Chapter 59 #2
The air grew colder, stinging Elara’s cheeks as they raced down the narrow, twisting passage. The shouting reached her first—faint echoes down the stone corridor—then grew louder. Voices. Sidhe voices. Clanging against the bars with a fevered pulse.
Then, as they rounded the corner, she froze, her breath stolen.
Hundreds of them. Freed from their cells, spilling into the corridor. How—?
It clicked. The rings she and Aoife had destroyed—the three wisps of Draoth returned to their rightful owners.
Two fire, one air. She could almost feel their power coursing through the stone, shattering wards, breaking locks, clearing paths.
They had reclaimed their strength, using it to tear down their cages and free their people.
Tears stung her eyes as she moved with them, her blade flashing as it cut through ward after ward. She moved from cell to cell without pause, her breaths ragged, the weight of the Wound of Light growing heavier with every swing.
Somewhere down the corridor, Reynnar’s voice rang out, barking orders, corralling them toward the sixth tunnel, toward the Aelfhenge.
Dozens of Sidhe poured from the cells, a rushing tide darting through the darkened passageways, their footsteps pounding a thunderous tempo against the stone.
Elara pressed forward, working alongside the three Sidhe, moving in near-perfect tandem as they wrenched open cell after cell.
Finally, the last lock shattered, and the heavy metal door swung open with a groan.
Her chest heaved and her limbs trembled with exhaustion as the last of the Sidhe fled into the corridor.
But Elara didn’t stop. She turned, forcing herself to keep pace with the others, Reynnar and Aoife close behind.
Her legs burned but the stream of bodies pushing forward, the rush of movement, kept her going.
As they neared the last stretch of the tunnel, distant shouts filtered in, growing clearer with each step. Elara cursed under her breath.
Reynnar drew up beside her, his breath uneven. “How many?”
“Too many,” she muttered, glancing at him. A vein throbbed in his temple, his expression strained, and she could see the way he pushed through, barely concealing the pain radiating from his injured leg.
At the tunnel’s end, the noise erupted, shouts and clashing weapons echoing through the Pit, ricocheting off the walls. They were fighting their way deeper in. Shit.
The group burst out of the tunnel, turning hard to the left toward the sixth, but Elara faltered mid-step, her gaze snagging on a figure amidst the storm of bodies.
Avis.
She stood on the front lines, her silhouette carved against the frenzy of fire and iron.
Her arms moved in fluid arcs, wielding the earth with a power that seemed almost effortless.
Rocks shot upward like shields, deflecting incoming strikes, and then hurtled down like battering rams, smashing through lines of Legionnaires.
The ground shifted and buckled beneath her command sending Legionnaires scrambling.
Mother above.
Avis was wielding Draoth.
Elara’s heart stuttered, her mind scrambling to make sense of what she was seeing. Avis is a remnant. She had to be. She had never converged with an element—a Sidhe. She had failed the convergence. She had…lied.
Elara’s eyes darted through the chaos, picking out faces in the fray—Dario, Yoni, Bryn, Dominic… even Saria. All of them were here, fighting for her. Her heart twisted, her body trembling as the realization sank in. Avis had always been a spy. And Saria.
Keepers, hidden right under Osin’s nose, just as Dominic had hinted.
All this time...
“Eilíara!” Reynnar’s shout pierced her daze, snapping her back to the present.
She blinked, chest heaving, then bolted after him into the sixth tunnel.
They sprinted past rows of empty cells, the desolate corridors a blur. Past the massive vaulted chamber she would never forget. The sight of it seared into her memory—the endless lines of caged Sidhe, their hollowed faces, the air thick with their despair.
And then there it was. The Aelfhenge.
The ancient stones stood notched and weathered, towering in the center of the chamber. The room swarmed with Sidhe, their forms a restless sea of movement. Voices rose in frantic, feverish murmurs, the words tumbling over one another in a rush, leaving her mind spinning.
As Elara approached the stones, her steps slowed, drawn forward by the eerie stillness that seemed to compress the air within the circle.
“Don’t touch the Aelfhenge!” she called out, her voice slicing through the din. She turned back to the Sidhe, meeting their wary stares head-on. “It belongs to Rhiannon.”
Death.
She knew it in her very marrow. One touch had been enough to cross that boundary.
The Wound of Light throbbed at her side, heat radiating through her palm. From somewhere deeper in the tunnels, the clang of swords and the cries of battle grew louder, closing in.
Elara gritted her teeth, tension flaring through her as she stepped into the circle of stones. The air dropped, her breath fanning out in white puffs, but she closed her eyes and drew in a slow, steady breath.
Every scar, every shadowed memory, every drop of blood—this was her armor.
She sank into that deep, silent place within herself, untouched by fear or hesitation, where feeling dissolved and left only purpose and unyielding will.
The surrounding noise faded, replaced by the steady thud of her heartbeat, the warmth pulsing through her veins, and the electric rush prickling beneath her skin.
She exhaled, channeling every ounce of rage, every shard of strength into a single, fluid motion. Her blade sliced through the air, trailing a glimmering arc of light, the faint whisper of her tunic the only sound that followed.
Time stilled.
Slowly, the thread of light faded, and a rift formed, widening before her.
Elara let out a shaky breath, her chest tight with the thrill and fear of what lay beyond.
Behind her, movement stirred—the soft rustle of Reynnar and Aoife shifting just outside the circle of stones—but she kept her gaze locked on the dark, swirling expanse of the Void.
“I’ll be right back,” she murmured, glancing over her shoulder and catching their watchful eyes before turning back to the rift.
Once again, the Void was still, Epona’s blade tempering the dark expanse.
She looked down at the blade in her hand.
The Wound of Light is the door, and you are the key.
Elara squared her shoulders and extended the blade, angling its tip through the subtle currents around her.
The moment it touched, she felt a tremor—a ripple.
The currents split apart, fracturing into dozens of shimmering threads, light scattering like rays through glass. Tír na nóg, she thought, her heart pounding as she focused on the name. I want to open the gate to Tír na nóg.
Elara lifted the Wound of Light, the blade catching the faint glow of the currents as she traced it carefully through them, focusing on the memory—the kingdom of air she’d glimpsed weeks ago.
She pictured the grand ballroom, its walls shimmering like spun silk, saw herself as a young girl, twirling with her brother.
Her throat tightened.
She bit hard into her cheek, forcing the emotion down, shoving it aside. Now was not the time to dwell on a life stolen from her—or a boy whose soul might be lost somewhere within this endless expanse.
Elara pressed the blade’s tip into the fractured current, feeling the thrum of energy vibrate up her arm.
The metal pulsed, alive with power—but then, her chest clenched, a searing, crushing grip that stole her breath.
She gasped, her hand flying to her heart.
Something dark coiled there, deep inside, twisting tighter with every spark of energy from the blade.
The parasite.
She clenched her teeth, trying to press forward, to force the rift open despite the agony stabbing through her ribs. But the pain became blinding, unrelenting, dragging her vision into a haze and tearing a cry from her lips.
Elara yanked the blade from the current, her fingers clawing at her neck as she struggled for air.
No. No.
She tightened her grip on the hilt, refusing to fail, even as cold sweat slicked her skin. Determined, she raised the blade again, but the moment it touched the currents, the darkness surged. It devoured the energy from the Wound of Light, consuming it like a ravenous beast.
Fuck.
Elara staggered backward, her hands trembling violently at her sides.
She couldn’t do it. Gods, she had promised, and she couldn’t do it.
Stumbling out of the Void, her the faces waiting for her came into view, each one filled with silent, desperate hope. She couldn’t bring herself to meet their eyes, except for one.
“I was so sure,” she said to Reynnar, her voice barely more than a whisper. He reached out, his fingers steady as they wrapped around hers, firm and calm against the tremor in her own.
“Let us help you,” Aoife said, stepping to her other side.
Elara’s gaze shifted, narrowing as it fixed on the three Sidhe behind Aoife. They stood like statues carved from moonlight—fierce, otherworldly.
The two females were opposites: one with hair as dark as midnight cascading down her back, her skin pale and almost luminous in the dim light; the other with fiery, untamed hair the color of autumn leaves, her brown skin ashen, robbed of its warmth by long, lightless days of captivity.
The male stood slightly behind them, tall and broad, his silver-streaked hair falling loose around a face etched with years of scars.
Their hands rested at their sides, but tension coiled in their stances—a readiness, as if they were waiting for the slightest signal to unleash the power humming beneath their skin.
Elara glanced back at Reynnar and Aoife, unease prickling in her stomach, a quiet sense of foreboding settling over her. But she nodded, resolute, and the five of them stepped forward, vanishing into the Void.
The air shifted, cool and still, the subtle currents of the Void brushing gently against her skin.
The quiet was unnerving, the calm pressing in like a held breath.
She raised the Wound of Light high, and sliced the blade’s tip through the air, parting the swirling streams with a fierce, precise strike.
A faint glow rippled outward, fragments of the Void illuminated in soft glimmers of light. The fracture widened in response, but with it came a familiar tightening in her chest—an invisible claw sinking deep.
Elara trembled, her strength funneling into the darkness within her.
She grit her teeth, swallowing back her cry as the blade wavered, slipping just enough to nick her palm.
Her muscles screamed, trembling violently as she pushed the blade forward, every ounce of her will, every shred of her spirit, thrown into the desperate act of forcing the gate to open.
Her vision blurred, black spots creeping at the edges.
Too much. Her heart thundered, a wild, unsteady rhythm that threatened to stop altogether. She was loosing too much.
And then—warmth. A grounding pressure curled around her wrist, pulling her back from the edge.
Startled, her gaze darted down to find the woman with midnight hair gripping her tightly.
Her hold anchoring Elara as a surge of Draoth coursed through her veins.
It was cool, rushing like a sweeping tide, filling every inch of her.
The ache in her chest ebbed, the leeching sensation retreating under the force flowing into her.
Elara angled the blade deeper into the fracture, pushing forward as the currents gave way. It felt as though the sun coiled inside her, stars flaring and collapsing within her bones, filling her as the blade shook in her hand.
The other two Sidhe stepped up and poured their Draoth into the current—a torrent of fire that surged through her, driving the storm inside her to a breaking point. She stood at the heart of a maelstrom, pure energy coursing beneath her skin, sparking along her veins.
Then it hit her, a blow to the chest that left her breathless. The floodgates opened, and she saw it all—their fears, their fleeting hopes, and the grim certainty in their minds.
They were going to die.
They were sacrificing themselves for their people.
Her lips quivered as she fought to contain the tidal wave of emotion rising inside her, fingers curling into fists until her knuckles ached. And still, the Sidhe poured everything into her, draining themselves of every last shred of power.
They were trusting her—with their people, their sacrifice. Trusting her to carry it all across the rift. It was a faith so absolute, so fierce, it felt like her soul might fracture under it.
A deep well of sadness threatened to drown her—grief for all that had been taken from them, the torment they'd endured.
But that sorrow shifted inside her, curling into something blistering.
The Draoth coursing through her flared, heat singeing her fingertips before she realized she was pulling on the thread of fire within her, releasing her ire in a physical surge.
What Osin had taken from them—from her. It was heinous, unimaginable. Ripping families apart, stealing children from their beds, draining the Sidhe of their Draoth to cement his reign over the realm.
It was a massacre—a slow annihilation of her people. Her people.
The fire crept insidiously, charring her hands before coiling around her wrists, creeping upward like ivy. Her body shook, muscles taut and trembling, straining as if on the verge of snapping. Every part of her braced against the mounting pressure.
She drove the Wound of Light deeper, inch by inch, feeling the resistance give way—a slow crack splintering open in the dark.
The parasite inside her twisted, coiling and thrashing, fighting back against the power of the Sidhe and the blade.
Come on, come on.
With each drive of the blade, memories surged through her—moments of blood and grit, triumph wrested from despair, dreams shattered and painstakingly rebuilt, vows whispered in the dead of night, and defiant cries hurled against the dark.
Each scar, every tear, every breathless laugh—every broken moment—braided together, feeding the fire at her core.
The world may have seen her as broken, but it was time they realized—broken things can be sharp, deadly.
Elara screamed, driving the Wound of Light into the fracture. And then, as if the fates conspired in her favor, the dagger tore through the fabric of reality, unleashing a cataclysmic force that bridged the two worlds.