Chapter 57 #2
Elara’s fingers tightened around the Wound of Light, her pulse a steady roar in her ears as she watched the girl unleash a fierce burst of Draoth, folding herself seamlessly into the trunk of a nearby tree.
But her haven was short-lived.
A woman with auburn hair trailing down her back, and a lean, fragile-looking young man moved toward the young girl.
Aine and Osin.
Elara’s throat tightened, her nails digging into her palms as she watched the pair drag the young girl from within the tree, slice open her wrists and drink from her blood.
Aine’s fingers, wreathed in shadow, sent tendrils of darkness snaking around the girl, pulling her spirit into submission. Slowly—heartbreakingly—the girl’s radiant, moonlit hair darkened, the light fading as it absorbed the creeping shadows, fading to the hue of a starless night.
Elara’s pulse slowed, each thud dragging longer, stretching thinner.
The shadows shifted, casting the girl’s face in a harsh, unholy glow. Those delicate cheekbones, that familiar curve of her lips, even the way the girl’s hair coiled around her face...
Her breath caught, jagged shards slicing her throat.
It was her.
The girl was her.
The revelation wound around her heart like iron chains, each link tightening until she couldn’t breathe. Denial warred with acceptance, their conflict a tangled knot as she replayed the visions.
The ballroom filled with Sidhe of the air, laughter spilling into every corner, a lightness she could almost feel...
That place had been her home.
And the boy, the one with the glint of mischief in his eyes, inviting her to spin with him across the floor—that boy was her brother.
A family she never knew. Snatched from her grasp before she’d even known to reach for them.
Every moment she had spent feeling like an outcast, imagining herself as a lone star born from the Mother's whim was a lie.
She was Sidhe. Not some forsaken fragment of stardust. She had roots; she had blood ties. Belonged to a family violently ripped apart. The ache that had shadowed her for as long as she could remember wasn’t the sting of abandonment—it was grief, a love torn from her and left to bleed.
And now, watching her small, lifeless form being carried away, a howl built in her chest. Every shiver of Draoth, every whisper that had seemed to call her name—it all slotted into place.
The Draoth that thrummed in her veins, the innate understanding she had of its cadences, its textures, its smells—it wasn’t an oddity.
It was her birthright.
The Binding Sigil. The parasite.
They weren’t just chains—they were leeches, digging in deep, siphoning her strength, her will, her very sense of self.
It wasn’t just about control—it was concealment.
Slowly, the memory faded, dissolving like smoke. Her memory, a voice murmured in her mind, even as she doubled over, her body racked with silent, shuddering sobs.
“There is one more,” the collective whispered, their voices brushing against her frayed edges like a dark caress.
The shadows shifted, reshaping themselves, and then he appeared—Thane.
Younger, just fifteen, exactly as he’d been the night he’d tried to kill her.
But this wasn’t a memory.
He stood there, solid and clear, as if he’d never left.
“Elara.” His lips curved into a bittersweet smile. “I always believed you’d come. That you’d find the way.”
Her chest cracked open, an ache so deep it felt like she was bleeding from within. “Thane,” she choked out, “how do I get you out of here?”
His gaze softened, sorrow etched into every line of his face. “You can’t. I’ve been spirit-bound for too long.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, the words brittle.
He shook his head. “This burden isn’t yours to carry.”
She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself, as if she could hold the pieces of her breaking heart together. “Why are you here? Why haven’t you crossed over?”
The warmth faded from his face, shadows pooling in his gaze. “I can’t. None of us can. We’re stuck.”
“Stuck?”
“Aine—she holds the Void in her grip, keeps Rhiannon in her thrall. Without Rhiannon, none of us can pass. We’re trapped here.”
Trapped.
Souls trapped in the Void, and in the iron rings.
“What can I do?”
“Tell my brother to renounce his covenant.”
Her brow knitted, a thread of confusion winding through her despair.
Thane stepped forward, his eyes urgent. "His oath with Death. Tell him to break it to—"
Ice shot through Elara, splintering along her spine.
Her body jerked backward, her arm stretching helplessly, fingers splayed toward Thane even as she was yanked away.
She tried to scream, but the sound was stolen, swallowed by shadows as she was wrenched her from that darkened vision.
Her soul lurched, a brutal, sickening pull, hurling her into blinding light.
She slammed against cold stone, the impact reverberating through her spine, every nerve jolting awake. Yet her fingers clung to the Wound of Light, locked in a death grip around it. She didn’t need her eyes to know who stood before her.
She could feel their presence.
“What a dangerous little thief you’ve turned out to be,” Osin murmured.
Elara’s eyes fluttered open, her vision blurred and swimming before it focused—and her heart clenched, a searing, visceral ache.
Calista knelt before Osin, her spine straight, even as Osin's hand gripped her hair like a vice, jerking her head back. Yet even with her neck bared, her chin tilted upward, Calista’s gaze held his, burning, unbroken, like she’d spit fire if she could.
Osin’s gaze drifted to the blade in Elara's hand, his lips curling ever so slightly. “I do so despise when my belongings go wandering," he said, his eyes sliding back to her. "And you, I fear, have gone quite astray."
Her nostrils flared, a reflexive response she couldn’t control.
“Oh? You disagree?” His voice was a soft, dangerous caress. “Or have you perhaps forgotten the words of the divine?”
He is your guardian, and you, his guiding light.
Aine’s voice slithered through her mind, coiling around her like a serpent.
It tightened, squeezed, until her head swam.
How easily she’d believed them—clinging to the idea that she was chosen, that her purpose was tied to something noble, something the gods had deemed meaningful, that her suffering had meant something.
Osin’s gaze held that quiet, terrible patience, shadows curling around him. Waiting. Expecting her submission.
She’d die before she let him take one more piece of her.
In that moment, she was more than herself; she was the embodiment of every silent fury, of every suppressed scream, of every ounce of strength mustered in the face of insurmountable odds.
“I belong to no one."
He only laughed.
"Now we both know that isn't true."
A torrent of Legionnaires poured through the gaping mouth of the cave. The thunderous roar echoed down the twisting stone steps, reverberating into the heart of the Pit. Their helms obscured their faces, but the gleam of their eyes beneath was enough—a harsh, wrathful promise of violence.
At the forefront of the throng, Ivan emerged. He was a figure carved from obsidian, a wraith given form, the faint torchlight glinting off the edges of his pauldrons and the deadly curve of his glaive.
He stopped just behind Osin, his presence a cold, oppressive weight that seemed to drain the air from the chamber.
She kept her hands at her sides, resisting the pull to reach for the Draoth Cara—she would never touch it again. The mere thought made her sick. Her gaze locked with his, and she bit down on her lip until the metallic taste of blood touched her tongue.
The amber ring in his eyes flared—that same molten gold, that same searing fire she’d stared at from across her cell for weeks—a piercing arrow straight through her heart.
The Draoth Cara, the bond—it wasn't with Ivan.
It was with the Draoth he possessed.
The realization twisted inside her, a knife turning ever so slowly.
Reynnar's Draoth.