Chapter 27
Elara drew the Wound of Light from its sheath, and the blade stirred against her palm. It was a restless energy that had nothing to do with her trembling fingers and everything to do with the weapon’s peculiar awareness. It always knew, somehow, when she meant to ask something of it.
Two hundred and ninety-three paces. Northeast by north.
The numbers balanced her, something solid to hold in a sea of guesswork. But theory and practice were different beasts. Her grip tightened; a faint heat pulsed where skin met metal. There was nothing left to do but try.
Linen brushed her shoulder as she shifted—Eamon standing somewhere behind her in the cramped dark, the scent of cedar and soap pressing close.
Breathing deep, she pointed the dagger into the air before her and pushed its power outward.
It answered at once, moving through the seams of the world, pausing where the resistance thinned—where the Veil seemed ready to give.
Slowly, she adjusted the angle, holding her breath as power gathered around her hand.
The air yielded with a soft, tearing pull, and her heart lurched with it.
Thin at first, black as a moonless sky, the seam widened slowly, stretching until the gray expanse of the Void showed through—cold light slipping through a cracked door.
Air escaped her in a sound caught between a sigh and a laugh.
The dagger trembled in her grip, and for the first time in days, she felt useful.
Only then did she recognize the weight she’d been carrying: the hidden, gnawing fear that when this moment came, the Veil would refuse her—that whatever part of her had once known how to breach it was gone with everything else she’d lost.
But the rift held.
And beyond it, the Void waited.
Eamon drew in a breath that carried across the small room. “Spirits above and below.”
She looked over her shoulder to find his usual composure had fractured, leaving something awe-struck in its place.
“It’s…” He shook his head. “I imagined this. But seeing it—”
“Are you ready?”
He nodded, though his gaze never left the tear in the world. His throat shifted once as he swallowed.
Together they stepped through, and the Void closed around her like something remembered, and her pulse began to slow—here, at least, she understood the rules.
Where it had once churned with violent currents and treacherous tides, the space now settled around the dagger’s presence like water gone still.
Beside her, Eamon faltered on his first step.
One hand shot out, grasping for balance against empty air.
When he found his footing again, his breathing had gone shallow.
“This is—”
His words died as light began to bleed through the darkness ahead. Elara pressed her will forward, searching for the anchor point she’d calculated. The rift widened slowly under the strain, the gray beyond thinning until the world on the other side began to show through.
Eamon went rigid.
“Still with me?”
“Just discovering I possess fewer heroic qualities than previously believed.” His voice was tight. “I find I like my ground somewhat…less theoretical.”
Elara snorted as the opening spread. Then came the scents—beeswax, cedar, and leather warmed by the day’s heat, carrying the faint mineral breath of the sea that lingered on everything in Luirigh.
The space beyond resolved into form. Tall wooden pegs lined the walls, each bearing formal Concord robes—layered linen and sea-silk in deep blues and muted greens suited to the coastal heat.
Across their backs gleamed the Naidiryn crest: a sea serpent coiled into a perfect circle, devouring its own tail.
The cloakroom.
A thrill moved through her. She’d gotten it right.
Elara started forward, but the rift shivered. A sound drifted from within—low and sonorous, moving through her like breath drawn close to the ear, and heat rose sharply beneath her skin.
She turned toward the dark.
There was nothing beyond: only motion, the slow folding and unfurling of it. Her pulse climbed, a dull throb in her throat. She lifted a hand to the bloodstone at her collar, the stone chill beneath her fingers. For an instant, she thought she felt it quicken, or perhaps that was only her...
“What is it?” Eamon asked beside her.
She blinked, hand falling away, and the bloodstone swung once against her skin. “Nothing,” she said, and stepped through the rift.
They pressed themselves into the narrow room, the outer door left barely ajar.
Through the thin crack, the corridor beyond lay washed in amber torchlight.
Shadows stretched long across the stone floor as two Naidiryn figures moved past, their robes whispering softly with each step.
Silver clasps glinted at their throats, and the stitched sea serpent on their backs seemed almost to shift in the flickering light.
“…if the Concord insists on delaying the vote again—”
“They always delay when the tides turn. As though the moon cares about their schedules.”
A dry laugh followed.
“Ellylldan representatives won’t accept another postponement. Not after the shipping levies. You saw their faces at the last assembly.”
Elara remained perfectly still, one hand braced against the wall beside the door as their footsteps echoed along the vaulted hall.
The two figures drifted deeper into the tower, their voices fading as they descended the spiral stairwell beyond.
Only when the last trace of sound dissolved into the depths below did her fingers finally lower to ease the door open.
They slipped out.
The Concordium opened up around them like the inside of a clock the gods had wound and left running.
Astrolabes turned slowly in the candlelight, casting trembling webs of brass across floors inlaid with constellations.
Everywhere she looked, knowledge climbed toward the rafters: scrolls spilling from pigeonholes, shelves crowded with tomes, spheres, and fragile glass vessels in which tiny stars seemed to shimmer.
Eamon caught her wrist. “This way.”
The corridor sloped downward toward a silver-banded door—the one they’d come for. Elara reached for the handle—then froze as footsteps drifted from the upper gallery. Both of them turned.
A young Sídhe rounded the corner, arms full of scrolls. His robes hung too large, sleeves rolled at the wrists—an acolyte, maybe, running errands for the Concord scribes. He moved quickly, eyes on the parchments, lips moving faintly as if reciting something to himself.
Stone slammed into her shoulder, knocking the air from her lungs as Eamon shoved her into the shadows beside the doorway. When her vision cleared, he was already halfway across the corridor. The acolyte barely looked up—just a flicker of confusion before Eamon’s fangs sank into his throat.
The sound was small—a wet choke, far too quiet for the violence of it. Scrolls spilled across the floor as the youngling collapsed beside them, and Elara’s stomach turned so hard she had to press a hand to the wall to stay upright.
Her body refused to move. The wall was cold at her spine, rough under her nails where they clawed for grip. Warm iron flooded the air, thick enough to taste. Her stomach heaved. She tried to swallow, but the muscles in her throat locked; the sound that escaped her was more gasp than breath.
“What did you—” The words caught behind her teeth. Her vision tunneled, going glassy. “What did you do?”
“Open the door.” Eamon stepped over the fallen acolyte, blood running dark along his chin and throat, staining the collar of his tunic. “Eilíara.”
The name cut through the roar in her ears. Her hand found the handle, and the door gave way. Before she could fully turn, Eamon had already seized the body by its robe and dragged it inside. Boots scraped stone. The young Sídhe’s head struck the threshold with a dull sound that made her flinch.
The door slammed shut behind them.
She gasped for breath that did not take.
The room filled with the stench of blood, and her stomach lurched, acid burning up the back of her throat.
“He never even saw us. We could have slipped in. Or—” Her hands lifted helplessly.
“You could have knocked him out. Tied him up. We could have taken what we needed and left.”
Eamon laughed. The sound was cruel. “Your optimism is inspiring.”
Her gaze snapped up to meet his, tears bright in her eyes. “You didn’t need to kill him.”
“I did.” Blood streaked his hair as he raked a hand through it. “He was a threat to you.”
She shook her head, the words making no sense. “He was no threat; he was—” A boy, she wanted to say, but the words jammed in her throat.
“He’d have run,” he said, voice dangerous. “One shout, and the whole Concord would’ve come down on us. You gambled for speed,
and this is the price of winning.”
“Fuck you.”
He laughed under his breath. “Not this again.”
She lunged and swung at him. His hand caught her wrist mid-strike, the grip biting deep. Pain shot up her arm; she gasped, and his fingers released her at once.
Everything in Elara went still, sound folding in on itself until only the thud of her own pulse remained.
The room listed sideways. The stones under her boots felt wrong—too far away, as if she were floating above them.
She reached for the Cara—just a brush of it, a test—and her will slipped outward, a thin filament of light—
And his Draoth flared, slamming into hers—one sudden, shared breath.
Elara jerked back, her shoulder striking stone. The room snapped into motion again, sound rushing in all at once. She scrambled away from him, bile thick in her throat, shaking hard enough that her teeth knocked together.
“I don’t—I don’t understand. I—”
Moonlight from the narrow window cut across his face.
His eyes caught the light, flashing briefly before he seemed to pull himself together.
“The piece of Reynnar living in me—this damned Fuil-Chroí—it wants to…” He stopped, jaw tightening.
“The acolyte—I was taken off guard. I didn’t have a hold on it. ”
“Are you saying…” Her voice thinned, her palms pressing flat against the cold surface of the wall. “That we’re bonded. Like Reynnar and I are?”
Eamon barked a laugh. “No, halfling. We are not.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “But your Cara has an unfortunate tendency to cloud my judgment.” His shoulders went rigid. “Makes me want to—”
“What?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes it fucking does!”
He closed the distance in two strides, fangs catching the moonlight as he spoke through his teeth. “Lower your voice.”
Elara answered by driving the dagger forward.
The point found the soft place beneath his ribs—pressing hard enough to warn, not to wound.
He went still. Then a low, feral growl rolled through his chest, filling the circular chamber and echoing off the stone.
Yet he didn’t retreat. Instead, he pressed closer, slowly, until the steel split the linen of his tunic and kissed skin.
She felt it give.
Air snared in her throat.
Eamon’s gaze dropped to the blade at his belly, to the small bloom of blood spreading through the fabric, then lifted again to meet hers.
“Can you feel me?” she whispered. “The way I feel him?”
“No.” The answer came at once. His eyes closed briefly, nostrils flaring. “I usually have control of it. Tonight blindsided me. Nothing more.”
Elara leaned harder into the wall, her chest constricting. The air stank of blood, oil, and dust. Against her will, her gaze slid to the young Sídhe lying motionless between them. A thin, disbelieving laugh escaped her. “Nothing more.”
“Compose yourself,” Eamon said, his voice gone rough. “We’ve no time for this.”
With a growl, she shoved him back. The dagger slid free with a soft, wet pull, a thin line of blood tracing the steel. Eamon didn’t flinch.
“Do you mean to finish what we came for,” he asked, “or waste more time trading blame over a corpse?”
Her grip tightened on the hilt. She could walk away.
She could take what was left of herself and leave him to whatever ruin waited.
But that thought collapsed beneath another: they were already here.
The rift already open. The boy already dead.
Turning back wouldn’t undo any of it. The reasoning felt cold, hollow.
Calculating. It made her stomach twist. A tremor passed through her.
When she spoke, her voice was barely there. “We finish it.”
Eamon gestured toward the darkened chamber, palm open. “Then what are you waiting for?”
She shut her eyes, and when they opened again, her trembling had hardened into something colder.
The room came into focus—the curved stone walls, the narrow window casting a pale spill of light across the floor, the young Sídhe lying where he had fallen.
Blood crept slowly along the shallow grooves between the stones.
She stepped over him.