Chapter 53
The first whisper of dawn brushed against Elara as a faint tickle on her nose, gently rousing her from sleep. Her body felt stiff, like she hadn’t moved all night, and the scent of parchment and something warm and spicy, filled her lungs with each deep breath she took.
It was the insistent tickle, though—a feather-like touch—that nudged her toward wakefulness.
With a groggy motion, she reached to scratch her nose, her mind still adrift. But her hand wouldn't budge. Confusion mingled with the last remnants of sleep as she gave a weak tug again, opening her eyes wide and bleary.
What—
Her heart gave a slow, startled thud as she looked down. Ivan held her wrist snugly beneath his arm, his grip firm even in sleep, keeping her against him. His hair was the culprit, the soft strands brushing her nose as she realized she was still burrowed in the crook of his neck.
Oh, gods. Oh, no.
But before the panic had time to truly set in, the heavy library doors slammed open, hitting the wall with a resounding crack. Tristan strode in like a hurricane.
“Morning, lovebirds. Forget something?”
Elara barely had time to process the words before Ivan stirred, froze for half a second, then shot up so fast he nearly knocked her off the settee.
“Fuck!” He scrambled to steady her, wide-eyed.
“Yeah, fuck’s about right,” Tristan said, but his usual teasing tone was absent, his smirk nowhere to be found.
Ivan pushed himself off the sofa, pulling Elara up with him, already turning to open a rift. But Tristan stepped in, cutting him off.
“Let me take her,” he said smoothly. “Osin knows Calista and I have… started talking again. I could tell him she twisted my arm into spicing things up with Miss Holier-than-thou here.”
Elara snorted before she could stop herself. As if anyone would need convincing of that.
Tristan caught it immediately, flashing her a devilish smile that said he knew exactly where her thoughts had gone.
Ivan ignored the exchange. “Does he know she’s missing?”
“Not yet,” he replied, his easy expression tightening ever so slightly. “I was up early this morning—came to see you, Elara. Found you weren’t where you were supposed to be. You two are so damn lucky I decided not to sleep in.”
Ivan didn’t laugh. He turned to Elara, his expression hard, though his touch was gentle as he cupped the back of her neck, his fingers slipping through her hair.
“I’ll come for you tonight. Practice rifting.
Practice threading from a distance. Tug on the bond when you’re alone, and I’ll come for you. ”
There was no room for argument in his voice, no hesitation. Elara nodded, the promise in his words settling deep inside her. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, his breath warm against her skin.
“Go,” Ivan said, his voice strained, already pulling away as the word left his mouth.
A rift tore open before them, faster than she could track.
Tristan grabbed her arm, and suddenly, they were running through the swirling chaos.
But there—at the edge of her vision—was the light.
A sliver of gold, growing larger and brighter with each second, cutting through the darkness.
The light expanded, shimmering like sunlight on water, stretching into the shape of a doorway.
They burst through it, stumbling into the bedroom with a rush of air that left Elara’s head spinning.
Tristan moved first, fast and silent, crossing the room in a few strides to press his ear against the door. He glanced over his shoulder, “Guards are still there,” he said, “All sounds quiet. For now.”
Her chest loosened as Tristan walked toward her, his usual air of arrogance stripped away. For the first time in the weeks she had known him, he looked unsure of himself—uncomfortable, even.
“I came here this morning because there’s something you need to hear. Something I need to say.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “I haven’t always seen things clearly. I didn’t want to. It was easier to accept the world as it was handed to me—the version where people like you were expendable.”
Elara blinked, surprised. Of all the things he could’ve said, this wasn’t what she’d expected.
“I was ignorant,” he continued, “I was so comfortable in my privilege, so blind to the truth of what was happening to you, to the Sidhe. And I’ll carry that ignorance with me for the rest of my life.” His voice cracked—just a fraction—but she caught it. Felt it.
“I’m so sorry, Elara. For all of it. For not seeing past the lies I was told.
For doing nothing when I should have. I don’t expect forgiveness, and I know an apology can’t undo the harm I’ve done.
But I need you to know this: I see you now.
I see your fight, your pain, and the injustice you’ve endured.
” He took a step closer, his eyes holding hers with a sincerity that knocked the breath out of her.
“And I want to help—to do better. To be better. In whatever way you’ll allow me. ”
“I—thank you, Tristan,” she replied softly, and she meant it.
She wasn’t used to hearing apologies, especially not directed at her.
And while Tristan hadn’t been the one to hurt her directly, his apology landed heavily on her.
Because for the first time, someone had acknowledged it.
Acknowledged her. That maybe she wasn’t imagining it, wasn’t crazy for believing the world was as broken as she knew it to be.
That maybe her suffering wasn’t a reflection of her weakness or fragility, but of something far more insidious.
She hated that it made her feel validated, in some strange, twisted way. As though her struggles weren’t just burdens to bear in silence, weren’t just dismissed as overreactions or failures to adapt. It shouldn’t have mattered this much—what he said. But it did.
He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I’ll see you tonight.”
Before she could summon a response, he was already disappearing into the Void as though he had never been there at all.
“There was a boy looking for you,” Reynnar said, his voice tight as he wiped the blood pooling above her eye with a damp cloth.
“A boy?”
Elara frowned, glancing up at him.
Malak dragged her back to her cell with his usual rough efficiency, barking for her to move without so much as a glance in her direction. He seemed irritated—like her growing silence, her refusal to fight, had stolen the pleasure he once took in watching her struggle.
So when she didn’t resist this morning—didn’t give him even a single protest—he made up for it. He shoved her down the winding steps into the Pit.
Her head struck stone. Her knees cracked hard against the uneven ground, pain flaring sharp and bright.
When she looked up at him, she smiled.
A bloody, wicked grin.
Because she knew the day would come when she would kill his master.
And if Malak stood in her way, she would kill him too.
Soon, his entire world would crumble, and she would be the one to watch it burn.
When they reached her cell, Reynnar was already on his feet. As if he’d been waiting—attuned to her footsteps, listening for the moment she’d emerge from the tunnel. His gaze swept over her, cataloging every bruise and scrape before Malak had even turned away.
“I’m okay,” she’d murmured—though the lie had sounded thin, even to her own ears.
She remembered the tension coiled in Reynnar’s frame, the anger simmering just beneath the surface.
Without a word, he’d motioned her closer, his hand slipping through the bars.
He tore a narrow strip from the hem of her tunic—cleaner than anything else he had—and dipped it into the murky water pooled in the corner.
Then, with a gentleness she hadn’t expected, he wiped the blood from her face. That was when he mentioned, almost casually, that she’d had a visitor.
Reynnar nodded, his expression unreadable. “Soft face, looked like he was drowning in his armor.”
Her stomach turned. Dario.
“What did he want?”
Reynnar shrugged. “Didn’t say much. Barely looked at me. But he came back four times, asking after you. Kept pacing, wouldn’t sit still. Then someone told him you’d been bought for the night. He went so pale, I thought he might lose his guts all over his boots.”
A pang lanced through her chest, and she glanced out of her cell, half expecting to see him standing there.
“Is he your lover?” Reynnar’s voice was measured, but there was a strange undertone to it.
Elara turned back quickly, caught off guard by the question. “Once,” she said, though the word felt strange on her tongue. It was the truth, but it wasn’t enough to explain everything.
Reynnar didn’t speak for a long moment, his gaze searching hers. Finally, he nodded. “Then he’ll be back.”
For three days, Elara straddled two worlds—her cell and Ivan’s manor—the passage of time blurring in the constant push and pull of their efforts.
Her days were spent with Reynnar—wrestling with Tírrísh, weaving the thread of the Draoth Cara from a distance. Each practice drew her closer to the language’s patterns, her tongue stumbling less over unfamiliar sounds.
The link with Ivan grew stronger each time she reached for it. The gap between effort and execution narrowed, bringing a fragile sense of control—and pulling her toward something she didn’t yet understand. Something that felt as automatic as reflex, and just as dangerous.
Her nights, though, were spent with Ivan and Tristan, pouring over dusty tomes, hunting for any mention of the Wound of Light.
Whatever the Hunter's reasoning, there hadn’t been another moment alone between them.
Whether deliberate or not, Tristan acted as a buffer—a presence that Elara couldn’t decide if she was grateful for or frustrated by.
Her evenings blurred into a race against time, a frantic pursuit of forgotten knowledge and the perfection of the indicator and reactor spells.
They were close—so close that, for the first time, a spark of confidence flared in her chest. It felt like she was standing on the edge of something monumental.
Maybe, just maybe, they could pull this off.
But the winter solstice was creeping closer with every breath—and with it, her plans with Calista. Elara hadn’t breathed a word of them to Ivan or Tristan. From the way they spoke, Calista hadn’t either. Keeping them in the dark was a gamble, but she couldn’t risk even a single misstep.
Alone in her cell, she had nothing but time—time to run the plan over and over, dissecting every detail, accounting for every possible failure. She’d calculated the margins so precisely she could recite them in her sleep. It would work. It had to.
She would free the Sidhe. Save Thane. Kill Osin. Fulfill every promise, every vow. Help as many as she could.
But then… what about her?
The thought crept in uninvited. She hadn’t let herself think about it before—hadn’t dared. It was almost laughable. Here she was, plotting the liberation of an entire people, orchestrating the downfall of a regime, and yet she couldn’t even begin to picture her own life beyond it.
What did freedom even mean for her? What came after the dust settled?
The thought refused to leave, clinging stubbornly. She hadn’t planned for herself, hadn’t even considered where she fit into the future she was fighting so hard to create. And she wasn’t ready to ask herself why.