Chapter 6
Elara had learned, somewhere between the Pit and Talamh na Sí, that stillness was dangerous.
It left the mind unguarded. Gave it too much room, too much time to drift into places best left untouched.
Pain, she could endure; it was how she had survived the Pit, how she had endured Osin.
Pain followed rules. Cause and effect. If she moved, if she acted, if she stayed ahead of it, she could survive.
She knew this. Had proven it, over and over again.
But the springs did not care about such things.
They loosened something deeper than muscle inside her.
They unknotted vigilance, dulled the constant arithmetic behind her eyes—the counting, the planning, the rehearsing of what might go wrong.
They eased tension she hadn’t realized she was still bracing against, slowed her whether she willed it or not, and drew her breath deeper.
Behind her, voices rose and fell—unforced, easy laughter.
She turned just enough to see Reynnar beside Caelion, one hand resting on his friend’s shoulder.
His face had softened into something she rarely saw—open, lit from within—as he murmured a few words that made Caelion laugh, head tipping back.
At the water’s edge, Aoife watched them, her smile gentler than usual, as though tucking the moment away to keep.
It looked…right.
The thought landed with an ache. Not jealousy—she was too tired for that—but the unsettling awareness that she was witnessing a version of the world not built for her, a moment lifted from some softer timeline and set down here by mistake.
Elara told herself it was exhaustion. Hunger.
Adrenaline finally ebbing. Still, something fluttered in her chest, a wingbeat caught against bone.
She turned away before it could deepen into something harder to name.
Steam curled around her shoulders as she rose from the pool.
She stood there, unguarded in a way that would have felt reckless only days ago.
Her underthings clung stubbornly, fabric stiff despite all her scrubbing.
No amount of hot water could fully banish weeks of grime and blood.
She grimaced and padded barefoot across the grass, scanning the clearing until she spotted the small, orderly stack of clothing set near the stones, just off the path they had taken down.
She paused to assess the bundles, sifting through them until she found one close to her size.
The fabric was heavier than linen, softer than wool, its weight comforting in her hands.
The weave held faint ridges, like sediment pressed into cloth, seams reinforced with dark stitching meant to endure strain.
Beneath it lay fitted trousers, dyed a muted slate-green and scented faintly of earth and clean water. Leather ties replaced buttons at the waist.
She pulled the shirt over her head, the cloth whispering down her body, settling just above her knees. Beneath the borrowed garment, she wrestled free of her soaked underthings, wincing as the fabric peeled away from skin still tender in places.
Disgusting.
Elara wrung out the heavy cloth, laid it beside her bundle, and crouched for the trousers when a throat cleared behind her. Her gaze snapped up, pulse skidding.
Kynra stood a few paces away, flanked by three guards. The warrior looked down the length of her nose. “Get up. You’re coming with me.”
Elara forced herself to stand. “Why?”
“Because I ask it of you, duine salach.”
Duine salach—filthy human.
Every limb went rigid, icy dread skittering over her skin. A quick glance at Reynnar and Aoife showed them half-lost in the steam beneath the falls, out of sight.
“I want to stay with—”
Kynra’s hand clamped around her arm. “I don’t give a fuck what you want,” she spat. “You should be on your knees, thanking whatever pitiful gods you serve that we’ve let you breathe this long. I’ve fulfilled the Tuatha’s request—you’re healed, you’re clean. Now you come with me.”
Kynra yanked Elara down the shadowed path from before, the heat of the Turlaith’s stares scorching her back, their eyes lingering on her rounded mortal ears.
She forced her breathing steady—In. Out.
Don’t react. But fear surged anyway towards the fracture in her Cara, still there from before, hairline but open.
Her terror slipped through before she could stop it.
The response came instantly.
Not words. Fury.
It slammed back through the connection like a wildfire catching dry timber, so sudden and violent it stole her breath. Heat bloomed in her chest, foreign and familiar all at once—his. Seconds later, the night exploded.
A rush of fire tore down the path and hit the ground hard enough to make it quake. Light flared against Reynnar’s damp hair, turning his face into something lethal, eyes burning bright enough to set the darkness on edge. He stood, every line of him braced for a fight.
And utterly naked.
Elara’s eyes widened, heat rushing up her neck as her gaze caught on the slick expanse of his chest, water sliding over scarred muscle. She hadn’t meant to look lower—she had self-control.
And yet, her lashes dipped.
One glimpse—every impossible inch of him—and she snapped her head away, cheeks burning. Mother. She fixed on his face instead, on the fury carved deep there. Steam still clung to his skin, tracing him in pale ghosts. He neither noticed nor cared.
His focus was absolute.
“I get it,” he drawled, voice deceptively calm. “You’re from some important house, and you’ve got power here while Eamon’s gone. But Kynra—my patience is two breaths from snapping.”
Kynra’s nails dug into Elara’s arm. “My people have prepared rooms, clothing, medicine, food—everything you require. But the human stays with me.” Her eyes narrowed. “She is not to be trusted roaming our lands freely. Until Lord Eamon arrives, she waits in a cell.”
“The treaty clearly states—”
“The treaty,” a male Turlaith interrupted, stepping forward, “has nothing to do with humans.”
He was massive—tall, broad-shouldered, muscle stacked upon muscle beneath golden skin. His green eyes narrowed in open challenge as he brandished a wickedly sharp blade.
“We have already dishonored ourselves by allowing this wyrmling to breathe on our sacred land. Our laws forbid their kind from ever stepping foot here, and yet we’ve bent them to accommodate your demands.
Would you further insult our hospitality and risk shattering the fragile peace between our kin—for a mere human? ”
Elara recoiled. “Wyrmling?”
“An insult,” Reynnar said, eyes fixed on the male. “Wyrms are blunt-toothed carrion beasts who feast on the waste and refuse of Sídhe.” His head tilted, dangerous amusement flickering in his gaze. “Apologize.”
She didn’t finish her next breath before Reynnar struck. A single lift of his chin unleashed the fire—molten ribbons snapping tight around the Turlaith. Heat scorched the air. Smoke filled her lungs as the male fell to his knees, fangs splitting his lip as he swallowed a scream.
Flames danced in Reynnar’s eyes. “Apologize,” he repeated. “Then we can move forward—and find a compromise suitable to us all.”
“Stop this, Reynnar!” Kynra shrieked.
Around her, the Turlaith dropped into defensive stances, weapons hissing free.
The earth rumbled, soil and stone stirring at their feet, ready to be called.
Yet none advanced. Eyes flicked to Kynra again and again, waiting.
And in that hesitation, Elara understood: they couldn’t touch Reynnar.
Not without risking something they feared more than fire. More than death.
The Turlaith male fixed Elara with a hard stare, his mouth drawn tight. “I apologize.”
Reynnar arched a lazy brow. “That didn’t sound very sincere.”
Something in the male gave way. Pain cracked across his face; a broken sound tore from his throat as tears streamed down his cheeks.
“I—I’m sorry.”
Reynnar let his apology sit before blowing out a slow breath. The flames guttered out, leaving the air thick with the stench of charred flesh.
“See? Was that so difficult?” He folded his arms loosely across his chest, a cocky half-smile tugging at his mouth.
“Now, let’s be clear. I know your laws backward and forward—primitive as they are—and I’ve been remarkably patient with your lack of manners.
Here’s what’s going to happen: Eilíara will wait comfortably under guard—in a room, not a cell—and I’ll stay with her until Eamon finally bothers to show up. ”
Kynra drew breath to protest—then froze under Reynnar’s murderous glare.
“Save it,” he said. “She stays with me. You’ve already proven none of you can be trusted within ten feet of her.”
Kynra’s mouth twisted before snapping out a bitter, reluctant: “Fine.”
They walked in silence as the steam thinned, fading completely as the path climbed away from the springs. With each step, the air grew crisper, the lingering warmth stripped from her skin and replaced by the cold of the mountain.
Ahead, the palace loomed.
They passed through doors already standing open, the threshold flanked by Turlaith warriors as motionless as the walls themselves. Their presence funneled Elara forward, leaving no doubt where she was meant to go—or how closely she was being watched.
The palace rose around her in dizzying scale.
Staircases climbed the walls; archways opened onto levels stacked high above, too many angles for her to track.
Kynra led them up a spiraling stair that vanished into crystal light.
Elara kept her eyes fixed on the steps. Falling to her death here would be far too poetic, and she had no intention of giving the palace that satisfaction.
After corridor upon corridor, they stopped before a tall door carved with the Turlaith crest—a stag poised on a cliff, antlers branching wide. A guard pressed her palm to the stone; it pulsed faintly, then split open with a grinding sigh.