Chapter 57
Elara was sinking.
Plunging into a churning sea of mist and shadow, dragged down an endless spiral. The world reeled as she fell, breath torn from her lungs as the cold closed in. She reached out, fingers cutting through nothing, legs kicking as she tried to find an seam, a current, anything to orient herself.
And then—something caught her—a grip colder than Death, locking onto body and snapping her spiral to a shuddering stop.
“What treasure do you bring to these depths, earth’s daughter?”
The voice rippled through the darkness, speaking in Tírrísh, each syllable ancient and laced with power. Her gaze darted, but there was no one—only herself, suspended in the abyss.
Elara clutched the Wound of Light tighter to her chest, the erratic thrum of her heartbeat slamming against the cold steel.
“Rhiannon?”
A low, rumbling laugh moved through the darkness, reverberating around her like the growl of an ancient beast.
“No, child. Rhiannon has been silenced longer than rivers have carved their paths, longer than mountains have held their vigil, longer than stars have whispered their secrets to the night.”
Silenced.
The word scraped along her spine, every hair standing on end.
“Who…who are you, then?”
“I am not one, but a collective.”
Elara swallowed hard, forcing herself to speak. “Please. Release me. I—I need to help someone. A friend. I need to—”
And then she felt it. A rethreading. Subtle at first, but growing, like the tide turning. Something immense stirred, the air thickening with its presence, pressing in from all sides until she could scarcely draw breath.
“There are those who wish to speak with you. Do you acquiesce?”
Her heart wrenched painfully, caught in the agonizing space between hope and dread. Could it be Thane? Her throat constricted. She had to leave—had to find her way to Reynnar. But what if it was Thane? What if he could help her?
“I do.”
In the heartbeat between her last breath and the next, Elara was gone—ripped from that weightless Void and thrown into the Pit.
Not the Pit as she knew it, but something hazed, refracted.
A memory. But not hers.
The sensation was unnerving, like slipping into someone else’s skin. The air felt heavier here, weighted with emotions that didn’t belong to her—desperation, pain, a fierce, burning sorrow. The energy was distinctly male, threading through her mind like smoke, like a whispered command. See.
She followed the pull, unable to resist, her steps carrying her down the third tunnel until it opened into a wide room. Elara slowed, her throat going dry.
Godfrey.
He was shackled, a heavy chain stretched across the room and secured to a thick rope, allowing just enough slack for him to pace. His steps dragged, the restraint scraping softly against the stone floor.
He stood at one of the cluttered desks, movements slow and weary.
Bruises darkened his arms and face; fresh cuts marked his skin, bleeding sluggishly.
Around him, tables were strewn with alchemical tools—bubbling beakers, glass vials, bundles of strange herbs, half-burned candles flickering in the damp air.
The entire room felt wrong, saturated with something malevolent.
Elara froze, horror rooting her in place, as a Sidhe male emerged into view.
He knelt on the ground, his arms stretched taut, chains biting into the wall behind him.
His head lifted and her breath hitched. His piercing eyes seemed to cut through the haze of memory, fixing on her as if he knew she was there.
The male energy surged within her, a silent hum crackling in her veins, and she understood with a startling clarity. The memory was his.
Powerlessly, she watched as Godfrey began a ritualistic draining, the scene hauntingly familiar. Just as he had once violated her.
The Sidhe’s features contorted in agony, his body racked by searing torment as Godfrey ruthlessly siphoned his lifeblood, channeling it into luminescent symbols carved cruelly into his skin.
His guttural scream tore through the illusion, through the Void, slicing clean through Elara’s heart.
She watched, paralyzed, as what she could only assume was his spirit—a shimmering wisp of life—separated from him.
A frantic, crushing panic clawed its way up her throat, tightening her breath.
Her heart thundered. She could do nothing but watch as the male sagged, his skin turning sallow.
And still, Godfrey worked—methodical, unhurried.
With each whispered incantation, the male’s very essence twisted and funneled into a glass beaker, swirling within it like a caged storm.
A life, a soul, reduced to nothing more than an ingredient.
Each droplet pulsed faintly, a dim light that flickered and faded as it merged with the potion, thickening, hardening. Finally, the crystalline substance took shape, its sharp facets catching the sparse light in the room, gleaming with a sinister glow as Godfrey set it into an iron ring.
A cold unlike anything she’d known crept up Elara’s spine, seeping into her bones like ice through fractured glass. The room blurred at the edges of her vision, narrowing to the ring.
Ether. Draoth. It wasn’t hers. It had never been hers.
Her breath hitched, chest feeling as if it had cracked wide open, the ridged pieces slicing through her insides.
The Convergence Ceremony was a farce.
It had always been them—the Sidhe.
Their heartbeats, their very essence, drained to feed the wellspring of mortal power.
Her stomach churned violently, a hot, sour burn rising in her throat. She doubled over, gasping. Every strand of ether she’d ever felt—the shimmering threads, the gentle hum—now seemed to scream, a mournful cry that echoed through her.
Blind rage and bitter self-loathing followed, burning its way to the surface as tears stung her eyes.
Everyone she knew—Ivan, Tristan, Edgar, Algernon, Saria—gods, even herself—had drawn on the Sidhe’s souls to conjure ether.
Her stomach twisted, acid surging up as she turned and vomited, the contents of her stomach disappearing instantly into the Void’s dark, empty silence.
Had they known? Had they all known and simply… not cared? Was access to Draoth worth the death of thousands of Sidhe, worth tearing their souls from their bodies and binding them into iron rings?
They were trapped.
Holy gods, the Sidhe were trapped—forced to give up every last sliver of their power, their very essence, until they dwindled to nothing. Until...
Her ears rang, a shrill, relentless pitch that drowned out everything else.
Her blood.
It was fuel. Fuel to recharge the rings, to prolong the Sidhe's torment, forcing them back, again and again, into another brutal, endless cycle.
Her stomach turned violently and she retched again. The sound that escaped her was torn, a noise she barely recognized.
Reynnar.
She had to get back to him. To all of them. She had to stop this.
“Please. Let me go. Please, I need to find my friend.”
But the Void only shifted around her, the currents bending and twisting until a new memory took shape.
Through the shadows a delicate figure emerged—a child, radiant and no older than seven.
Silver strands, reminiscent of moonlit tides, cascaded down her back, kissed by the starlight's gleam. She twirled, lost in her own dance. Every delicate spin she took caused her gossamer gown to ripple and gleam like the flutter of butterflies taking flight in the summer’s breeze.
The scene expanded, revealing a vast ballroom, its boundaries seemingly as endless as the sky itself.
High ceilings billowed like clouds, shimmering with an iridescence that mirrored the early morning horizon.
Gliding effortlessly across the room were figures with eyes deep and limitless as the blue yonder, hair flowing weightlessly, like wisps of cirrus clouds.
On some of their backs, gossamer wings, delicate as spider silk, caught the ambient light, scattering prismatic patterns across the walls.
Laughter carried across the room. As she took it all in, she realized that the laws of nature seemed optional here; the beings occasionally lifting off the floor in graceful arcs, their steps more akin to floating than actual dancing.
A shiver of awe prickled her skin—the enchanting realm before her could only be Tír na nóg.
Her eyes darted, trying to capture the details, each sight vying for her attention, overwhelming her senses.
Among the revelry, a boy, slightly older yet sharing the same features of the moon-haired girl, stepped forward.
His bow, laden with mischief, drew every gaze, and as he took the girl's hand, leading her in a mesmerizing waltz, time itself seemed to pause.
The collective muttered softly, resounding in her heart: Brother.
“Why are you showing me this?”
Her voice barely made a sound, more a breath to herself than a question to the Void.
Then, the boy looked up from his sister, his gaze shifting, locking directly onto her. His eyes were a piercing shade of silver, flecked with shadows like fractured starlight. A shiver ran through her, a deep, haunting note striking something within her.
Raijin.
The name rose in her mind unbidden, filling her with a strange, undeniable certainty. It was him—the person she’d been searching for before she lost her memories.
But then, as if the Void was impatient to tell another tale, the scene morphed again.
A moonlit forest came into view.
The same young girl appeared, her wide eyes shimmering with fear as she darted through the twisted trunks.
The trees groaned, their skeletal limbs bending low as if to snatch her, while the earth beneath pulsed, vines twisting and snapping at her heels. Each ragged breath the girl drew seemed to resonate in Elara’s chest, the girl’s desperation bleeding into her veins.