Chapter 56
Dark currents twisted around Elara, alive and restless, yet for once she didn’t panic. She held still, letting the cold press in, seep into the cracks inside her. It was unsettling how the emptiness moved, how it coiled through her ribs as though it belonged there.
Hollow. Eerie.
Like standing on the edge of death.
She centered herself, focus narrowing to intent—to exactly where she needed to be. Slowly, a sliver of gold tore open before her, a rift just wide enough to reveal the corridor outside Osin’s study. Her pulse hammered as she scanned the hall.
Empty. Thank the gods.
Every guard must have been at the party, likely drugged or drunk. But she couldn’t assume anything—not after seeing how Osin had tightened security at the start of the festival.
Elara slipped free of the Void, landing in the corridor and breaking into a sprint. She followed Calista’s instructions, veering left at the turn—
The servant’s passage wasn’t empty.
She cursed and pushed herself to run faster.
The workers froze at the sight of her, but none dared to stop her.
Maybe they don’t recognize me? she thought, though even as the idea crossed her mind, she knew better.
After the way Osin had paraded her around these past months, there was no chance they didn’t know who she was.
She didn’t dwell on it. Her legs carried her forward, past shadowed doorways and dimly lit rooms that blurred into nothing as she ran.
Ahead, she spotted a set of private quarters, one door slightly ajar. Warm light spilled into the dim corridor, glinting off polished wood. Skidding to a halt, she bit her lip, glanced around, and slipped inside.
The room was sparse, barely furnished, but her gaze went straight to the dresser. She nearly sighed in relief at the sight of trousers. She pulled them on, cinched a belt tight, then grabbed a tunic—yanking off her gown and replacing it, tucking the fabric into the waistband with hurried hands.
Her gaze swept the floor, landing on a pair of boots that looked close to her size. She ripped off her silk slippers and shoved the boots on, not bothering to tie them properly.
Leaving her discarded things behind, she bolted back into the corridor. Paintings blurred past as she sprinted through the gallery, her sights locked on a small door at the far end. She yanked it open and launched herself up the narrow staircase, taking two steps at a time.
Her lungs burned by the time she reached the top, but she didn’t stop. Exiting the stairs, she ran down a short corridor, her heart pounding as she approached the heavy tapestry marking the entrance to Osin’s private hall.
A strange, shivering familiarity crept over her, tingling at the base of her spine as she stared at the tapestry. She knew this. Had seen it before. How, she couldn’t say—but every instinct screamed that she did.
Three women stood within the weave, their forms draped in flowing robes, hands lifted toward the heavens. The goddesses. The Three.
Her fingers drifted upward, grazing the worn threads, tracing the shapes woven into the fabric. Her hand paused over each one: Aine, arms stretched to the stars; Epona, gently cradling the moon; Rhiannon, wrapped in shadows.
She took a breath and pushed the tapestry aside.
The door to Osin’s chambers was plain, unremarkable—a strange choice for someone who lived for grandeur.
Elara pressed it open, and the instant she stepped inside, it hit her.
A hum in the air—low, ancient. She froze, a prickling heat spreading across her collarbone.
Something raw, something old and primal, stirred deep inside her, curling in her core like a waking beast.
She could feel it. The blade.
It was singing.
Elara moved through the chambers, drawn by the pull of that song.
The room stretched before her, stone rising high on either side, broken only by narrow window slits that admitted the faintest light.
Near the back hung two heavy black banners, each bearing Ulrith’s totem.
She moved silently, past the main hall and toward a narrow archway that led to Osin’s private quarters.
The bedroom was darker still, with thick velvet curtains drawn tight across the windows, blocking out any trace of light.
The bed was massive, its black iron frame looming in the center of the room, draped in deep red silk that pooled onto the floor.
To the right, a hearth burned low, casting long shadows against the dark wood paneling that lined the walls.
A heavy, ornate mirror leaned against one wall, its edges sharp and angular, reflecting the faint glow of the fire.
And still, that hum—growing louder with every step.
Elara’s steps slowed as she drifted further into the room, then stopped, eyes locked on the painting she had only ever glimpsed through the veil of death.
Her pulse thrummed, the song in her veins rising to a fever pitch.
She took in every detail: the field of oíche blossoms, petals vivid and soft, reds and pinks scattered like droplets of blood.
And at the center of it all, nestled among the flowers, lay the Wound of Light.
Slowly, she walked closer, the song thrumming louder.
Her hand hovered over the painted blade, her fingers just a breath away from the surface.
She could feel it—like a heartbeat, waiting for her touch.
The instant her fingertips brushed the edge of the painted dagger, it was as if a burst of fire struck her, searing through her blood and hollowing her lungs with a rush of energy so fierce it stole her breath.
Mother above.
Elara shook herself, forcing the feeling away, re-centering her focus.
She needed to be quick. She had a plan—one that had taken root ever since Thane’s memory surfaced, circling her thoughts relentlessly.
The oíche blossoms. It hadn’t been a coincidence that Avis had taken her to the gardens, coaxing the blooms open with her spell, spreading their roots through the Sanct.
Avis had been showing her what needed to be done. Elara knew it as surely as she knew her own heartbeat.
How Avis had known about the painting in the first place…
Elara’s heart clenched. She inhaled deeply, the air shuddering through her. When she finally spoke, her voice came harsh, jagged, scraping like iron dragged over stone.
“Druvakh.”
The word ripped through the air, quaking with power. She pulled hard on the Draoth Cara, forcing it to obey. Energy surged through her, slamming into the command. She pushed everything into it—her will, her desperation, her fury.
For a moment, nothing. Just the crackling stillness, her breath in the air.
Then—a tremor.
The painting’s surface rippled, as if disturbed by a single drop of water.
Slowly, impossibly, the dagger emerged. Unearthly steel caught the light, gleaming as though untouched by time. It hovered there, suspended, defying the laws of nature.
Elara’s breath caught as she stared.
A relic of the gods.
She reached out, her hand trembling as her fingers wrapped around the pommel.
The moment her skin made contact, the world stilled—a pregnant pause in the storm raging through her mind.
The power hummed up her arm, electric, alive, searing into her grip like it knew her, like it had been waiting for her.
And then, white-hot light tore through her skull, blinding and brutal, but she gritted her teeth, holding firm, pulling on the Draoth Cara to steady herself, to wrest control over the blade.
Holy gods. Holy fucking gods.
The power coursing through her veins was staggering.
Immeasurable.
Elara’s grip tightened on the dagger, knuckles paling against the hilt. A faint pulse stirred at the edge of her awareness, a shadow brushing the corners of her mind.
Damn it. The surge of power had caught Ivan’s attention. His presence tugged at the thread—a subtle, probing pull, almost a question.
She answered with a measured tug of her own, a silent reassurance meant to hold him at bay. Just enough to buy herself the time she needed to finish this.
At least, she hoped it would.
Elara’s hands trembled as she turned from the painting, the dagger slicing through the air before the thought even fully formed. A rift tore open, effortless, like an extension of her will. The Void stretched before her—vast, consuming—but this time… it yielded.
She stepped forward, and the currents didn’t lash out or pull her under. Instead, they shifted, softened, parting around her like shadows recoiling from the touch of light.
If the Void was death, Rhiannon’s domain, then Epona’s light seemed to counterbalance it—two forces in tenuous harmony, holding each other in check.
A slow, measured breath escaped her, the tension easing from her shoulders.
Her mind shifted to the Pit—the third tunnel where the Sidhe were most likely taken, the damp stone walls, the oppressive cold.
Gods, let them still be there. Panic threatened to claw its way to the surface, but she forced it down, tamping it into submission.
She inhaled deeply, drawing on the Draoth Cara with everything she had, anchoring herself in the memory of the place.
But… nothing.
A chill coiled in her chest, creeping down her spine. Breathe, she told herself, fighting the rising dread. You just did this. Do it again.
She reached out into the shadows, fingers trailing through the empty, cold space, feeling blindly for the seam she was certain was there.
But something reached back.
Numbing and infinite, it slipped over her fingers like ice, twisting around her hand and locking tight.
She had no time to scream, no breath to even try, before it seized her, dragging her forward through a doorway that ripped itself open from nothing.