Chapter 60
Reality splintered with a deafening roar, sending tremors rippling through the Void. The currents becoming wild, screaming around Elara as she pulled the Wound of Light from the rift.
The hands that had steadied her slipped away, the last traces of Draoth fading from her veins, leaving her feeling suddenly, achingly empty.
Nothing moved.
The silence was uncanny, weighty, broken only by the hum of the rift hanging in the air before them, alive with a volatile, uncontained energy.
Elara looked up, eyes wide as she glimpsed what lay beyond—a world of colors that defied reason, hues that seemed to shimmer and shift with each passing second.
Shades of green, blue, and gold bled into one another, creating landscapes that looked like moving glass, like someone had taken the idea of wonder and spun it into existence.
Her pupils dilated, her heart stuttering between beats. A hint of a smile touched her lips as she glanced back—
—and the air tore from her lungs in a painful rush.
The three Sidhe lay still on the cold expanse of the Void, their forms already dissolving, fading into the darkness.
A strangled sound tore from her as she stumbled forward, hands outstretched. Nothing met her grasp but air.
Elara looked up to find anguish etched across Reynnar’s face. Aoife stood beside him, tears streaking her cheeks, gaze fixed on the fallen Sidhe, shoulders trembling with quiet sobs.
Reynnar turned to Aoife, his voice hoarse, barely more than a whisper. “Go.”
Aoife gave a trembling nod, quickly wiping her eyes before turning and sprinting out of the Void.
Moments later, a flood of Sidhe poured in, brushing past her like fleeting bursts of life against the Void’s unrelenting chill.
They surged toward the rift, toward the freedom won by the final breaths of the three who had sacrificed everything.
“Eilíara.”
She met Reynnar’s gaze. Slowly, he reached forward, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “Come with me.” Her lids slid closed, tension coiling along her neck. Gods, she wanted to. Every fiber of her being screamed that it was the right choice, the only choice.
But she opened her eyes and shook her head, a faint tremor running through her. “I can’t.”
His brow creased, a flicker of hurt and confusion crossing his face.
Elara swallowed and glanced down at the blade in her hand—the weapon forged by a goddess, the one thing Osin couldn’t take from her. “I promised someone,” she murmured, “I promised I would kill the king.”
She had to do it—for Calista, for herself, for every soul Osin had torn apart and stolen. There was no future, no safety, until he was gone. The weight of the blade in her hand was her only certainty, its edge promising vengeance—the finality she needed to end him.
Reynnar caught her eye, reading something in her expression that didn’t need words. A quiet resolve settled over him as he nodded. “I’m going with you.”
The words struck like ice, a wave of panic rising in her chest. “No. Leave. You need to get out of this place. To be free of it. You’ve given enough.”
Tears blurred her vision, slipping down her cheeks as the three Sidhe behind him dissolved, fading into the Void. “You’ve all given too much already. Go.”
But he shook his head, his jaw tight, his eyes unyielding. “No.”
She shoved him, tried to push him toward the gate, into the throng of Sidhe racing for freedom. “Yes,” she hissed, but he didn’t budge.
Gods damn him.
Reynnar’s hand wrapped around hers. “I would sooner carve my own heart out than leave you to face this alone.”
“I won’t be alone,” she said, thinking of the others—Avis, Dario, Dominic. She had allies.
But his grip on her hand didn’t loosen. “No. You won’t.”
Aoife ran up to them, her face flushed. “This is the last of them.”
A group of about twenty Sidhe shuffled into the Void, glancing back before sprinting toward the rift.
Aoife reached out and grabbed Reynnar’s hand, trying to pull him along.
Her brows furrowed when he didn’t move. Instead, he drew her close, his hand cradling the back of her head as he murmured something against her hair.
Her eyes fluttered shut, a single tear slipping down her cheek, followed by another.
After a moment, she nodded, her face tight.
She released him and turned to Elara, pulling her into an embrace.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice soft against Elara’s hair, before pressing a kiss to her cheek. She glanced back at Reynnar. One last look, then stepped into the rift and vanished.
Elara’s voice wavered as she turned to him. “Please, go. Aoife—she needs you. She loves—”
Reynnar raised a brow. “My sister is needed in Tír na nóg.” His mouth twitched. “She knows the stakes, and if she had a problem with it, she’d have told me—with her fists if necessary.”
Elara blinked, processing his words. His sister.
She exhaled slowly, her chest tight, fighting the urge to beg him one last time to leave. But she knew Reynnar—once he’d made up his mind, there was no changing it. So she took his hand, gripping tightly, and together, they ran.
The ground lurched beneath them, a deep, ugly shudder that rattled Elara’s teeth and sent a thin rain of dust whispering down from the ceiling.
Every impact ahead echoed through the tunnel like a warning she didn’t want to hear, the stone carrying the violence straight into her chest. The fight had already pushed halfway the Aelfhenge, faster than it should have, faster than she’d let herself think about while they ran.
Her breath burned. Her legs burned. Fear crept in anyway, curling tight and cold beneath her ribs, no matter how hard she tried to outrun it.
Reynnar’s hand tightened around hers before he pulled her back so suddenly she stumbled, boots scraping stone as they skidded to a halt.
“What’s the plan?”
The plan. Right. The plan.
Her mind raced, her breaths quick and uneven. “I need to get to the king. Close enough to drive this through his heart.” Elara lifted the blade. “He’s strong. It won’t be easy.”
Reynnar released her hand, a hint of a grin breaking through the tension on his face.
“Then we make it easy. I’ll cut through his guards, clear you a path.
And if the bastard tries to run, I’ll be right there, shoving him back into place.
” He tapped his fist against his chest with a quick, decisive nod.
“You just focus on getting that blade where it needs to go.”
Elara nodded, even though there wasn’t a trace of confidence anywhere in her. This wasn’t a plan—it was barely even an idea, and they both knew it. But Reynnar gave her one of those steady, assessing looks.
“You’ve got this, Eilíara,” he said, “I’ve watched you do the impossible before. You’ll do it again.”
Elara took a steadying breath, gritting her teeth as her hand tightened around the blade.
Reynnar’s grin widened, a flash of fangs glinting. “Stay close to me.”
They sprinted down the tunnel, feet pounding against stone, the clash and roar of battle growing louder.
The air buzzed with crackling Draoth, scorching her lungs with each breath.
As they rounded a corner, a burst of fire erupted in front of them, colliding with a wave of earth that shot up from the ground, sending rocks and embers flying in every direction.
Reynnar yanked her aside just in time, both of them ducking as a blazing shard of stone whizzed past her head.
They exchanged a brief glance, their breaths uneven, then plunged forward, weaving through the fray. The battle churned around them—bodies pressing in from all sides, bursts of fire, water, and stone cutting through the darkness in blinding, erratic flashes.
Elara screamed as a figure burst from the smoke—a soldier with a wicked grin, his sword already swinging toward her.
She ducked on instinct, clumsy and panicked, nearly tripping as she twisted away.
Her grip slipped on the dagger’s hilt, palms slick with sweat, and she barely managed a wild upward swing, the blade grazing his arm.
He snarled, shoving her back, but Reynnar lunged between them, grabbing the man and ripping him away, his hands finding the soldier’s throat as his fangs tore into flesh. The soldier’s gurgled howl faded quickly, his body slumping to the ground, blood pooling beneath him.
Reynnar spared her a brief, wild grin before charging into the next wave.
Her vision swam, her breaths shallow and ragged as she tried to keep up.
Everywhere she looked, there was motion—a flash of silver, a spray of blood, a blur of bodies colliding and falling.
A soldier spun toward her, eyes narrowed as he chanted under his breath, tendrils of earth twisting up from the ground.
She swung the blade desperately, aiming low, feeling the resistance as it cut through his leg.
He crumpled to the ground with a grunt, but not before a jagged rock whipped past her, tearing through her sleeve.
A fiery sting erupted along her arm as blood welled up, soaking into the shredded fabric.
Elara stumbled back, gasping, her gaze flicking to Reynnar as he cut down another opponent—muscles coiled, movements fluid and lethal. She started toward him, but a figure lunged from the side, mace swinging.
She ducked. Air roared past her head, missing by inches.
She didn’t think—she surged forward, blade thrusting out in a rough, desperate strike.
The blade struck his side, but the angle was wrong—too shallow.
He staggered but stayed on his feet, already turning back toward her. Elara stumbled away, lost her footing, and went down hard, hands scraping through dirt as the dagger suddenly felt too heavy to lift.
Then Reynnar was there.
A dark blur at her side. He seized the man and hurled him back, fangs bared. Steel flashed. One brutal sweep across the soldier’s throat.