Chapter 12
Elara couldn’t have said how she knew. It was something deeper than instinct, gentler.
A shift in the air. A tremor in the wind brushing past her cheek, whispering against the shell of her ear.
Dance, it murmured. And she obeyed. She let the current take her, let it pull at her limbs and guide her steps, trusting without understanding.
But it wasn’t enough.
The arrow slammed into her shoulder, driving through flesh and muscle—so close to her heart that she felt death’s cold fingers scrape across her chest. Pain burst through her, sudden and blinding, ripping a scream from her throat.
Her head swam. She couldn’t breathe. Somehow, she stayed upright, her legs locked by sheer will. When she looked down, it was with strange detachment, barely registering the dark shaft jutting from her shoulder. Blood welled fast, soaking through torn fabric, spreading like spilled ink.
She lifted her gaze.
Reynnar was already across the room, a blur of violence, wrath carved into every line of his face. Elara lurched after him and agony detonated—tearing through her before she could brace for it. The world tilted. She folded, knees slamming into stone. Air fled her lungs in a thin, broken sound.
Breathe. Gods, breathe.
She lifted her head, vision swimming as she scanned the tiers. Ciarán. His hand still hovered near the bowstring, fingers loose. His eyes were dark and feral. And there it was: the curl of satisfaction at his mouth as he looked down at her.
But Reynnar was already upon him.
The Turlaith Seat turned too late. His eyes widened, shock carving itself across his face, as if Reynnar’s fury were beyond his understanding. Even now—after Reynnar had claimed Elara—he still did not grasp the depth of Reynnar’s loyalty.
Ciarán’s fingers fumbled for an arrow he would never reach as Reynnar slammed into him, the force staggering them both. His hands closed around Ciarán’s throat. Teeth flashed—sank deep—ripping out his jugular in a single, ruthless motion.
Blood sprayed, crimson and wild, as Ciarán crumpled to his knees, choking. Before Elara could blink, fire burst from the earth—hungry tendrils spiraling upward, consuming the body with a roar that matched her pounding heart—until only smoke and ash remained.
The hall erupted as Eamon’s heavy boots struck stone, the sound echoing through the chamber as he leapt down from the platform and placed himself in front of Elara. His eyes, green as ancient forests and lit with simmering fury, met Reynnar’s and lingered there for a beat.
Blood roared in her ears as she took in the two males.
Reynnar’s chest rose and fell too fast. Through the fire in her shoulder and the ringing in her ears, Elara saw it: the edge slipping, the wild burn of his fury beginning to thin.
Still, he vaulted from the tiers, boots slamming into stone hard enough to rattle the chamber and landed on one knee.
He snarled as he surged upright, teeth flashing white and wet as he faced Eamon.
A warning.
Eamon hesitated before stepping aside.
The Concord’s shrieks crashed together, demanding action, law, consequence, calling for Eamon to do something.
But Reynnar was already there, hands beneath her knees.
The world lurched as he lifted her, agony spearing through her shoulder.
A pained whine slipped from her as she took him in.
Blood smeared his face, crimson dripping from his jaw, stark against the pale of his skin.
Blood on both of them. Again.
Would they ever not be drenched in it?
A sound tore from him as he took another step, low and animalistic, dragged up from somewhere deep within. Then his legs gave out. Stone cracked against his knees as his breath broke. His weight folded over her, arms still locked tight, protective even in collapse.
Whatever fire had carried him here guttered out.
“Forgive me,” he breathed, the words breaking as they left him. “Forgive me.”
Elara’s vision blurred. She tried to lift her hand. Tried to touch his face.
Before she could, hands seized him.
He snarled as they tore him off her, the sound ripped raw from his chest. She cried out as the sudden separation sent agony knifing through her shoulder.
She pitched sideways, her knees buckling, but through the ringing in her ears, she saw him still fighting, blood-slick and feral, dragged backward by force.
Then her vision snagged.
Eamon stood at the center of it all, unmoving. His face seemed carved from stone as his gaze found hers. Held.
“I have deliberated,” he finally said, “for the Concord. The claim of sovereignty is denied. The accused is sentenced to death by day’s end.”
Daylight was permitted in the cell Elara was thrown into—but only just. She lay awake on the narrow pallet, watching the thin square of sunlight from the window slide away in increments she could measure and had no power to stop.
The bandage at her shoulder had stiffened where the blood had dried; every small shift tugged at the wound like a hooked wire.
Footsteps passed in the corridor. Torch smoke drifted under the door, thinned, then thickened again.
At some point she must have lost consciousness—because she had woken to this rough bandage and, oddly, a cell that was cleaner and more comfortable than anything she’d seen in the human realm.
She wasn’t na?ve enough to take it as kindness. The Turlaith simply didn’t want her bleeding out before her execution at dusk. Where would be the fun in that?
Even so, comfort was a generous word. The stone walls leached heat from her skin until her toes and fingertips went numb.
She couldn’t curl in on herself to keep warm; even the smallest movement sent pain flaring through her shoulder, so she lay flat against the slab of stone, letting the cold settle into the spaces the day had already hollowed out.
Where Reynnar was now, she didn’t know. It wouldn’t surprise her if they’d thrown him into a cell of his own—perhaps the one beside hers again. It did seem to be their way of things.
The rasp of a key in the lock was barely louder than breath, and Elara was on her feet before the door had fully swung open.
The sudden movement sent her vision swimming, legs trembling beneath her, but through the narrowing tunnel of it she saw Eamon slip inside and pull the door shut.
He carried the green smell of the Glade with him—crushed leaves and rain, a thread of sage.
His cloak was damp at the hem. His hair, bound back with a leather thong, had loosened enough to look almost human.
His eyes dropped to the arrow wound, his expression tightening. “Can you walk?”
Her shoulder screamed in answer. The wall caught her before the floor could. A laugh tore out of her. “Fuck you.”
A flicker of something passed across his face. “No, thank you,” he said mildly. “Reynnar would have my hide.”
She stared at him. “Did you just make a sex joke?”
His mouth twitched. “You may remain here if you wish. Let the cold take your feet. Let the Concord hang you in the square.” His eyes never left hers. “Or you may take the chance you demanded.”
A chance. She had stood before the Concord and asked for mercy. For trust. They had answered with violence. Elara straightened, forcing her weight off the stone. “Reynnar murdered your Seat and you would have me believe you’re here to—what? Help me escape?”
Eamon tilted his head—and only then did she see the bruise blooming along his jaw, dark and ugly, creeping toward his eye.
“The law I serve,” he said calmly, “is older than the Sídhe who currently hold the majority of power. And yes, I would help you because you are of more use to me breathing than dead.”
Those words again. They had followed her all this way—Ivan’s, spoken long ago with that maddening calm.
A part of her wanted to scream until there was nothing left of her voice.
Wanted to break something—to stop existing in pieces carved by other people’s needs.
But all she could do was bare her teeth like some dying, cornered animal.
“I thought you said I was dangerous.”
“Dangerous things are often the most valuable. Especially when they’re pointed at the right enemy.” He smiled then, fang-tipped and feral. “If you were harmless, I wouldn’t be here.”
Elara slumped back, all of a sudden very, very tired. “I would have hoped for a nobler reason.”
“So would I,” he replied. “Hope is a luxury of peaceful days.”
Her eyes hardened. “Where is Reynnar?”
“Beyond the city gates,” Eamon said. “Waiting.”
“If you’re lying—”
“I'm not.” His voice did not rise. “If I return without you, he will lay this kingdom to ruin. Treaties will burn. Laws will shatter. The fragile peace between our nations will be nothing but ash.” He met her gaze fully then, unflinching.
“You see now why it is in my interest that you leave this place on your feet. Now I ask you again. Can you walk?”