Chapter 58
Elara forced herself upright, her legs unsteady but her grip on the Wound of Light ironclad. Power throbbed from it, pulsing in time with the fury stirring in her chest, simmering hotter with every breath she drew.
The third thread—the faint, fragile glow she glimpsed in her dreams, always lingering at the edges, a light she’d never dared to reach for. It had been Reynnar all along, barely clinging to life, flickering weakly in the depths of Ivan’s subconscious.
Her hands curled into fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms as a tremor rippled through her frame.
The world narrowed to a haze of red. Her breaths came fast and shallow, each one a bellows stoking the inferno raging inside her.
Ivan.
The name drummed through her mind, tender and vicious, a caress that left behind scars. But no. He wasn’t Ivan. He was the Hunter.
She had clung to the notion that Ivan was a distinct part of him, something she could extract and redeem.
But that had been a foolish delusion—the naive fantasy of a lonely girl.
There was no shared path, no common thread weaving them together.
They were creations of opposing forces, drawn together only to destroy one another, bound by a pull that could lead only to ruin.
Disgust twisted in her, a molten, ugly thing. He knew—had always known; every dark truth, every heinous act, and worse, he was complicit.
To think she had dreamt of him as an ally.
Osin’s steps were languid, each one deliberate, like a predator savoring every inch of ground he claimed. He dragged Calista across the floor, her body limp at his side.
Elara’s instinct to flinch didn’t escape him. He paused, his gaze locking onto hers, the faint glimmer of something that almost looked like delight flickering in his eyes.
“How endearing,” he purred, “two childhood friends, paths crossing once more under such fascinating circumstances.” He tilted his head. “I imagine there’s a charming tale there—perhaps one you’ll regale me with, in due course. But for now…”
Osin extended his hand, palm open. “The blade. Before I tire of this little game.”
A flicker of unease prickled at the edges of the Draoth Cara, a ghostly thread of Ivan's emotions brushing against her thoughts. Her jaw tightened as she forced the connection away with a fierce shove and slammed the door of her mind shut, erecting towering, impenetrable walls.
Across the space, Ivan’s posture flinched. Good.
It was empowering. Liberating. At her side, the Wound of Light seemed to thrum in response, a faint vibration coursing through the hilt.
Osin's eye narrowed, the veneer of patience thinning. "Come now, Hallowed. Let's not make this more complicated than it needs to be."
Calista’s eyes met hers, wide and burning. Don’t you dare, they seemed to scream.
Elara’s mind spun, her fingers clenching around the blade. Give it up, and risk the Sidhe. Defy him, and risk Calista.
A line of cold sweat slid down her spine.
Her grip tightened on the dagger until the leather bit into her palm.
She couldn’t fight him—not like this. She refused to touch the Draoth Cara, and though Epona’s dagger pulsed in her hand, brimming with ancient power, she didn’t know how to wield it.
Her heart thundered, each beat slamming against her ribs like a drumbeat growing louder and faster.
No.
The drumbeat wasn’t her heart—it was coming from somewhere above them.
Dust shivered loose from the ceiling. The impact reverberated through stone and floor, straight into her bones.
Boots. Dozens at first, then more.
A deadly rhythm rolling down into the Pit.
Osin’s sigh cut through the noise, soft and oddly wistful. “They came for you. Isn’t that… touching? Traitors. Thieves. They think they can take what’s mine.”
He paused, his tone shifting to something almost regretful. “This, I suppose, is my failure—a small misjudgment. In trying to cast you as a symbol of the divine, the Mother’s blessed child, a living testament to her grace, I’ve inadvertently sparked a dangerous glimmer of hope.”
Ivan shifted, his body tense and coiled like a spring. She felt his gaze but kept her eyes forward, refusing to meet it. Even so, it skimmed old scars, resurrecting pain and pleasure alike.
His gaze wasn’t just on her face—it was everywhere, reading, deciphering, understanding, accusing. A reflection of the dance they had always played.
A dance of truths and lies.
Of hope and despair.
Shouts echoed from the top of the Pit, mingling with the clash of bodies and the scream of metal against metal. The Legionnaires around Osin moved closer, forming an unbreakable wall.
But Osin’s gaze stayed locked on her.
A low chuckle escaped his lips, chilling in its softness. “They believe, I imagine, that you possess some sliver of power to aid their pitiful cause. Shall we show them how very mistaken they are?”
Before she could brace, shadows exploded from his outstretched hand, tearing from every corner of the Pit, a writhing, snarling mass surging straight for her.
Elara didn’t think—she moved, wrenching the blade up.
Light detonated up her arm. The Wound of Light’s power bursting free like a dam blown wide.
No careful threading. No measured pull from the Draoth Cara.
Just force.
The light ripped through her, then outward—an erupting wave that slammed into the shadows and tore them apart, scattering what remained like ash.
Osin rolled his eyes. “A party trick.”
In one swift motion, he hurled Calista to the ground and slammed his foot into the floor.
Shadows erupted beneath Elara, twisting up like a nest of snakes.
They caught her—wrists, legs—coiling tight, dragging her down.
She strained against their grip as Ivan’s presence slammed into her mind, pressing hard.
She shoved back harder. Refused him. Refused to use what he wanted.
Reynnar’s gods-damned soul.
Elara’s scream tore through the air as her fingers finally went slack. The blade slipped free, clattering against the stone beside her.
“Time and time again, I offer you the chance to prove your loyalty. To show your worth.” Osin sighed softly. “For that is your role, Hallowed. To submit. To obey. To serve me. It is, after all, in your very nature.”
“Lies!”
He cocked his neck. “Did the Void fill your head with tales, whisper promises of greatness? Tell you that you’re something special, some precious keystone?”
Elara's teeth ground together, but he laughed. “That is the lie, Hallowed. You are nothing more than a stain, an abomination against humanity and against the one true goddess, Aine. Just like the rest of the Sidhe.” He took another step closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Though I’ll grant you this—you all serve a purpose. A purpose I have been entrusted to see fulfilled. To heal, to consecrate, to give back what your kind stole before the Great Divide.”
“Why go through the charade, then?” Elara spat, struggling against his shadows. “If I’m such an abomination, why the song and dance?”
His mouth twitched. “At first it was necessity. You see, the people needed a symbol, someone to embody this great ‘gift.’ A shining example of the blessings bestowed upon them—until, of course, it wasn’t so benevolent, wasn’t quite so free.
And when it all began to crumble, when reality bled through the illusion, they needed someone to blame. Someone expendable. Convenient.”
He took a step closer, the faintest hint of mockery glinting in his eyes. “But not me. Oh, no. I remained their salvation, their hope. The one to kneel before. The one to beg for mercy, mercy I might graciously grant—if they proved deserving.”
Elara's stomach churned. “You're sick.”
“No, Hallowed. I am inevitable.”
He pressed his shadows tighter, squeezing around her ribs, climbing up her throat.
Elara’s vision blurred as she fought it, forced her gaze to focus, catching sight of Calista in the distance and Ivan’s hand slipping something small and glinting into hers.
She tore her eyes away, a sudden, searing pain rippling through her chest, dragging an agonized whimper out of her.
The shadows burrowed deeper, winding tighter, coiling like vipers around that dark, festering core—the parasite.
Osin’s mouth twitched, his eyes narrowing into icy slits at her as the sounds of battle drew closer.
And then—a flash.
A blinding cascade of ice erupted, shards exploding outward, snapping and splintering like the howl of a winter storm.
It surged from Calista’s outstretched hand, freezing the air itself into a crystalline wall that encased Osin.
Calista’s eyes burned with cold fury. She snarled through gritted teeth, her body trembling with the chaotic, untamed energy.
One of Ivan’s volatile spells, Elara realized.
Osin’s eyes widened as a sheen of frost climbed, scaling him in layers of glittering ice. His shadows loosened, and Elara gasped, air rushing into her lungs so fast it nearly knocked her off balance.
A shout rang out, cutting through as several Legionnaires broke from their defensive line, fire sparking in their palms, hurling flames at the ice and it splintered and hissed under the heat.
Elara’s gaze snapped downward, locking on the Wound of Light.
It lay just beyond her, its golden surface catching the fractured light from the flames. Her fingers twitched, the tips brushing the cold, frost-streaked stone as she stretched further, her body trembling with the effort. Please. Her thoughts screamed louder than the clamor around her. Please.
Osin’s snarl tore through the air as he broke free, a violent surge of darkness erupting around him.
He moved—a blur of wrath and power barreling toward her, but in that split-second—between the ice fracturing and his shadows reforming—Elara’s fingers brushed the blade, barely a touch.
It was enough.
A jolt of power snapped through her hand, shooting up her arm, a shockwave that ignited everything inside her. She screamed, the sound tearing from her throat, ripped free by the force of her terror.
Light erupted from her in a blinding shield.
Jagged and wild, it channeled her fear into power—a field of erratic, pulsating light clashing violently against the tempest of darkness.
It was not just a barrier; it was her scream given form, her terror given light—a vortex of frantic energy spun from the sheer force of her will to survive, to resist.
Osin stalked her shield, his glacial blue eyes burned into hers, rage twisting his features. Black seeped from his pupils, devouring the pale frost until his gaze became endless, hollow darkness.
Shadows slammed into the barrier, hammering it like fists. Again. And again. The light wavered under the force, shuddering with each blow. He didn’t stop. His lips curled into a snarl. Another surge. The barrier cracked, faint lines spidering across its surface.
“Fine,” he bit out. “The hard way, then.”
In a heartbeat, his shadows shot out, darting behind him—straight toward Calista.
Elara’s gaze collided with fierce emerald eyes, wide with defiance, anguish—a thousand unspoken things crammed into a single, agonizing second.
And then gone.
The light died as Osin’s shadows coiled around her, snapping her neck in a single, brutal twist.
A hollow ache split Elara’s chest, driving the air from her lungs. Then came the heat—white-hot rage—flooding her veins.
She moved on instinct.
A snarl tore from her throat as she shattered the barrier and lunged—only for shadows to snap shut around her wrist.
Osin laughed, a low, mocking sound. “Still so reckless. For all your supposed cleverness, you truly are a fool.” His power tightened, and Elara cried out as her wrist cracked.
“You never learn, do you? No matter how many times I take your memories away, you keep making the same mistakes.”
Elara’s grip on the blade trembled, and it pulsed in her hand, cold steel pressing into her palm as she strained forward, willing it to reach his throat, to end this.
Her memories—they hadn’t just slipped away, lost to some careless experiment.
He’d taken them. Found her in the Void. Ripped them from her.
The realization was ice in her veins, fury and helplessness twisting inside her.
Her breath hitched as hot tears burned at the corners of her eyes, threatening to spill. She forced them back.
“Now,” he murmured, his voice soft, almost coaxing, “hand over the blade, and perhaps… I’ll permit you to keep your new memories. A fair bargain, wouldn’t you say?”
She blinked, his words sinking in, her pulse stuttering.
Why does he keep asking?
The dagger hovered inches from his face, her arm locked in his shadows—why not just take it?
Quick as a flash her gaze darted to Ivan's, the answer right there in his eyes.
Because he couldn’t.
He needed her to give it willingly.
But why?
Osin’s lip twitched, the darkness around her coiling tighter, snaking up her throat—and flinched.
A deafening crack shook the Pit, a sound like the sky splitting apart. The massive iron doors at the far end exploded inward, shards of metal and splinters of wood raining down.
Rebels poured through the breach, their war cries echoing off the cavern walls, a tide of fury.
At their head was Dominic. His eyes blazed with unrestrained rage, his sword dripping crimson, each step carrying the promise of vengeance. Without hesitation, he raised his hands, fingers curling into claws, and the earth beneath them roared to life.
The ground fractured, groaned, then erupted in a towering wave of churning rock and soil. The sheer force of it split the Pit’s floor wide open, serrated cracks racing outward, sending Legionnaires sprawling as the surge of earth barreled straight for the king.
Osin whirled, a rush of shadows spiraling outward from his hands. They solidified midair, forming a thick, roiling barricade that collided with the oncoming wall of earth. The impact was catastrophic—shadows and stone clashing in an eruption of dust and raw power.
The shockwave blasted through the Pit, sending debris raining down, and the binds on her wrist loosened.
The Wound of Light gleamed in Elara's hand as she swung down with all the strength she could muster, cutting clean through the writhing tendrils, severing them in a burst of sizzling power.
A scream ripped from Osin's throat—cracked, guttural, a sound so strange, so human, that she almost froze, almost took that precious heartbeat to watch the pain contort his face.
But she forced herself to turn, her heart hammering as she sprinted across the cracked floor of the Pit, veering right toward the tunnels.