Chapter 17
Elora
“So, it’s simple,” Rell was saying, leaning against the table like he didn’t have a single doubt in the world. “Elora and I take the main streets, making sure we’re seen. We head past the city gates and lead Fane to the barn just outside the northern wall.”
Violette, seated across from him, nodded sharply. “Meanwhile, Symond and I will move through the sewers. We’ll stay out of sight and come up through the passage near the barn. By the time Fane realizes he’s outnumbered, it’ll be too late.”
Simple. The word clanged in Elora’s head like a hammer striking metal. There was nothing simple about this.
Her stomach twisted. Splitting up while Fane was hunting her? It felt like throwing herself into open water with a weight tied to her ankles and hoping she wouldn’t drown.
She forced herself to meet Rell’s gaze, trying to keep the shake out of her voice. “What if something goes wrong?”
“Then we improvise,” Rell said with a small shrug. “That’s why we’re splitting up. Fane can’t plan for all of us if he doesn’t know where we all are.”
Elora’s fingers curled into her palms. Improvise. He made it sound like a perfectly natural thing to do—like they weren’t dealing with a man twice her size, who had already torn through walls just to get his hands on her.
She wasn’t Rell. Or Violette. She didn’t have years of experience dodging people who wanted her dead.
From the far end of the room, Symond let out a loud scoff, his chair tilting back on two legs. “Great. So, while you two go skipping through town like bait, I get to crawl through rat-infested filth. Sounds fun.”
Violette shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “It’s the best way to stay out of sight.”
“Sure,” Symond muttered. “Because nothing screams ‘elite mercenary’ like slogging through sewage.”
“You’ll survive, Rook,” Rell said dryly, smirking as he stretched out his legs. “Unless, of course, the rats are smarter than you.”
Symond’s chair hit the ground with a thud as he leveled a glare at Rell. His fists clenched, and for a second, Elora thought he might throw a punch.
She almost wished he would. A brief distraction from this inevitably horrible plan.
Splitting up felt like tempting fate. Every instinct screamed at her to object, to demand a better alternative—any alternative—but when she opened her mouth, Violette’s sharp gaze cut her off before she could even try.
“We don’t have time for second-guessing,” Violette said. “This works because Fane underestimates us. If we all stay together, he’ll see it coming.”
Elora swallowed hard, nodding despite the twisting unease curling in her stomach. She hated that it made sense.
Fane wouldn’t hesitate to come after her, but if he thought she was vulnerable—just one scared girl with a single bodyguard—it might give them the advantage they needed.
Or it might get them all killed.
“You okay with this, Sunshine?”
Rell’s voice broke through her thoughts, light and easy, but not enough to mask the quiet thread of concern beneath it.
Elora paused, the nickname catching her ear more than the question itself. Sunshine.
Rell liked nicknames—Vye for Violette, Rook for Symond—but those at least made sense. Simple, familiar. Sunshine didn’t.
She wasn’t bright, or warm, or anything remotely close. If anything, she was a storm cloud hanging over this entire operation, dragging them all into something far more dangerous than they’d signed up for.
So why that name?
Elora glanced at him, finding his usual smirk still in place, but his eyes were different—watching her carefully, gauging her reaction.
“I don’t think I have a choice,” she admitted.
“That’s the spirit.” Rell’s smirk shifted into something closer to a grin, like he actually thought she was capable of pulling this off.
She didn’t share his confidence.
Symond let out an irritated huff before shoving himself out of his chair. “Let’s just get this over with.”
Violette rose smoothly, adjusting the straps on her belt. “We’ll head for the sewer entrance near the market,” she said to Rell. “Give us twenty minutes before you start moving.”
Rell nodded. “Got it.”
And then she was gone, following Symond out the door.
The room felt heavier in their absence.
Elora stared at the door long after Violette and Symond had disappeared through it, her thoughts lingering on the uneasy weight in her chest. Something about splitting up didn’t sit right with her, and she had the gnawing feeling she wouldn’t see them again as soon as she’d like.
Well, Violette anyway, she could do without seeing Symond again.
She exhaled slowly, forcing herself to shake the thought away. Worrying wouldn’t do her any good now.
“You’re going to burn a hole through that door if you keep looking at it like that.”
Elora jumped, her heart slamming against her ribs. She whirled around to find Rell standing much closer than she expected.
He smirked, clearly amused by her reaction. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” He held out a folded bundle of clothes. “Here,” he said, shaking them slightly for emphasis.
The fabric was worn but clean, smelling faintly of soap and something vaguely metallic—probably from being stored near weapons. She unfolded the bundle and pulled out a shirt, setting it on the table before holding up the pants.
Dark gray leggings.
She lifted an eyebrow, looking up at Rell. “Pants?”
Rell crossed his arms, leaning back against the wall. “A dress isn’t practical,” he said easily. “It only takes one tangle to trip you up and send you right into Fane’s waiting arms.”
Elora pressed her lips together, fighting the urge to argue. She knew he was right, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. Instead, she muttered, “It’s not very ladylike.”
Rell barked out a laugh, shaking his head as he mockingly rolled his eyes. “You’re not at the prestigious Institute anymore. Trust me, around here, you don’t want to be perceived as ‘ladylike.’ You want to be perceived as someone who can defend herself.”
Elora narrowed her eyes slightly, skeptical.
Rell pushed off the wall, standing straighter as he closed the space between them. “I won’t make you wear pants,” he said, his voice light, almost teasing. “But you’re not wearing a dress, so you choose—pants or no pants.”
He let his gaze sweep over her slowly before flashing her a wink and a flirtatious smirk.
Elora blushed.
Heat crept up her neck before she could stop it, caught somewhere between intrigued and uncomfortable. She didn’t know whether to step back or slap him. Maybe both.
“Pants,” she said quickly, her voice tight as she snatched them up and turned on her heel.
Rell chuckled behind her as she strode toward her room, the sound far too pleased for her liking.
Elora stepped back into the common room, rolling her shoulders as she adjusted to the unfamiliar fit of the leggings.
They were snug but comfortable, far more practical than the tattered dress she had been running around in.
The light gray top she wore was simple and fitted, its sleeves ending just past her elbows, the fabric lightweight but sturdy.
The top was contained under a leather vest, the fabric thick but flexible and reinforced with subtle padding along the sides and shoulders. It wasn’t armor, but it would absorb a hit better than bare fabric.
The brown cloak she had kept draped over her shoulders felt heavier than before, its edges frayed, tattered from years of wear.
Rell looked her up and down, his sharp eyes assessing—not in a leering way, but with the keen scrutiny of someone appraising whether or not you were built to survive.
“Better,” he said, nodding slightly before grabbing something from the nearby table. He held out a brown leather belt with several loops and compartments. Elora fastened it around her waist.
Rell tilted his head, giving her another once-over before smirking. “Now you almost look like you belong here,” he said, crossing his arms. “All that’s missing is the attitude.”
Elora arched an eyebrow. “And what, exactly, is the attitude?”
He grinned. “Like you’d stab a guy for looking at you wrong.”
She scoffed, adjusting her belt one last time. “I don’t need to stab anyone,” she said coolly. “That’s what you’re here for.”
Rell stepped in close again, holding something out in his palm—a dagger, sleek and dark, sheathed in black leather worn smooth with use.
“This is for you,” he said. “To borrow.”
Her fingers brushed the hilt—it was cool, solid, the grip molded to fit a hand with purpose. It felt heavier than she expected. Not in weight, but in implication.
“Why are you giving me this?”
“Because I’d rather you not die,” Rell said bluntly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “And because it’s enchanted. Mindstrike. Every hit buys you a moment—makes them hesitate, just for a second.” He raised an eyebrow. “That second could save your life.”
She tightened her grip on the dagger, feeling the subtle hum of the enchantment through her palm. It unnerved her. So much of her life had been learning how to avoid conflict, not survive it. But those days were gone.
The streets of Ravenpoint were as loud and chaotic as ever—alive with barked orders, shouted haggles, and the steady grind of cart wheels over cobblestone.
The scent of frying fish and sweat hung thick in the air, mingling with the acrid smoke of street torches that hadn’t been doused since dusk.
Vendors hollered over each other from cramped stalls, while children ducked between legs and wheels, always one breath away from being trampled.
Elora kept her hood low and her head down, eyes fixed on the ground just ahead of her boots.
Every footstep echoed in her chest like a warning drumbeat.
Her satchel wasn’t on her shoulder—for the first time in what felt like forever—and the absence of its comforting weight gnawed at her nerves.
Everything important was in there. Her notes, ingredients, spare tools. Her life.
She hadn’t wanted to leave it behind. But Rell had insisted.
“Someone from the Hive will grab our gear and meet us at the new safehouse,” he’d said with maddening confidence. “We don’t want our travel gear slowing us down against Fane.”
She hadn’t argued—much. But her hands had curled into fists the moment she handed the bag off, and they hadn’t quite relaxed since.
Now she moved through the Northern Quarter with him, the cobblestones giving way to broken dirt roads and scattered patches of straw. The crowds here were thinner—noisy merchants replaced by the slow churn of wagons and workers lugging crates toward the gates.
Rell walked at her side with infuriating ease, every step casual, hands tucked against the hilts of his daggers like they were old friends. His dark coat billowed slightly with each step, drawing the occasional glance from passersby. He didn’t try to blend in. Didn’t even bother.
She resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs.
“Relax,” he murmured out of the corner of his mouth. “You’re so tense you might as well be waving a flag that says ‘wanted fugitive here.’”
Elora scowled beneath her hood but said nothing. She wanted to argue, to snap something clever in return, but her pulse was already climbing again as they approached the city gates.
Two guards stood at attention, lazily scanning the travelers. A wagon rolled by, its wheels creaking under the weight of barrels and sacks, and the guards moved to let it pass. No one stopped them. No one looked twice.
Elora didn’t let herself breathe until they were through the gate.
The chaos of the city melted away behind them, replaced by the wide, quiet sprawl of countryside. Fields stretched toward the horizon in slow waves of gold and green, dotted by stooped farmers and wind-worn fences. For the first time since leaving the hideout, the air smelled clean.
Rell glanced at her sideways. “See? Easy.”
She didn’t reply. Her gaze had already shifted—past the fields, past the scattering of grazing animals and rows of crops—to the distant blur of trees. The Whispering Woods loomed like a shadow at the edge of the world. She could feel the hum of its old, wild magic from here. Faint, but insistent.
But first, the barn.
It squatted near a field, gray and leaning slightly to one side, its roof sagging in the middle as if it were tired of holding itself up. The boards were weathered and warped, the door crooked on its hinges. Abandoned, by all appearances.
A perfect place to spring a trap.
Elora’s stomach twisted, her eyes lingering on the structure.
Every instinct in her body screamed not to go near it.
That no matter how much planning they’d done, how good the setup was, walking into that barn was still walking into danger.
But there was no turning back now. Not with Fane closing in.