Chapter 19
Elora
The inside of the barn reeked of mildew and decay, the scent of rotted wood and old hay clinging to every surface.
Dust floated lazily through shafts of sunlight that broke through the cracked slats in the walls, catching the beams. The floor was scattered with forgotten tools—rusted scythes, a splintered rake, a dented bucket lying on its side in a dark corner.
A ladder led to the loft above, the rungs weathered and warped, some cracked through entirely.
“Stay quiet,” Rell whispered, tilting his chin toward the ladder. His voice was low, barely a breath.
Elora nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat, and followed him up. The ladder protested with every step, but she climbed quickly, her palms sweating as they slipped slightly on the rough wood.
At the top, she crouched beside him in the loft, the floor beneath them layered with brittle hay that crunched softly.
The boards groaned when they shifted weight, and a few of them flexed alarmingly.
The space was small, claustrophobic, but it gave them a view of the barn’s entrance and the sunlit fields beyond through the slats in the wall.
The shadows made them hard to spot from outside, but gave them just enough of a view.
Rell looked over at her, eyes catching a sliver of light that turned them almost gold. “This is where your... uh, cat powers come in handy.”
Elora blinked. “My what?”
“You know.” He made a vague pawing gesture with one hand. “Claws, glowing eyes, predator vision. That whole feral thing you do.”
Her frown deepened. “It’s not—” She stopped, closing her mouth with a sharp exhale. You know what? Not worth it.
“Just use it,” he said, the smirk slipping into something more serious. “If he’s out there, I want you to spot him before I do.”
She glanced down at the band wrapped around her finger. It shimmered faintly in the light, almost innocent-looking. She didn’t want to use it. Still hated the sting. Still hated what it turned her into—even if it kept her alive.
But this was the plan. Her part of it.
She pressed the ringed hand against her left shoulder—same place Thorn always had—and grit her teeth.
The jolt hit immediately.
Pain lanced up her arm like lightning, searing and swift, stealing her breath. Her muscles jerked. Her spine bowed forward slightly. And then it came—the shift.
Her claws unsheathed first, inky black and razor-edged.
Her breath hitched as her muscles tightened, joints flexing with a strange, new strength.
Her hearing sharpened so fast it hurt. Every rustle in the hay, every whisper of the old barn settling was suddenly as loud as footsteps.
The light sharpened. The smells—rot, dirt, hay, oil—hit her like a fist to the face.
She braced herself against the wall, her heart hammering as her pupils narrowed into slits.
“Well?”
Elora closed her eyes.
For a few seconds, she said nothing. Just breathed through it. Focused. Let the world sharpen around her until she wasn’t listening for sounds—she was sound. She wasn’t looking for movement—she felt the tremor of it in the air.
The wind brushed over the field. She tasted it on the back of her tongue—grass, sweat, copper. A wagon rumbled far off, its wooden frame squeaking, iron wheels groaning against packed dirt. That wasn’t what concerned her.
There. Beneath it.
A subtle vibration. Heavy footsteps. Distant, but deliberate. Too steady to be a traveler. Too slow to be a farmer. Someone was approaching.
Her lips parted. “Someone’s coming,” she whispered.
Rell shifted beside her, all trace of sarcasm gone from his face now. “Fane?”
“I don’t know yet. But it’s close. Big. Intentional.”
She could feel it in her bones. In her blood. That slow, heavy pull in the earth before something terrible arrived.
Rell leaned closer, his hand already drifting to his dagger. “Then let’s make this look like the perfect ambush,” he murmured. “And pray to every god neither of us believe in… that Symond and Vye make it in time.”
Elora watched as Rell pulled a slender vial from the inside of his coat. It was obsidian-dark, the glass catching only the faintest glint of light. He gave her a cocky smirk—barely a tilt of his lips—before popping the cork and downing it in one practiced gulp.
At first, nothing happened.
Then his outline began to ripple, the edges of his body distorting like the air above a flame. His features blurred, the shadows around him thickening, curling inward like smoke drawn to a flame—and then he was simply… gone.
Elora blinked, her sharpened senses straining.
The space beside her where he’d crouched in the hay moments ago was just shadow now.
Empty. Her eyes could normally cut through illusions, track the movement of a fly midair.
But this? She felt his presence—ghostlike and muted—but he was invisible even to her.
“You’re still here… aren’t you?” she whispered.
No response. But something shifted near her knee, and she took it as confirmation.
Still, it unsettled her. Not knowing where he was. Not seeing him. It felt like standing on a battlefield blindfolded.
Her claws flexed against the warped floorboards, splinters catching on her skin. Breathe. Focus. You’ve faced worse. Probably. Maybe.
The vibration returned—stronger this time. A slow, heavy thrum that pulsed through the ground and up her legs like a war drum. Her gaze snapped toward the barn doors.
And then they exploded.
The double doors blew inward with a thunderous crash, splinters raining down as light and dust surged in. The boards slammed against the walls with the force of the impact, hanging off their hinges like broken limbs.
Fane stepped through the wreckage, massive and slow like a mountain deciding to walk.
He was worse than she remembered.
Broad shoulders gleamed with dull, reinforced armor. Coils of metallic cord hung at his sides, vials clinking against his belt. In one hand, a barbed whip crackled faintly with electricity. In the other, a small vial of black liquid shimmered with something thick and unnatural.
His eyes locked on her immediately.
“There you are,” he said, taking a single, deliberate step forward. “Where’s your bodyguard?”
Elora couldn’t speak. Her breath had fled somewhere deep inside her chest.
Fane tilted his head, amused. “What’s the matter?” His smile was razor thin. “Cat got your tongue?”
Her body tensed, claws dragging shallow grooves into the floor. He was baiting her, trying to shake her footing before she could plant it.
“No matter.” He raised the vial in his hand, the liquid inside swirling like oil in water. “I’ll deal with him soon enough.”
He hurled the vial.
Elora moved.
She launched herself over the railing of the loft, twisting midair. Her claws scraped the wooden beams as she dropped, her boots hitting the barn floor with a thud that rattled her bones.
Above her, the vial shattered.
The explosion wasn’t fire or glass—it was soundless, a bloom of oily black goo that sprayed out like a net. It hit the loft beams with a sickening slap, strands stretching between the timbers like spiderwebs dipped in pitch.
Whatever it was, it wasn't meant to kill.
It was meant to trap.
“Rell,” she breathed, eyes snapping to the loft. But there was nothing. No flicker of movement. No whisper of sound. Just black sludge dripping down warped beams and a heavy silence that clawed at her nerves.
Was he caught? Gone? She couldn’t sense him. Her panic was too loud, a storm in her head drowning out everything else.
Focus. Trust him.
But trust didn’t stop the fear from coiling tighter around her ribs.
Fane moved.
The sharp crack of his coil lashed through the barn, slicing the air. Elora dove to the side, the barbs missing her face by inches. The sting of displaced air grazed her cheek. She hit the dirt hard, rolled, came up crouched with her claws bared.
Fane didn’t slow. Despite his bulk, he was quick, too quick, using the narrow confines of the barn to corner her.
Another snap of the whip came low. She leaped, barely clearing it, her boots skidding in the dirt as she landed.
The scent of old hay mixed with ozone and blood in the back of her throat.
She was fast. But not forever.
Where are you, Rell?
He hadn’t left. He wouldn’t. She shoved the doubt down, buried it beneath muscle memory and instinct. Her body moved on autopilot now—duck, pivot, slash, breathe—dodging each brutal strike, never able to get close enough to land one of her own.
Then Fane overextended.
His whip slammed into a cracked beam with a shuddering impact. Dust rained down. And for one heartbeat, he was open.
Elora lunged, claws ready to tear.
A grunt—sharp, surprised.
Fane stumbled. Not from her.
From behind him, a blade had sliced clean across his ankle joint, just under the alchemical plating. Rell’s blade.
Elora’s breath caught as she saw it, a flicker of silver, a twist of shadow.
Fane snarled and spun, his hand slamming toward the void beside him. The shadows peeled back like smoke on the wind, and Rell appeared, choking in Fane’s grasp.
Fane had him.
Lifted off the ground like a rag doll, Rell’s boots kicked against the air, one hand clawing at the giant’s wrist, the other groping for his belt. His face was strained, but his eyes—gods, those eyes—they were locked on hers.
Not pleading. Commanding.
He flicked his gaze downward—toward her hip.
The dagger.
Her hand was already moving before the thought finished. She ripped it free, the enchantment humming through her fingers like a living thing.
She charged.
Fane didn’t see her coming until she was already on him.
Elora leaped, using his own armor as leverage. Her claws dug in for balance, and with a shout, she drove the dagger into the meat of his forearm.
The enchantment struck like a pulse—Mindstrike—and Fane’s body stuttered. His grip faltered.
One second.
Rell didn’t hesitate.