Chapter 4 #3
“Even if it were,” another lord said, and Elara felt her stomach drop at the casual cruelty in his tone, “it does not explain why you have brought that into our kingdom.”
The word that landed like a slap.
Elara’s pulse jumped. She kept her face still by sheer force of will, though heat flared in her veins, in her eyes. She could feel the bloodstone warm against her sternum, as if responding to her anger. A chorus of murmurs followed—words she didn’t fully catch, but the tone was unmistakable.
Human. Intruder. Poison.
Reynnar’s nostrils flared. “Her name—”
“Is irrelevant,” the slate-eyed male snapped. “You know our law. As old as the roots of Tír na nóg. It was set the moment we were granted sanctuary and severed from those beasts.” His gaze hardened. “They are to be slain on sight.”
A measured pause.
“It is true we have not laid eyes on one in nearly a millennium. How she crossed into our realm will be investigated, thoroughly. But the law itself is not in question. It was spoken by the Triad. It binds Ellylldan and Turlaith alike. Why have you broken it?”
Reynnar shifted imperceptibly closer to Elara, his arm brushing her side. The contact sent a thin thread of calm through her.
“She is not—”
A different voice cut over his. “She is human,” the amber-braided female said, leaning forward. “Rounded ears. Mortal scent. Flesh that bleeds like water. Do not insult this hall.”
Elara tasted ash—the faint burn of Reynnar’s anger rising beside her, heat bleeding into the air between them. He started again, forcing his voice to stay level.
“She was stolen,” he said. “Raised under enchantment. Used. She fought beside Sídhe. She carries Draoth—”
Someone scoffed.
“—and she has evidence—”
“Evidence,” the slate-eyed male repeated, and his smile was the kind humans wore when they were about to commit depravity and call it reason. “What evidence could a human offer that would outweigh law?”
Reynnar’s jaw clenched. “Her blood has been harvested to—”
“Enough,” another lord snapped. “We have heard your tale.”
Elara’s stomach turned. Your tale. As if their suffering were a bedtime story.
Reynnar’s restraint gave way—not a burst of power, but a pressure that rolled through the room. The air thickened, trembling just faintly, and Elara caught the faint scent of something scorched, though nothing burned. Light seemed to bend toward him, the shadows deepening at their seams.
“Where is Eamon?” he demanded, the words low, too controlled to be calm.
The chamber went still. Even the faint echoes in the stone seemed to recoil. A few of the lords shifted, glances darting between them like sparks looking for somewhere safe to land.
“Eamon is currently occupied,” the slate-eyed male said at last, tone clipped with disdain. “He’s attending to a matter of diplomatic liaison on behalf of the Concord. We did not deem his presence necessary.” His gaze slid to Elara. “Not for something as insignificant as this.”
Her pulse leapt painfully, and beside her, Reynnar went very still.
“Have you heard nothing I have said? Nothing?”
Ciarán sighed. “We have listened, and we have heard enough to know the simplest solution. Kill the human. Strip whatever stolen Draoth she carries. Then we may discuss the rest.”
Elara released a long, trembling breath. It was not that she hadn’t expected this brutality after what happened in the forest—no, she’d known this would come. But the neatness of it. That was what gutted her. As if death were just another task on their list, to be handled efficiently.
She shouldn’t have reached for Reynnar. Shouldn’t have let that flicker of fear unravel her discipline.
But before she could stop herself, she opened to him, light spilling through the fractures of their bond.
He exhaled, a sound caught between relief and grief, his essence folding around hers, careful as a hand hovering over a wound.
For one heartbeat, they were the same breath. The same breaking.
“You will not touch her.”
The slate-eyed male laughed again. “You do not command here. You lost that respect when you left the seat. When you left your own court to become a vagrant.”
Reynnar’s jaw flexed. “Then I demand my right.” He bit out each word. “By Cloiche’s leave and the old agreements beneath this stone, I demand the Lord of the Silver Glade’s ear and mouthpiece before any further decisions are made.”
The benches rustled. Shock. Offense. Unease.
“Eamon does not sit for—”
Kynra stepped forward. “Cloiche granted his request. We must honor it.”
The chamber went still again, this time not from shock but from Kynra stepping forward as Eamon’s second—bearing the authority of law.
Sídhe law, Elara realized. Not just Turlaith custom, but the law of their entire race.
The amber-braided female’s lips thinned.
The slate-eyed male’s gaze darted, calculating.
Ciarán exhaled slowly. “If the Warden has spoken,” he said at last, as though the words tasted bitter, “then we will listen.”
A ripple of reluctant assent moved through the Concord.
Reynnar straightened, though relief never reached his face. Nothing was won. All he’d managed was to delay her execution. “Aoife,” he said, voice controlled. “Where is she?”