Chapter 3
Elora
Elora had barely made it to the bed after her bath, her body surrendering to exhaustion the moment she collapsed onto the mattress. She hadn’t bothered to dress; the cool air dried her damp skin as she drifted into a dreamless, heavy sleep.
When she woke, the sun had dipped low, its fading golden light slipping through the thin curtains.
Elora blinked groggily, momentarily disoriented, before reality crept back in.
Her freedom was a fragile thing, and every second she lingered here chipped away at the time she had to stay ahead of Thorn.
She pulled herself upright, wincing as her stiff muscles protested. Her bag sat where she’d left it, slouched at the foot of the bed. She rummaged through it, fingers brushing against fabric that wasn’t the dull gray of the ward uniform.
The dress was clean and practical; a loose cream-colored skirt paired with a dark blue bodice that laced snugly at her waist. She tugged it on, the soft fabric brushing against her now-clean skin, and cinched the belt firmly around her middle.
Over it, she clasped her brown cloak at her throat, its edges frayed like a child’s well-loved blanket, but sturdy enough to shield her from prying eyes.
She saw her reflection in the cracked mirror on the far wall.
Her dark hair, freshly washed, hung in soft waves over her shoulders, free of the tangles and salt that had matted it for days.
Freckles dotted her cheeks, more pronounced now against her sun-kissed skin, and her pale blue eyes shimmered with the ring of gold around her pupils.
The only hint of the magic that flowed through her veins, thanks to Thorn’s latest experiment.
The sight gave her pause. She looked… herself again. Not a ward of the Institute. Not property. Just Elora.
Her stomach growled, a reminder of just how long it had been since she’d eaten anything substantial. Pulling the hood of her cloak low over her head, Elora stepped out of her room and followed the scent of stew and roasted meat wafting up from the common room below.
The inn’s dining hall was a crowded, boisterous space.
Men in rugged leathers and coal-stained trousers filled the mismatched chairs, their loud voices clashing with the clatter of mugs and the scrape of utensils on wooden bowls.
The air was a heavy blend of sweat and ale, a musky haze that nearly smothered the more inviting aroma of simmering stew.
Elora slipped through the throng, her shoulders hunched, her steps deliberately light.
She kept her head down, her hood casting her face in shadow as she wove between tables, careful not to brush against anyone.
Despite her best efforts, she felt it almost immediately—eyes turning her way, gazes that lingered too long, burning holes into her like sunrays burning dry leaves.
She curled her fingers into her palms, nails biting into the soft skin.
Don’t run. Running would only draw more attention.
“How much for a bowl?” she asked as she reached the bar.
The innkeeper paused, her laugh with a nearby patron dying mid-breath as she turned to Elora. Her expression was curt, her gray-streaked brows pulling together as she scanned the cloaked figure before her. “Two copper.”
Elora nodded, reaching into her pocket to pull out the coins. She could feel the man beside the innkeeper watching her, his gaze crawling over her as if there was a snake slithering down her body. She kept her movements measured, refusing to look at him even as her skin prickled with discomfort.
“Haven’t seen you before,” the man muttered, leaning closer to her.
Elora’s fingers faltered on the coins for just a heartbeat, her shoulders tensing beneath the cloak. She didn’t look up. She couldn’t. Just pay. Get the bowl. Move.
She placed two copper rounds on the counter. Her stomach churned, half from hunger, half from the uncomfortable scrutiny. The innkeeper snatched up the coins and ladled a steaming bowl of beef vegetable soup and thrust it toward her.
Across the hall, tucked beneath the shadowed curve of the staircase, Elora spotted an empty table. It was a small, unassuming spot, half-hidden from the rest of the room, perfect for avoiding attention. She slipped into the chair and wasted no time digging into the bowl of stew.
The first spoonful burned her tongue, the broth scalding as it hit her palate, but she didn’t care.
Each bite sent warmth spreading through her stomach, chasing away the gnawing ache of hunger that had taken root.
The chunks of beef and soft vegetables disappeared too quickly to savor, her body demanding more even as her mind urged her to slow down.
"Wasn't expecting to see you here. What's with the getup?"
The voice, smooth but edged with curiosity, startled her. Elora froze, the spoon halfway to her lips, and glanced up.
A young man stood at the foot of her table, his presence cutting through the din of the dining hall.
He couldn’t have been more than a few years older than her.
He wore a long coat of black leather, the heavy fabric hanging in folds that framed his lean, muscular frame.
Dark, almost jet-black hair fell in slightly tousled layers.
It had an effortlessly disheveled look, as if he’d just come from a skirmish.
But it was his eyes that held her attention the most, gray with a smoldering gaze, like a storm caught between rolling thunder and stillness. There was an unspoken weight in them, as if he'd seen the darkest recesses of humanity.
Elora stared, her confusion evident. She didn’t know him. How could she?
The man tilted his head, but then, as if realization struck him, his lips parted in a soft chuckle. “Ah. My mistake. Thought you were someone else.”
Elora said nothing, hoping he would lose interest and leave. Instead, to her dismay, he pulled out the chair across from her and sat down.
Elora’s fingers tightened around the spoon, her appetite evaporating.
She cast a wary glance at the rest of the room, wondering if anyone else was paying attention.
But the men at the bar were still shouting their half-drunken stories, and the innkeeper was too busy wiping down mugs to notice the stranger settling in at her table.
Not that she would probably care to intervene anyway.
"While I'm here, mind if I join you, sweetheart?" he purred.
His gaze locked onto hers, and Elora felt pinned under its weight. There was a glint in his storm-gray eyes—curiosity, yes, but something darker, more dangerous, lingered just beneath the surface. His lips curved into a slight, almost mocking smile, as though he already knew how she’d respond.
Sweetheart.
The word dragged Gerard’s voice from the recesses of her mind. He’d called her that, too, right before he... Her jaw clenched, the memory threatening to surface, but she shoved it down.
“I… umm… no, I…,” she murmured, her focus dropping to the stew. She tried to keep her voice steady, but it sounded too small in the crowded room.
“Dangerous place to stop for a meal.”
He pulled one of the daggers from his belt and began twirling it between his fingers, the blade catching the dim light as it spun. The movement was effortless, a practiced display of skill that set her nerves on edge. Was he trying to intimidate her? Or just showing off?
Her muscles tensed instinctively, ready to bolt, but the gleam of the blade rooted her in place. She couldn’t decide which possibility was worse: that he knew who she was or that he worked for Thorn.
“Not much of a talker, are you?” he asked, tilting his head as he studied her. His expression was unreadable, save for the faint lift of his eyebrow.
Elora shook her head slightly, keeping her gaze down and her hood low. She hoped the message was clear enough: Leave me alone.
“Fair enough,” he said with a shrug, though he made no move to leave. “Guess I’ll have to do all the talking. Name’s Rell, by the way. And you are?”
Elora pressed her lips together, gripping the edge of the table as if the wood could steady her trembling hands. She didn’t answer.
“No name? Alright, I’ll just keep calling you sweetheart then,” he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
Her head snapped up, anger flashing in her eyes and cutting through her anxiety. “Don’t call me that,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended.
Rell blinked, his smirk fading slightly. He held up his free hand in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Didn’t mean to upset you.” He leaned back in his chair. “So, what should I call you then?”
Her gaze flicked to the dagger still spinning between his fingers, its steady motion making her uneasy. She didn’t trust him—not his grin, not his charm, and certainly not the blade.
“Arria,” she said finally, her voice catching slightly on the name she’d borrowed from her lost friend.
Rell tilted his head, his smirk returning, softer this time. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Arria.” He held out his hand, but when she didn’t move to take it, he let it fall, retreating with a faint flicker of disappointment that he quickly masked.
“What you doing in Ravenpoint?” When she stayed silent, he let out a huff, leaning his elbows on the table with an exaggerated sigh. “You’re kind of a buzzkill, you know.”
Good, she thought, meeting his gaze briefly before looking away again. Maybe you’ll get the hint.
But Rell didn’t seem inclined to leave. Instead, he studied her for a moment, his gray eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Hmm,” he said, dragging the sound out. “That’s fine. I’m not here to pry. Just saw you sitting all alone and figured you could use some company.”
Company. Yeah, that’s what Gerard wanted from her too. Her chest tightened as her eyes darted toward the tavern’s exit.
“Relax,” Rell said, his voice softening as if sensing her unease. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
She froze, startled by his sudden shift in tone. He set the dagger down on the table with the blade pointing away from her.
Her frown deepened, suspicion flickering in her mind. The casual charm he’d wielded so easily before seemed tempered now, replaced by something quieter. His gaze met hers, earnest and steady. He didn’t look threatening anymore—just curious.
It threw her off.
If she were careful, maybe she could get some information out of him, something useful for her journey. “Are The Whispering Woods safe to pass through?”
The question barely left her lips before Rell’s posture stiffened. Was that a mistake?
“Definitely not. The Snatchers travel through those woods. They prefer to take children, but…” His smirk returned, more calculating now. “…a pretty woman like yourself? They could make a decent amount of coin off you.”
The Snatchers.
The name hit her like a fist, stealing the air from her lungs. The edges of her vision darkened as dread clawed its way up from the pit of her stomach. Memories she had buried long ago stirred to life: the cage, the stench of rot, the canopy of trees above as she lay on the brink of death.
Why would Tehvan tell me to go through those woods?
Her thoughts spiraled, frantic. Had he not known?
Or had things changed, the Snatchers turning the forest into new hunting grounds since her escape?
But no—she knew that wasn’t true. She remembered those trees and the howls of wolves waiting for a discarded corpse to feast on.
She pressed her thumb into her palm. She needed to calm down.
She couldn’t let the ghosts of her past consume her now, not in this room full of strangers.
Her breathing came short and shallow, and when she glanced up, she saw that Rell’s gaze hadn’t left her face.
His sharp eyes studied her intently, as if trying to peel back the layers she was so desperately trying to hold together.
“You alright?” he asked, his tone surprisingly soft, lacking its earlier teasing edge.
Her bottom lip trembled, but she forced herself to nod. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.” She needed to leave. The walls of the inn, the noise of the crowd—it was all pressing in, making it impossible to breathe. “I need to go,” she said as she pushed herself up from the table.
Rell rose too, his movements fluid and unhurried, his presence looming as his shadow swallowed her smaller frame. “Enjoy your stay in Ravenpoint, sweetheart—er, sorry, Arria. Maybe I’ll see you around.”
He walked away, leaving her staring after him, her mind racing. Something about him didn’t sit right—the way he lingered, the way he looked at her. He didn’t feel like a simple passerby.
But for now, she was just glad he was gone.
She rushed up the stairs and locked herself in her room. The quiet enveloped her like a cocoon, but it didn’t bring relief. She collapsed onto the bed, curling into herself as if she could shut out the memories.
Sleep came eventually, but it wasn’t the escape she needed. As always, the nightmares followed.