Chapter 54
The morning of the winter solstice began like any other, the faint rustle of movement tugging Elara from sleep.
Her eyes fluttered open, and through the haze of drowsiness she spotted Reynnar on the other side of the bars.
He was already awake, his broad back caught in a thin spill of light filtering into the Pit.
He stretched, arms lifting overhead, muscle shifting beneath his skin. His dark hair hung loose, brushing his shoulders as he rolled them. A soft crack broke the quiet when he tilted his head, then he sank into a deeper stretch.
By now, it had become almost comical—watching him repeat the same ritual each morning. It reminded her of the elder Druids at the Sanct, rising with the sun, bodies weaving beneath the early light as they coaxed warmth back into stiff limbs.
But Reynnar’s routine was nothing like that. There was nothing gentle or meditative about it—it was calculated, every movement controlled, like he was gearing up for combat.
His stretches flowed into motion, seamless as he dropped into push-ups, then planks, muscle rippling with the effort.
Most mornings he made her join him, insisting she keep her body active.
It had irritated her at first—the idea of exercising while trapped in a cell—but soon enough she’d begun to enjoy it. To crave the movement.
Since she’d been spending her nights at Ivan’s, Reynnar no longer dragged her up with him. Still, she woke just to watch.
It was hard not to.
There was strength in the way he carried himself, a grace that masked the power in every motion. He was beautiful in a way that made him impossible not to notice, no matter how hard she tried.
Elara squeezed her eyes shut and curled tighter on her cot, trying to push past the ache in her body and the fog of exhaustion weighing her down. Her limbs felt heavy, her thoughts slow, as though she were moving through molasses. She’d barely managed an hour of sleep—if that.
The night had stretched on with her, Ivan, and Tristan working until they were bleary-eyed and swaying on their feet.
But they’d done it—they’d finally perfected the indicator and reactor spells.
It had taken every ounce of their energy, and just when she thought they might collapse from sheer exhaustion, they’d cracked the final piece.
The rush of relief had been like a jolt of lightning, energy surging through them just long enough to test the spells—a brief dive into the Void. To know they worked.
She had been the one to say it, her voice hoarse from lack of sleep. “Tonight,” she’d told them, “after the solstice, we’ll search for Thane.” She’d said it with conviction, and she’d meant it. They were so close now.
Get the blade. Kill Osin. Free the Sidhe.
And then find Thane.
Elara willed her heart to slow, forcing herself to take steady, measured breaths in a futile attempt to coax her body back to sleep.
She needed those extra hours. Slowly, her muscles began to relax, her body sinking back into the stiff cot, her mind drifting somewhere between the haze of dreams and reality.
But then, a sound cut through the quiet.
Footsteps.
Heavy boots on stone, closing fast.
Elara was awake and moving in the same instant, tension snapping through her as the noise surged down the tunnel. Her tunnel.
Across the cell, Reynnar spoke in low, urgent tones to the Sidhe nearby. Elara edged closer, trying to catch his words over the advancing march—Legionnaires, pouring in like a flood.
“What’s happening?” Elara shouted over the clatter. No one looked at her—eyes fixed ahead, faces empty.
Cold crept over her skin, tight across her chest, crawling up her spine. Then the soldiers split off, groups of five peeling toward each cell. Locks snapped open. The Sidhe were dragged out.
“Stop!” Elara cried, her voice rough as she rattled the bars. She watched them shove and kick, forcing the Sidhe into tight lines. Her heart thundered as horror clawed through her, leaving her helpless to do anything but watch.
And then five of them peeled off toward Reynnar’s cell.
Her stomach plummeted, her body reacting before her mind could catch up. She bolted to the right of her cell, peering through the bars.
Reynnar stood motionless, his expression carved from stone.
Accepting.
No.
That wasn’t him.
That wasn’t what he had taught her.
They didn’t bow to despair, didn’t surrender to pain or hopelessness. They fought. They endured. No matter how impossible it seemed. He’d drilled it into her time and again: You resist. Always resist.
“Reynnar!”
Her voice broke as they stormed into his cell. The crackle of Draoth filled the air, a sickening hum as they forced him to the ground.
“Fight back!” she cried, as the first blow landed—a brutal punch to his gut that made him double over.
Another followed, a boot to his ribs, then another, until the assault became a blur of fists, boots, and raw Draoth battering him from every side.
But Reynnar didn’t cry out. He didn’t flinch.
He just took it—every hit, every strike—as if he had already resigned himself to this fate.
“Stop, please, stop!” Elara sobbed, her vision blurred with tears as she slammed her fists against the bars.
“Show them only your rage!”
The same words he had spoken to her when she first arrived in the Pit—broken and defeated, ready to give up. He had pieced her back together, brick by brick, showing her what true strength looked like. What it meant to be brave.
Reynnar's eyes met hers, and something inside her shattered. Her heart cracked open, bleeding into the hollow of her chest. The defeat in his gaze—the quiet resignation—was enough to choke her.
He’d given up—accepted his death—known this was coming, had made peace with it long before she could have imagined, and he hadn’t told her.
“No!” she gasped, barely able to breathe, barely able to speak past the sobs tearing through her as they dragged his limp body out of the cell.
Elara crumpled against the iron bars, breath hitching.
Her fingers clung to the metal, nails scraping over rusted edges until they split, the sting barely registering.
Nothing did—not the blood streaking her hands, not the ache in her chest that felt sharp enough to break her ribs.
All she could feel was the despair, the crushing emptiness that made it hard to breathe.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. This wasn’t the plan.
She had failed him. Failed everyone.
She wrapped her arms around herself and rocked, trying to hold herself together. The guilt was unbearable, suffocating. Pressing her forehead to the bars, she gasped for air.
A sound snapped Elara from her spiral, and she shot to her feet, head swimming.
Malak stood there, his face twisted into a smug, satisfied grin.
"Your little pet get his arse kicked, eh? I told you to stay clear of him, didn’t I? But no, you had to be clever, had to go learning his bloody tongue like a fool." He tsked, shaking his head slowly, mock pity dripping from every movement. “What did you think was gonna happen?"
Elara’s blood boiled, rage coursing through her so fast she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.
She reared her head back and spat in his face.
"I’m going to kill you," she seethed, her voice steady, cold, lethal. "I’m going to gouge your eyes from your skull, rip my nails down your worthless face, and tear out your gods-damned throat.”
Malak didn’t react—didn’t even wipe the spit from his cheek as he stepped into her cell. His fist connected before she could brace, the blow so brutal her world went black before the pain could follow.
Just cold, numbing darkness—always more familiar, more forgiving than the light.