Chapter 50
It began slowly, like sinking into dark water.
The world reeled, its shapes wavering as though seen through smoke and glass. Elara’s back came to rest against wood, smooth and cold beneath her skin.
Then the shadows gave way.
The Grand Hall loomed above her, its height swallowed by darkness.
The table beneath her gleamed with a sickly sheen, its polished length stretching on as though it had no end.
The air was thick with the scent of wine, tainted by something metallic—blood-close—too faint to name, but enough to curdle her breath.
Her muscles strained, yet she remained immobile, every limb locked as though weights pinned her in place. Panic sparked beneath her skin, but she couldn’t even wrench her hands free as the hold around her wrists and ankles constricted.
Cold slid over her skin. Laughter followed—soft at first, distant and wrong—then swelling, filling the hall.
And then she saw him.
Osin sat at the head of the table, his pale face caught in the flicker of candlelight. Beside him, the High Council watched, eyes bright in the gloom, smiles stretched unnaturally wide.
Her heart thundered, a wild, frantic beat as they reached for her—fingers brushing her skin with a softness that felt wrong. Almost tender. But then it shifted. The hands warped, turning sharp, and in the next breath, claws.
Pain exploded, a white-hot blaze that tore through her.
A scream ripped from her throat, as her body arched against the onslaught, writhing as flesh and muscle gave way under their hands.
Heat spilled over her skin—thick, wet, and her thoughts splintered, grasping for reason, for relief, but there was no escape. Just the ripping, the breaking.
Nothing else.
Blood slicked their lips and fingers, dripping down their chins, and pooling on the dark wood of the table, seeping into the cracks. Osin’s smile widened as he watched her body convulse, as the pain twisted her screams into broken sobs.
Then—through the agony, through the sound of her shrieks—she heard him.
The Hunter. Calling her name.
She couldn’t see him. Couldn’t turn. Couldn’t reach. But the desperation in his voice wrapped around her like a lifeline, hauling her toward something beyond the pain.
Elara, it’s a dream.
It’s just a dream.
She could almost hear him say it, feel the words against her brow. But all she could do was scream, her body shaking beneath the hands of the council.
The dream shattered like glass. Elara gasped awake in her cell, cold stone solid beneath her, real. Her heart thundered, breath tearing in and out of her lungs. The shadows were gone. The laughter, too. But the fear clung, her skin still buzzing with phantom pain.
And then she realized she wasn’t alone.
The Hunter held her, arms locked tight around her body.
His warmth bled into her, ether chasing the chill from her bones.
His hands trembled as he whispered her name—again and again—just as he had in the dream.
One broad, calloused palm moved in slow, steady passes along her back.
Without thinking, she leaned into him, pressing closer.
She looked up, but he was already moving—already tearing open a rift as the air bent and folded around them. Thought and breath vanished, leaving only the certainty of his arms locked tight as the world shifted.
A heartbeat later, they stood in her room at his manor.
The familiar shadows closed in, but he didn’t release her.
Neither did she. She clung to him as though letting go might shatter something fragile inside her, face pressed to his chest, fingers fisting in his shirt.
For a moment, nothing else existed but the feel of him.
Slowly, her heart steadied. She became aware of his hand warm at the nape of her neck, fingers threading gently through her hair, his chin resting against her temple.
Elara closed her eyes and slipped into the Draoth Cara as easily as breathing.
She didn’t need to reach for it anymore—just a shift of focus, and it was there.
His heartbeat answered her immediately, strong and fast, hammering at her awareness.
She brushed it—barely—and he hissed out a breath that ghosted across her neck, stirring her hair as his arms drew her in, bands of steel around her.
Nothing personal, he had said.
Yet, the warmth of him, the closeness, it felt deeply personal. It felt like something perilously close to longing.
Elara drew back, just enough to catch his gaze—dark, but that sliver of amber was there again, pulsing like it always did when the mask he wore slipped, when he allowed her to see him, even for a moment. She brushed against his heart again, feeling him tense, and this time, his eyes slammed shut.
“Elara,” he breathed her name, and it was both a warning and a plea.
Elara.
When had he grown comfortable saying her name? She had always been the Hallowed to him—a title that kept the wall intact, a distance they had both upheld. Even when others used her name, he had held to that formality, as if it alone could preserve the line between them.
But now, the way he said it, like it wasn’t just a name but something delicate and meaningful, made her heart ache.
Tears pricked at her eyes before she could stop them.
He must have felt it, because he opened his, and just looked at her. Stared at her through the dimness of the room, the quiet between them growing thicker with every breath. His gaze didn’t waver, didn’t soften. Just held her there, like he was waiting for something he hadn’t figured out yet.
His breath ghosted over her lips, warm and close, and it took every ounce of restraint not to close her eyes at the feeling, not to lean in.
He could kiss me. The thought hit her suddenly. He could kiss me right now, and I would let him.
She wet her lips, and his gaze flicked down to her mouth, his pulse pounding so wildly inside her chest that she thought her heart might explode.
Her whole body attuned to it, to him. But then, in an instant, he was gone.
His arms fell away as if they had never been there, and before she could process it, he was across the room.
The loss hit her harder than she expected.
“I… can’t,” he said, the words rough and strained, like he was forcing them out against his will. His chest heaved and he stepped further away, widening the distance between them. “I—”
Elara didn’t want to hear it. Not again.
She lifted her hand, cutting him off before the words could come—the ones that would only twist the knife deeper.
The sting of the last ones still lingered.
She couldn’t take it right now—not his cruelty, not whatever harsh truth he thought she needed to hear.
Not when the ache in her chest was already threatening to consume her.
He turned to leave, hand already on the door, but the knot in her chest snapped.
“Wait.”
His back went rigid. Slowly, he turned, his gaze searching her face.
The words caught in her throat—truths she wasn’t ready to name, even to herself.
She swallowed and met his eyes. She needed his help.
There was no sense denying it now. Not when everything depended on it.
If she was going to get the Sidhe out, if she had any hope of finding the Wound of Light, she couldn’t do it alone.
And pretending otherwise would only lead her in circles.
Still, she didn’t have to tell him everything. She didn’t have to admit it was about returning the Sidhe to Tír na nóg. That part could remain hidden. For now.
“When I called upon the river spirit,” she began, choosing each word carefully, gauging his reaction, “it showed me a memory.”
He went still, dark eyes flashing. “What did you see?”
“Thane,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt as she stepped closer. “He showed me a painting. A blade surrounded by oíche blossoms.”
His brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face.
“The blossoms,” she continued softly. “They only bloom under the full moon. My frie—” She stopped herself.
“Avis. She cultivated an entire orchard of them in Verdara. Even in the forest beyond. The Elmweavers use them in potions and poultices. For restoration. For strengthening whatever’s weak or damaged. ”
Her voice wavered, a tremor she couldn’t suppress.
Avis had given her those blossoms before, along with lion’s mane—a mixture meant to restore, to focus the mind, to heal what was broken.
Elara choked back the swell of emotion. Avis had known.
She must have known about the memories Elara had lost and had tried to help her.
Quietly, subtly. Without drawing attention, without putting herself at risk.
“What is it?” The Hunter's voice was soft as he watched the tears stream down her face.
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter,” she muttered, swiping them away with the back of her hand. “What matters is what Thane said.” Her throat bobbed. “He said ‘The Wound of Light is the door, and that I was the key.’ The dagger in the painting... it’s Osin’s.”
“I know the one.”
Elara’s brow creased. “The way Thane said it... it felt like he was telling me it’s the only way to reach him.”
It could have been what he was saying, she justified in her mind. But something twisted in her chest, the lie sitting there like a stone. When had she started caring about lying to him? When had his trust begun to matter to her?
“What are you suggesting?” His tone was cautious, eyes watching her carefully.
Elara ran her tongue over her lips. “We keep working on the spells, but I think we should start looking into the blade. Do you know anything about it?”
He shook his head. “I’ve never heard of any ‘Wound of Light,’ but Osin’s blade—now that I know is powerful. I always assumed he was harnessing the power of the sun through crystals, using it to build up ether in the blade.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Wait—is that why you have all those crystals hanging in the windows?”