Chapter 59
Don’t look back.
Elara’s lungs burned with every breath as she pushed herself faster. She ignored the ache in her chest, the maddening pull begging her to stop. Just one glance. One look to see if Ivan was still alive.
But she didn’t. She couldn’t.
She kept running.
Her legs shook, muscles screaming as she tore down the narrow, winding tunnel that seemed to stretch endlessly before her. The stale air was heavy, oppressive, every breath tasting of iron and earth and death. She pushed herself faster.
Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, drowning out the world—the distant clash of battle, the faint cries she couldn’t place. Each frantic step hammered down the panic rising in her throat, the guilt that churned in her gut. Too much time. You’ve wasted too much time.
She passed one empty cell after another, her eyes desperately scanning for any sign of life. For Reynnar.
Please, gods. The prayer was a rasp in her mind, fragmented and broken. Just… please.
Her mind stilled, her feet halting abruptly as she reached a cell that wasn’t empty. One figure stood inside, barely illuminated by the flickering torchlight.
“Aoife.”
The Sidhe whipped around at her name, her eyes cutting through the gloom like a beacon.
Elara swung the Wound of Light, slicing through the wards on the cell and the shimmering barriers dissolved, vanishing like morning mist under the sun.
Before Elara could catch her breath, Aoife yanked the door open, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her forward.
“Where are the others?”
Elara couldn’t bring herself to say his name, couldn’t force it past the knot in her throat.
“Further down,” Aoife panted, her eyes flicking back anxiously. “They—they've been quiet for some time now.”
It felt like something inside her shattered, the pieces grinding together as she gasped. Her knees wobbled, but Aoife’s grip kept her moving.
“Don’t lose hope,” she whispered fiercely. “Not yet.”
Movement flickered up ahead, a shifting shadow in the dim light, and Elara yanked Aoife into an empty cell, her back slamming against the stone. Aoife crouched near the bars, the flickering light from the corridor dancing across her narrow features. She glanced back.
“Three guards,” she whispered, her eyes dropping to the blade in Elara’s hand. “Can you fight?"
Elara’s grip tightened around the hilt. "In a manner of speaking."
Aoife raised an eyebrow. "And what manner would that be, exactly?"
"I can’t claim any real expertise. But when I focus, the blade responds—light erupts from it. It feels like an extension of my will, somehow, though I can’t explain it."
It was like what Ivan taught her with the Draoth Cara, but without precision, and no threads to control. Just… raw force.
Aoife’s gaze held steady, assessing her, measuring. After a heartbeat, she gave a slight nod. “Stay close behind me. Only use it if you must.”
Elara nodded, but a hollow weight pressed against her. All those hours with the Draoth Cara, all those lessons meant to prepare her, now surfaced like an ugly scar. Guilt simmered, hot and edged, shame twisting at the thought of the stolen Draoth—the four souls bound to Ivan she had drawn from.
Reynnar’s.
Her teeth sank into her lip as she shoved the thoughts aside, but the heaviness lingered. She buried it as they slipped out of the cell.
They pressed to the wall, slipping into cracks and shadow as they crept closer to the guards. Three men stood laughing, passing a flask between them, carrying the easy confidence of those certain they wouldn’t be caught. They likely assumed the solstice revelries above were still in full swing.
Down here, deep in the Pit, the walls devoured sound, betraying nothing of the battle raging at the prison’s entrance.
Aoife’s bare steps made no sound as she glided toward the guards, a harbinger of death slipping through the darkness. Elara shivered as she glimpsed her face—pure, murderous intent etched in every line, her fangs bared and gleaming.
The faint shuffle of boots faltered as one guard’s head snapped up, his gaze catching the faintest flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. But it was too late.
Aoife pounced.
Her claws pierced the soft flesh of the man’s throat, cutting off his scream as blood gurgled past his lips. Her other hand shot out, raking across his chest like knifes. Before his body hit the ground, she was already on the second guard.
Her fangs sank into his ear, ripping it clean off in a spray of blood that spattered across the stone walls, streaking her silver hair like war paint as the man’s scream echoed through the air.
The third guard’s hand darted for his weapon, his body trembling as he fumbled for the hilt. Elara didn’t give him the chance. She lunged and drove her dagger into his back, more force than precision. The blade bit deep, tearing through leather and flesh.
The guard choked out a strangled gasp, his body convulsing as he staggered back, arm swinging wildly to strike Elara, but Aoife was there, fangs latching onto his throat.
A wet, gurgling sound escaped him—a half-formed scream—before she tore through his flesh, leaving him to collapse in a lifeless heap at her feet.
Elara could only gawk, rooted to the spot as Aoife spat—the shredded remnants of flesh landing with a wet splat. Her crimson-streaked face twisted into something savage, almost gleeful. And then, to Elara's utter shock, she laughed.
"Weak men taste like shit."
The second guard lifted his head, blood streaming from his ear. His eyes were glassy and wide, unfocused—like someone drunk on pain. But Elara felt the faint, sickening pull of Draoth from his ring, the thin tendrils of power he clawed for in a desperate bid to save himself.
Without a thought, she drove he Wound of Light into his chest.
His eyes flew open, shock etched into his face as blood spilled over her hands, dark and thick. For a beat, he was frozen, pinned in place, before his head lolled back.
Elara ripped the ring from his finger and dropped it to the ground. Her boot came down hard, shattering the jasper stone with a resounding crack. A thin wisp rose from the fragments, fading into the air.
Aoife stepped forward, crouching to strip the rings from the other two guards. She set them at Elara’s feet, and Elara crushed each stone under her heel, shards scattering as faint wisps drifted upward, barely visible in the dim light.
Elara swallowed, unease twisting in her stomach.
Please, she thought, let them have bodies to return to.
She took a steadying breath, her gaze falling back to the men—and it hit her.
She’d just killed someone. Killed. The word echoed in her mind.
Her hands trembled, the blade nearly slipping from her grip.
Her gaze dropped to her right hand, smeared with blood.
Her vision blurred, black spots creeping at the edges.
“Eilíara.”
She blinked, her gaze snapping up to meet Aoife’s piercing stare. “Let’s go.”
Elara forced her feet to move, falling into stride beside her. Each step felt heavy, the metallic scent of blood clinging thick in her lungs.
“They were monsters,” Aoife said, her gaze unwavering. “They do not deserve your gentle heart.”
“I know.” Elara swallowed and nodded, though her voice wavered. She told herself she did—she had to. But the truth felt tangled inside her, and she couldn’t stop shaking.
They moved in sync, their quick, quiet footsteps reverberating off the stone walls as they slipped down the narrow passage.
The air grew colder until they reached a dim, hauntingly familiar lab.
Shadows flickered across the stone, illuminated by the weak, dying light of a fire barely clinging to life.
“Rey!” Aoife’s voice broke as she rushed to the figure slumped against the wall, his wrists shackled.
Elara’s gaze locked onto him, catching the faint, uneven rise and fall of his chest, his skin deathly pale against the tangled raven-black hair matted to his face.
Her chest tightened, a sob rising in her throat, but she swallowed it down and sprinted forward, dropped to her knees beside him, and struck the shackles with her dagger in a swift, fierce slash. They fell away, and she grabbed him before he collapsed.
He’s alive. He’s alive. He’s alive.
A choked gasp escaped her as she clung to him, her fingers digging into his back, feeling the solid warmth of him. Aoife stood nearby, watching, unmoving, as Reynnar’s arms slowly wrapped around her.
“You gave up,” she managed through the broken words, though anger bled into her voice. She didn’t even know why—why she felt this tangled knot of relief, fury, and heartbreak all at once, an overwhelming, impossible storm inside her.
He pulled back slightly, his gaze unfocused, weary eyes flickering over her face.
His eyes. That deep amber, so achingly beautiful.
Looking into them felt like staring at a truth she’d missed, a puzzle she should have solved long ago.
A surge of rage and devastation twisted within her, each emotion crashing into the next.
How had she not seen it? How could she have been so blind?
"Eilíara."
She watched the fog in his eyes retreat, clearing inch by inch. A single tear slipped down her cheek as she nodded, her trembling fingers brushing her face in their age-old code—a gesture etched into her very soul.
Reynnar's lip twitched upward. "There she is."
The sound of his voice—deep and teasing—broke something in Elara, a pang that rippled through her heart.
“Rey,” Aoife’s voice cut in, urgent. “Can you stand?”
He nodded, his jaw tight, and Elara slipped an arm around his waist. His legs shook with each shift of weight, a grimace carving into his features.
Aoife stepped closer, her slender fingers grabbing Reynnar’s chin to tilt his face toward her.
Rapid Tírrísh spilled from her lips, too quick for Elara to follow.
He grunted, giving a curt nod, and then they were moving, breaking into a staggered run.