy, or perhaps the cruelest grace.
It blurred until Elara couldn’t tell if the warmth unfurling inside her chest was healing something broken or feeding the fracture.
She wasn’t sure which scared her more.
The Sidhe were already on their feet when Elara and Malak reached the tunnel, their eyes locked on her as she made her way down the damp, narrow corridor. Malak’s hand pressed against her back, urging her forward with the occasional shove, but she barely noticed, her focus elsewhere—on the others.
As she passed each cell, her voice was a low whisper, barely audible over the steady drip of water from the ceiling. "Bí réidh," she said, her words slipping through the iron bars.
"Bí réidh.”
Be ready.
Because she was going to get them out. And now, she knew how.
Her cell loomed ahead, cold iron waiting, but this time, Malak didn’t need to force her inside. She walked in without resistance, the familiar clang of the bars shutting echoing behind her. Malak’s footsteps faded into the distance as she scanned the darkness, searching for him.
Her gaze settled on Reynnar’s familiar form, standing tall behind the bars.
His broad shoulders were tense, his muscled arms crossed over his chest. And yet, despite his intimidating presence, there was something in the way his gaze softened when it landed on her.
She quickly looked him over, searching for any new bruises, any fresh wounds—but there were none.
“Slán sábháilte fós, an ea?34”
His voice was low, teasing, but there was an edge to it.
Elara’s lips twitched, but she didn’t smile. “Is amhlaidh duit.35”
Reynnar froze for a heartbeat, then slowly, a grin spread across his face, fangs gleaming. That flash of pride, of approval, made her stomach flip.
The weeks in the Pit had stretched endlessly, but one small reprieve had kept Elara grounded—listening to Reynnar speak Tírrísh.
The way the words rolled off his tongue, the patient rhythm of his teaching, gave her something solid to hold onto.
She had practiced whenever she could, fumbling through phrases, and piecing the language together bit by bit.
Then she found the Hunter’s journal, its scrawled phrases and unfamiliar script pulling her into long nights of tracing, memorizing, and drilling the language into her mind.
Her speech was still broken, rough around the edges, but she pushed herself relentlessly, because this wasn’t just about communication anymore.
It was a connection—a way to show Reynnar that she was fighting for the Sidhe, that she saw them.
Every fractured sentence was a declaration, a promise: she wasn’t like the ones who had taken everything from them.
And when Reynnar smiled at her like that it was worth every lost hour of sleep.
“Not bad. Maybe by the time we get out of here, you’ll be fluent. Or at least enough to insult me properly.”
Elara shook her head, only catching half of what he said, but she was almost certain he was teasing her. She stepped closer to the bars that separated them, leaning forward as her fingers curled around the cold iron.
“I need to ask you about the Aelfhenge.”
Reynnar’s grin faltered, the playfulness in his eyes dimming. He moved closer, his broad form almost shadowing her through the bars.
“The gate,” he said, his voice low.
“What can you tell me about it?”
He leaned in, close enough that the bars between them barely seemed to exist. He dipped his head down, his breath warm as it brushed against her ear.
“There are three sets of stones,” he began, the cadence of his voice turning rigid, like he was reciting from some long-buried memory.
“One for each of the goddesses—áine, Rhiannon, Epona. Each is tied to the forces they command: Time, Death, and Life. Their means of traveling through the realms after the Great Divide.”
Elara’s heart raced, her mind scrambling to keep up.
Reynnar seemed to notice her struggle, his words tapering off as he studied her face. He waited, that familiar flicker of patience she’d come to know well, until she nodded for him to continue.
"Their stones were positioned based on their domains, calculated to align with the lay lines of the earth, the places where reality thinned, where the boundaries of our world and theirs touched.
" His voice dropped lower. “Their stones aren’t random. They form a perfect geometric alignment, spread across this earth, and mine. The positions correspond to each other, like coordinates in a vast grid. A perfect trinity. Triangulated—always equidistant. One set here, one in Tír na nóg, the last... somewhere else. Always three points, always in balance. They exist in every world, layered on top of each other like threads in a weave.”
“Time. Death. Life,” Elara repeated under her breath.
He nodded. "Each stone is a marker in both space and time—fixed, yet bound to the ebb and flow of the goddesses' powers.
You see, they didn't just travel through the realms. They are the realms. Time, death, life... they governed those forces, held them in balance. The stones are mere conduits, arranged according to their dominions. Rhiannon's sit at the points closest to where the sun dies each night. Epona's stones blossom where the earth’s veins run deepest, where the land gives life to all things. And Aine... Anie’s are aligned with the stars, tracing time itself like a thread across the sky.”
“A map etched across worlds.”
He hummed in agreement. “Only… ours have been silent for centuries. Sealed. Until your king figured out how to open them up again.”
Elara's pulse thudded in her temples. “Have you seen him with a dagger? One that looks like…” The words faltered as she struggled to describe it. “Like… light. Sunlight?”
A muscled feathered down his neck. “Yes. A relic from another age. Epona’s, if I had to bet. Only something a goddess forged could rip through the realms that easily.”
Elara’s mind reeled. The dagger belonged to Epona? Her breath hitched as Dominic’s voice, from all those weeks ago, flooded back. “They say Aine appeared because of him, but that's a stretch. More likely, he stumbled on something powerful, something that could make a goddess take notice.”
Holy gods.
Osin held the power of a goddess in his hands—a relic so powerful it had forced Anie’s hand, granting him ether.
Granting him her. But something still didn’t add up.
Aine would’ve demanded the blade in exchange for such a gift, wouldn’t she?
So how could Osin still have it? She shook her head, horror building as the pieces shifted and began to fit.
He must have used the dagger to open the gate, wielding it like a compass.
It had to be how he navigated the Void’s currents and found his way to Tír na nóg.
And through that opening, he’d stolen the Sidhe, one by one.
But Thane had said the blade was the door—and she was the key.
She couldn’t make sense of the memory he’d shared with her, but the dread simmering in her gut sank deeper. Even if she and the Hunter finalized the indicator and reactor spells, even if they perfected everything, it might not be enough.
Her fingers dug into the iron bars, her knuckles bleaching. Maybe they could find Thane—maybe that part would work—but the Sidhe? Her chest constricted, her breaths growing tighter. They wouldn’t reach Tír na nóg.
Not with Osin still holding that blade.