Chapter 25
Reynnar was already awake. She sensed it before opening her eyes—the air in the small room had changed, as if his presence had tempered the cold seeping through Odhrán’s narrow window. Outside, rain tapped against the glass, slow and silver-soft.
“Eilíara,” he said quietly.
She groaned and pulled the blanket over her head. “No.”
There was a pause, the kind that carried warning. Then the blanket vanished in one ruthless tug. Cold hit her like a slap, and she shot upright with a muffled cry, arms crossing instinctively over her chest.
Reynnar stood beside the bed—bare-chested, breath uneven, rain still clinging to him. Droplets slid from his hair onto his shoulders, gathering in the hollow of his throat before sliding down the planes of his chest.
Her mind emptied of everything.
“If you scream again,” he said, gathering his damp hair and tying it back into a rough knot, “and wake my hellspawn of a sister, I’ll haul you outside myself.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
His look said he absolutely would, and easily. Another droplet slipped down his stomach; her eyes, traitorous, followed it. He’d already trained without her and apparently had decided she wasn’t escaping the morning.
“I hope you know,” she said coolly, “that one day I will poison your tea.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Up.”
She frowned. “Odhrán will never allow it.”
“Leave that to me.”
Odhrán hadn’t allowed it.
Or, rather, he discouraged it loudly—standing in the doorway with his robe half-tied.
“You will not set foot in that garden,” he said, voice hoarse from disuse and irritation.
“Do either of you grasp how hard it is to maintain anonymity in this quarter? One spark, one flare, one curious eye at the wrong window, and the wardens will be ringing my bell before dawn.”
Reynnar tightened the strap of his scabbard, cool as ever. “She needs the practice.”
“No, what she needs is to stop drawing attention.” His tone softened, but only slightly, and more out of exasperation than care. “The upper quarter’s been crawling with eyes since word reached about a halfling escaping Turlaith. I do not intend to hang for your exercise routines.”
Reynnar let out a slow breath through his nose. “If you could—”
“Reynnar.”
Eamon’s voice came from the study, cutting through the muted patter of water dripping from the eaves outside.
“I found something.”
They followed him through the narrow corridor into Odhrán's study.
A map covered the table, its corners pinned beneath inkpots and threaded with red twine tracing coastlines and rivers.
Aoife drifted in from the kitchens, eating an apple as Reynnar moved to the space beside Elara without a word—he'd made a habit of it lately, appearing at her shoulder wherever she stood, as if the position were his by right.
Caelion took his place opposite, silent as smoke, eyes narrowed as he studied the web of lines.
“Three more,” Eamon said, gaze fixed on the map.
Elara followed his line of sight to the freshly placed pins. “Where?”
He lifted a finger, tapping each in turn.
“Two from old merchant houses—the kind that have lived off their names for generations. Both estates left empty. No debt, no quarrels anyone will admit to.” He hesitated, then touched the third.
“The last worked at the harbor—a broker who handled pearl shipments from the southern reefs.”
Reynnar leaned in, scanning the lines. “And the ledgers?”
“Show them leaving the city,” Eamon said. “Trade voyages. Inked and sealed.”
“But no ships listed departure,” Reynnar finished for him.
“None,” Eamon confirmed. “Nothing out of Luirigh within ten days that matches the names.”
Elara stepped closer to the table, brushing her fingers over the taut cords. “How many altogether?”
Eamon hesitated. “Five in total that I’ve been able to trace—because of the discrepancies. But who’s to say these aren’t just the ones that slipped through the cracks?”
Her eyes followed the older marks on the map before lifting to his. “Every missing Sídhe is from the Upper Quarter.”
He nodded and pointed toward the Tydwells. “This merchant family lived three blocks from here.” His finger tapped the line. “Now the record says they relocated to the harbor district two weeks ago. The tax rolls still list their original estate. Their household staff were paid only three days ago.”
Odhrán had drifted closer. “That sort of tampering isn’t the work of a common forger,” he said. “It would take a Concordant—someone with the seal of the Fir Dé.”
Aoife tossed the last of her apple into the hearth. The flames hissed, spitting sparks into the air. “The only pattern we’ve got is the district,” she said, eyeing the knot of pins. “Any last sightings?”
Eamon shook his head. “None we can trust. The ledgers tell us when they disappeared, not how.”
“We need the watch reports,” Caelion said—his first words of the morning. “And the Concordant records. If there’s truth left in this city, it’s there.”
Odhrán folded his arms. “The Central Concordium isn’t a public archive. Even I don’t have leave anymore to browse their investigations.”
“Then we don’t ask.” Aoife’s smile held no warmth.
Elara was already tracing paths through the web of red lines. “If we had the watch reports, we could mark where each was last seen. By street name. By hour.”
Reynnar’s brow lifted. “You’re already planning a break-in?”
“It would be faster than guessing.”
Eamon nodded. “She’s right.”
“No.” Odhrán’s voice cut through the room. His eyes, bright beneath their heavy brows. “We’ve made extraordinary progress here—quietly, carefully. Breaking into the Concordium would draw attention we can’t afford.”
Reynnar inclined his head. “I agree.”
Elara’s temper rose, a spark beneath her ribs. “Those records would confirm the link. It’s the only lead we have.”
“Or bring the Concord down on us before we’re ready,” Reynnar said.
The fire popped. Silence settled.
Elara’s arm ached faintly where her dagger pressed against her hip. “There might be another way.”
Every head turned toward her.
“I could open a rift. Straight into the archives. We’d be in and out before anyone noticed.”
The change in Reynnar was instant. Every muscle in him went rigid. “And what else,” he asked, “might step through with us?”
Elara met his stare. You’re afraid of it, she thought, and then—with a pang that felt too close to guilt—but I can’t afford to be. He never said it aloud, yet she knew some part of him feared her when she carried it. The dagger pulsed faintly against her side, as if aware of being named.
“We don’t understand the forces bound to that weapon,” he said. “Opening a wound in the Veil, here in the heart of a city, could bring calamity.” His hand flicked toward the window. “If that happens, the blood that follows will be ours to answer for.”
Caelion shifted, watching her from the corner of his eye. Silence filled the room. Even the fire seemed to sink lower, a red pulse under ash.
Odhrán folded his arms. “We stay with the ledgers. The pattern’s clear enough to follow. We wait on word from the other Maistirs. When something worth the risk appears—we move.”
Aoife muttered something under her breath, the words lost in the crackle of the fire, but she didn’t press the point. The matter was settled.
Elara’s jaw ached where she bit down on the inside of her cheek.
The others spoke in low voices—chairs scraping, papers rustling—but the sounds seemed distant. She didn’t notice Eamon until his presence disturbed the ebb of the room. He stood beside her, silent, studying her rather than the map, his mouth was drawn tight in thought.
Before she could ask, he turned away, cloak shifting around his legs as he started toward the door.
No one moved to stop him.