Chapter 8 #3
“I’m warming up to the concept of being included,” Elara said, offering a small, unapologetic smile. Then, as the thought caught up with her, she frowned slightly. “Though I was under the impression that you and Reynnar were related.”
Reynnar rested his arm along the back of her chair, casual enough to be plausible. He didn’t seem to notice when it brushed her shoulder—though Elara very much did.
“We are,” he said. “Half. Different mothers.”
Aoife snorted. “He got the brooding and the temper. I got the charm and the good looks.”
Elara blinked once. Then—without thinking, which seemed to be a developing theme—said, “For what it’s worth, this is an unreasonable amount of attractiveness for a single bloodline.”
Aoife barked a laugh, and Caelion’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. His cheeks were faintly pink—alcohol flush, Elara realized with a strange, unhelpful fondness. It looked wrong on him in the best way. Like frost touched by sunlight.
Reynnar’s gaze dropped to Elara’s cup. “Perhaps you should slow down.”
She lifted a brow, studying him over the rim. “Is that an order?”
A fang peeked out, that tipped half-smile that felt dangerous and amused and entirely too aware of its effect. The warmth spreading through her chest had very little to do with the wine.
Caelion studied her with mild curiosity. “Should humans drink this?” he asked, raising his glass.
Elara snorted before she could stop herself. “I am about to provide you with a field report.”
Aoife’s laugh curled across the table as Elara took another sip—and then a thought hit her.
“Where are the others? Reynnar and I were tracking you through Talamh na Sí, but we saw the trail split—the group headed west while you came toward Cruithneach. What happened?”
Aoife set her drink down and glanced at Caelion before answering.
“We were being tracked by the Turlaith for days before we decided to split up. Caelion and I suspected they were following us specifically because of our ties to the Concord, so we sent the others west, toward the Ellylldan border, for shelter and rest before returning to their territories. We knew the Turlaith would not be so kind.”
“Have you heard anything from them?”
Caelion shook his head. “The Turlaith didn’t allow us to send word to Ellylldan last night. They’re treating us as…traitors—”
“Because of your association with me.”
Caelion winced but didn’t deny it.
Reynnar signaled for another bottle, a small tilt of his hand that somehow carried a sense of command. The barkeep came over with a pinched expression and dropped the bottle onto the table hard enough to make the glasses jump, then turned on his heel without a word.
Elara hid a laugh behind the rim of her cup, the sound slipping out as a poorly stifled snort.
Reynnar’s brow arched in quiet question, and that only made it worse.
Of course he doesn’t notice, she thought, warmth prickling at her cheeks.
He’s probably used to people snapping to attention the moment he breathes.
What would it be like, growing up with that kind of privilege?
He poured her another glass, and she took a deep drink. The room softened further at the corners. The noise became less pointed, less threatening—more like waves against stone. For the first time in what felt like weeks, her body stopped anticipating pain.
That was when the door opened.
Not with a bang. Not dramatically. Just…opened. And yet the sound cut through the room and found Elara cleanly as a blade through cloth.
Kynra stepped inside.
She did not remove her gloves. She did not look at the food. She did not acknowledge the dice game or the song or the laughter. Her attention swept the room once before settling on their table.
Her gaze flicked, briefly, to the cup in Elara’s hand.
Kynra stalked toward them, and the tavern seemed to draw back from her presence, conversations bending away as if instinctively aware that whatever followed would not be kind.
Aoife leaned back in her chair, arms folding. Kynra did not look at her.
“I see you have settled in,” she said. “Comfortably.”
Aoife’s smile was thin. “No. I think that honor belongs to you.”
Kynra’s eyes flicked to Aoife for a heartbeat. Something old passed between them—recognition, perhaps, or regret long since made useless.
“I would not have thought it so easy,” Aoife said. “To trade your own friends for authority. But power does have a way of clarifying priorities.”
Friends?
Kynra’s expression did not change, but her jaw set. “Lord Eamon has sent a missive. He will arrive in the early hours of the morning.” Her gaze shifted to Elara. “You will be presented to him immediately. I would advise sobriety.”
Reynnar snorted. “She’ll be fine. I’ve seen her hold herself together under worse conditions than poor wine and pious company.”
Kynra turned to him. “When Eamon arrives, leniency ends. The human will remember her place. And you—will remember yours.” She straightened. “Once Eamon enters this city, authority passes to the Concord and the Most High Tuatha.”
A pause.
“He outranks you, Reynnar of the Broken Court. Do not mistake my inaction thus far for mercy.”
Reynnar held her gaze without blinking. “I never do.”