Chapter 2
Elora
The dinghy rocked on the restless waves, each jolt rattling Elora’s exhausted body.
Her head rested limply against the splintered wooden planks of the boat.
Her tongue, dry and swollen, stuck to the roof of her mouth, every swallow raw and scratchy.
Hunger had long faded to a dull, hollow ache in her gut.
The last-minute decision to take the retired dinghy instead of hiding aboard the cargo ship had cost her dearly.
At the time, it had seemed the only choice.
The ship was swarming with guards searching for her, and getting caught would have meant suffering Thorn’s twisted punishments for her defiance.
Despite Thorn still managing to catch up to her, Viliam came to her rescue, allowing her to sail off into the night.
But the small, discarded boat came with a price: no real provisions, no shelter from the harsh sun, and almost no fresh water.
Tehvan had done what he could for her, hiding a water-skin and a handful of dried meat in her satchel.
But no amount of Tehvan’s foresight could stretch rations to cover four days at sea.
The waterskin was drained after two; its last drops were a bitter trickle down her throat.
The dried meat hadn’t lasted much longer, and by the third day, her stomach had given up altogether, leaving her with only the hollow ache that now gnawed at her insides.
She wasn’t used to being hungry, and the rumbling of her stomach loved to remind her of how little prepared she was to survive the journey ahead.
But finally, there was a city on the horizon creeping closer, inch by inch, with every fickle gust of wind.
By midday, the sun seared her skin as the boat finally drifted into the crowded harbor.
Around her, other dinghies ferried goods from the towering ships.
Her sodden dress clung to her legs like a second skin, heavy and cold.
She staggered onto the dock, trembling from days spent adrift.
The solidity of land felt foreign, her knees threatening to buckle under her own weight.
“Hey, miss, let me give ya’ a hand.” A dockworker rushed over as she fumbled with her bag. Without waiting for a reply, he hoisted the bag onto her shoulder with ease. His nose wrinkled slightly, and he turned his head away, covering his mouth with one hand.
Elora glanced at herself. Her dress was stiff with salt, her tangled brunette hair plastered to her face.
She didn’t need a mirror to know she looked half-drowned.
The stench of sweat and seawater clung to her skin, sour and suffocating.
She wasn’t offended at the man’s reaction.
After all, she felt just as bad as she looked.
“Where you coming from?” the crewman asked, squinting at her with a curious glare.
Elora could feel his eyes roaming over her, noting every detail—the briny uniform of an Institute ward, the battered dinghy that looked ready to splinter into pieces, the exhaustion etched into her features.
Not many travelers came from the south, especially not alone, and certainly not looking like this.
She could practically see the questions forming in his mind.
A new worry crept into her thoughts: had the dockworkers been told to watch for someone like her?
Surely Thorn would have sent word to the neighboring cities by now.
He wouldn’t have let her escape go unanswered.
She was surprised that she hadn’t been intercepted by his men while on the water.
It seemed impossible, but she didn’t have room to doubt his ambitions.
He would stop at nothing to get her back.
Her heart thudded painfully at the thought, and she fought to keep her expression neutral, even as unease twisted in her gut.
She forced a shrug, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. “Nowhere worth mentioning,” she muttered, hoping it would shut him up.
The man studied her for a beat longer than she liked. She couldn’t tell if he believed her or not, but he didn’t press the question. Instead, he raised an eyebrow. “You look like you could use a meal. And a bath.”
Elora nodded quickly, seizing the opening. “Do you know where I could get both?” she asked, peaking behind the man to get a glimpse of the bustling city. “Cheap, if possible.”
The man snorted, his gaze flicking to her salt-stiffened dress and her few possessions. “Figured as much.” He jabbed a finger toward the bag slung over her shoulder. “You got any coin?”
Elora dug through her satchel. She counted the few coins inside: three silver rounds, and five copper ones. It was all Tehvan had managed to scavenge for her. He must have kept the majority of the coin in his own bag but forgot to give her more when their plans changed.
He whistled softly, shaking his head. “Not much, but it’ll stretch if you know where to go.
” His tone shifted, less curious now and more matter-of-fact, like he’d seen her kind before.
“That silver’ll get you three nights at the Rainy Duckling Inn.
Cheap place, but it’s clean enough. Copper’ll buy you maybe two hot meals if you’re frugal.
” He pointed up the cobblestone road that led toward the heart of the city.
“The Duckling’s a few blocks past the market square.
Look for the sign with the—well—the duckling. Hard to miss.”
Elora nodded again, stuffing the coins back into her satchel. “Thanks.”
The man hesitated, his eyes narrowing slightly, but he said nothing more. Instead, he turned back toward the docked ships, his boots clunking heavily against the weathered wood. Elora took her first deep breath, her fingers loosening their death grip on her bag strap.
Rainy Duckling Inn. She repeated the name silently as she made her way toward the steps leading up to the market. Above her, an archway loomed, the words ‘Ravenpoint Harbor’ burned into eroded wood, each letter blackened and cracked.
This was exactly where Tehvan said she would end up. A flicker of hope stirred inside her, but it was doused just as quickly by the urgency of what came next. She needed to keep moving to make it through The Whispering Woods and reach Kilfaire in time to meet him.
The city unfolded before her in layers of disorder.
Its buildings rose like precarious towers, leaning against one another as if they’d collapse without support.
Rickety bridges and walkways crisscrossed above, creating a tangled web that creaked and swayed with every gust of wind.
A lone child darted across one of the higher platforms, and Elora half-expected the whole structure to give way beneath their feet.
At street level, shadows pooled thick between the leaning structures, their foundations sinking unevenly into the cobblestones.
The facades were battered and grim, paint peeling in streaks to reveal warped wood beneath.
Between the buildings, ropes hung heavy with laundry that fluttered weakly in the wind.
The damp air carried the smell of mildew and stale water.
Ravenpoint felt alive, but in the worst way.
Like an old, weary thing, struggling to keep itself upright.
Elora tugged her hood lower over her face as she slipped into the crowded market.
The press of bodies closed in on all sides, the buzz of conversation blending with the shouts of merchants hawking goods from battered stalls.
But it wasn’t the noise or the crowd that made her heart hammer—it was the imperial guards stationed at the market's perimeter. They stood in stiff clusters, sharp-eyed and alert, their hands resting on the hilts of their weapons. Their uniforms gleamed spotlessly, a stark contrast to the city’s grime.
Elora ducked her head even lower, biting back the panic clawing at her throat.
She didn’t belong here. Even in this city of weary faces and threadbare clothing, she stood out like a scar.
Her salt-stiffened dress and haggard appearance made her seem utterly wretched, compared to the locals who, while far from pristine or prosperous, seemed leagues better off than her.
One glance too long, one wrong move, and the guards would have all the reason they needed to haul her off into some shadowy corner for questioning.
She pressed her thumb into her palm, the familiar gesture grounding her as it always had.
It was something she used to do to steady her heartbeat, back when she didn’t want Tehvan to know what she was feeling.
She knew he wouldn’t have removed the enchanted ring, and she hated the thought of him feeling the erratic rhythm of her fear now, miles away, unable to help.
So, she pressed harder, willing her pulse to even out, trying to convince herself as much as him that she was okay.
She wasn’t. But he didn’t need to know that.
Two blocks down the main road, Elora spotted the alleyway the dockworker had described, a narrow corridor cloaked in shadows that defied the midday sun.
The first building on the corner had a weathered facade streaked with filth, its wooden sign creaking softly in the thick, humid air.
A scruffy duckling etched into the wood huddled under carved raindrops, perpetually caught in a downpour, giving the Rainy Duckling Inn its peculiar name.
Inside, the air felt close, thick with the mingling aromas of aging wood, stale ale, and the faint tang of mildew.
Timeworn tapestries hung limply from the walls, their once-vivid colors now muted and tired.
Sturdy wooden tables with mismatched chairs were scattered haphazardly across the common room, and though the fire in the hearth had long since died out, the heat lingered, trapped beneath the low, sagging ceiling.
Patrons slumped in their chairs as they nursed mugs of watered-down ale. A few had dragged tables closer to the windows, trying to catch the occasional wisp of air that drifted in from outside.
Conversations, already low and subdued, fell silent as Elora entered. Eyes turned toward her with fleeting interest, their guarded curiosity dissolving into collective disappointment. It seemed they were expecting someone else.
Phew. Elora exhaled and made her way toward the bar. “How much for a room?”
“One silver a night.” The innkeeper, a stout woman with streaks of gray in her tightly bound hair, barely glanced up from the mug she was cleaning. Her sleeves were rolled up past her elbows, revealing arms damp with sweat, and the rag in her hand worn as thin as the patience on her face.
Elora placed a silver round onto the counter, and the innkeeper snatched up the coin without a glance before sliding a tarnished key across the bar. "Up the stairs, second door on the right," she muttered, her attention already drifting back to the mug in her hand.
The door to Elora’s room hung slightly askew, its hinges groaning as it creaked open.
Inside, the faded wallpaper peeled from the walls, curling at the edges to reveal patches of discolored plaster.
The worn floorboards protested underfoot as she stepped inside, their creaks loud enough to make her wince.
A solitary window sat on the far wall, its moth-eaten curtains barely filtering the dim light of the humid afternoon.
The bed was modest, a narrow frame with a lumpy mattress and thin sheets, but she knew it would be a hundred times better than the thin mattresses the wards slept on.
The faint scent of dampness hung in the air, a reminder of the storms that frequently drowned the city.
But she barely noticed. She needed to wash away the remnants of the Institute and the bad memories that clung to her skin.
She could almost still feel Thorn’s hands around her arms and throat; just thinking about it made her stomach churn.
She dropped her satchel onto the bed, her fingers trembling as she fumbled for the washroom.
Once inside, she wasted no time stripping off her dress. The uniform that had classified her as worthless to The Empire clung to her skin, stubborn and unyielding, until she finally peeled it away.
Well, not completely worthless, she thought bitterly. Thorn and Gerard had certainly found use for me, hadn’t they? Her chest tightened at the thought, memories clawing at the edges of her mind. She shook her head sharply, refusing to let them surface. Not now.
Elora turned her attention to the tub, the water warm and waiting.
She slid into it with a shuddering sigh, the heat sinking into her muscles and washing away the grime and salt of the past few days.
For the first time in a month, she felt a whisper of peace.
The weight of the Institute and its inhuman practices was gone, if only for a moment.
She closed her eyes and let herself sink deeper into the water’s gentle embrace. Yes, she was on the run, constantly under the threat of capture, of being dragged back into Thorn’s cruel hands. But right now, none of that mattered. Right now, she was free.