Chapter 28
Elora
The morning came too quickly.
Elora stirred with a groan, the dull throb behind her eyes reminding her that even healing elixirs couldn’t erase everything.
She lay curled on a bed of rough straw inside the north barn, her satchel used as a lumpy makeshift pillow, and her cloak draped over her like a ratty blanket.
Yet, she felt comfortable. The familiar fabrics and scents making her feel closer to home. Wherever that was now.
Rell had helped her inside last night. He hadn’t spoken much—just pressed the cool glass of an elixir into her hand and watched until she drank. The potion dulled the worst of it, but it hadn’t erased the image of claws at her throat, or the sound of Viliam’s voice when he told her he would return.
She sat up slowly, rubbing at her temples. Around her, the others were already moving—packing supplies, checking weapons. Their things had been brought as promised, everything accounted for. The sight of it was strangely reassuring. After everything, the small normalities still held.
Violette stood near the barn doors, her expression unreadable as she strapped the last of her gear into place. Symond stood nearby, clearly ready to go but… different. He wasn’t sneering or tossing out barbed words like usual. In fact, he wasn’t looking at her at all.
Interesting.
Elora caught his eye briefly. He looked away almost immediately, awkward in a way that might’ve been funny if her head wasn’t pounding. She supposed getting your arm nearly bitten off might change the way you look at someone.
Good, she thought. Maybe he’ll think twice next time.
Rell was still seated near her, methodically tying a fresh bandage around his forearm. He hadn’t left her side long—just long enough to grab breakfast and bring her a waterskin. One brow arched when he noticed her watching Symond.
“I think I bruised his ego,” she snickered under her breath.
Rell huffed a laugh. “Oh, I think it was something else that got bruised. Or… stirred.”
Elora blinked, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He just grinned and stood up. “Nothing. Just saying, he might be nursing more than one kind of wound.”
Her frown deepened, but he was already walking away, smug as ever.
Elora rose, brushing hay from her clothes and checked the contents of her satchel, relieved to find everything accounted for. The familiar weight of it grounded her. Whatever came next, she would be ready.
Her ears caught the hushed murmur of voices near the barn’s entrance—Rell and Violette, their words muffled but urgent. She didn’t need to hear the details to know they were talking about last night. About Viliam. About the other nightglider. About her.
Elora forced herself to look away.
Instead, her eyes landed on Symond. He stood alone near the corner of the barn, re-wrapping the hilt of one of his daggers like it had personally offended him. His jaw was tight, shoulders rigid, still bruised from their fight. His eyes darted to her and then quickly away. Awkward. Guarded.
A smug flicker lit behind her ribs. She didn’t know why she wanted to prod him again. Maybe it was the leftover adrenaline. Maybe it was the memory of his blood in her mouth. Maybe it was just the satisfaction of finally, finally, wiping the condescension off his face.
She crossed the barn, boots silent against the hay-strewn floor. “Morning,” she said, voice syrupy sweet. “Sleep well?”
Symond froze mid-wrap. His eye twitched before he glanced at her. “What do you want?”
She tilted her head, all innocent curiosity. “Nothing. You just looked like you needed the rest after last night.”
He shoved the blade into its sheath. “You get one good hit in and now you think you’re tough?” He snickered, almost turning away. “Trust me, sweetheart. You wouldn’t have gotten any hits if I hadn’t spent an hour fighting a bounty hunter for you, while you did nothing.”
“Only one?” Her eyes trailed over the bruises poking out of the collar of his shirt to the deep bite mark on his wrist. “Right. By all means, continue to underestimate me.”
He didn’t reply, just clenched his fists at his sides, and she could practically see the heat rising to his ears.
She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice so only he could hear. “I’ve really enjoyed reconnecting, you know. Shame we’re going separate ways.”
He stalked away, the same cold satisfaction curling in her chest that had bloomed when her fangs sank into his flesh. She didn’t need his approval. She just needed him to understand.
She was not the girl from the Institute anymore.
And she sure as hell wasn’t scared of him.
"Enjoying yourself?" Rell's voice came from behind her, tinged with amusement.
She spun on her heel, one eyebrow raised, finding him propped against a support beam with a knapsack slung over his shoulder, his dark hair catching the morning light filtering through the barn's gaps.
The sight of him, battered and still infuriatingly cocky, sent a strange warmth through her chest that she absolutely refused to examine too closely.
It was the way the sunlight crept along his jaw, highlighting old scars and the new stubble that dusted his chin. The broad slope of his shoulders was visible even beneath his patched shirt, and when he threw on his long black leather coat, she missed the toned curves of his biceps.
How was it fair that someone could get half-flattened by a collapsing building and come out the other side even more appealing?
She was relieved she wasn't shifted now. The night before had been a fever dream: blood in her mouth, Rell’s scent clinging to her skin, her bones humming with the need to bite, to claw, to…
something else, something she couldn’t name without her face lighting up like a bonfire.
She looked away quickly, hoping he hadn’t caught her staring, but the faint smirk that curled his mouth said otherwise. Heat crept up her neck, and she focused hard on the battered leather straps of her satchel, suddenly finding them fascinating.
Violette approached them, her expression as unreadable as ever. Her rough leathers had been replaced with practical traveling clothes—a dark tunic and sturdy boots suited for the road ahead.
"We need to move," she said without preamble. "Staying in one place too long is asking for trouble." Violette glanced toward Symond, who was pacing the length of the barn’s far wall. He looked, for once, more haunted than hateful. A man wrestling with something he couldn’t cut away.
"We'll part ways here, then," Rell said.
The finality of it hit Elora harder than she'd expected. For all their conflicts, these people had risked their lives for her. Violette had stood between her and Fane. Symond had fought the bounty hunter, even if he'd been insufferable about it afterward.
"Thank you," she said to Violette. "For everything. I know I wasn't exactly welcomed, but you still—"
"Don't." Violette held up a hand. "We did what needed doing. Nothing more."
But there was something softer in her expression, almost like approval. Elora had earned something from the woman, even if Violette would never say it outright.
Symond finally stalked over to them, irritation barely contained in his huffs and sighs.
"Ready?" Violette asked him.
He nodded curtly, shouldering his pack with more force than necessary. "Let's go."
Rell stepped forward then, his usual easy demeanor shifting as he approached them. "Rook." A brief nod—polite but distant, nothing more than professional courtesy.
But when he turned to Violette, something softened in his expression. He caught her arm gently, his voice dropping low enough that Elora had to strain to hear.
"Watch yourself out there," he said, his fingers lingering on her sleeve.
Violette's eyebrows rose slightly, but there was warmth in her gaze as she looked up at him. "Since when do you worry about me?"
"Since always," Rell replied quietly. “You know that.”
For a moment, the sharp edges of Violette's composure softened. She placed her hand briefly over his. "I can handle myself, Rell."
"I know. Doesn't stop me from worrying." He squeezed her arm once more before stepping back, the moment passing but leaving something tender in its wake.
As they prepared to leave, Elora found herself studying each of their faces, memorizing the details.
This would be the last time she saw them.
The weight of that finality settled in her chest, heavier than she'd expected. She hardly knew Violette, and certainly didn’t like Symond, but oddly enough goodbye seemed harder than it should have.
Violette paused at the barn door, looking back. "Stay alive, ward."
The word should have stung—should have dragged up all the shame and humiliation of her failures at the Institute. Instead, coming from Violette, it almost sounded like a challenge. Like she was being dared to prove she was more than what that label implied.
"I will," Elora replied.
Symond brushed past her without a word, but she caught the way his eyes flicked to hers at the last moment. There was something there—anger, yes, but underneath it... confusion? Uncertainty? She'd rattled him more than he wanted to admit, and they both knew it.
Then they were gone, disappearing into the morning light beyond the barn doors. The sudden quiet felt oppressive, broken only by the distant sound of their footsteps fading into silence.
"Well," Rell said, breaking the stillness. "That was sufficiently awkward."
They made their way through the barn, stepping around moldy hay and rusty farm tools. The building felt larger without the others, their absence echoing in the empty spaces. When they reached the back door, Rell paused with his hand on the latch.
"You gonna be able to handle this?" He glanced over at her then, cocky smile in place where it always was. "The Woods aren't exactly known for being hospitable to visitors."
Elora looked through a gap in the boards toward the distant tree line. If she was being honest, she wasn’t ready. She was terrified. But she had Rell to protect her, and her own claws and fangs that were becoming more comfortable than she wanted to acknowledge.
"I'm sure," she said.
Before Rell could respond, she stepped back from the door and shocked herself. She didn't flinch from it this time—instead, she welcomed it, let it spread through her veins like wildfire.
Her defensives returned to her fingertips lifted a bit of the anxiety she was feeling about the journey ahead. Every sound in the barn became crisp and distinct—the scurry of mice in the walls, the creak of old wood settling, even Rell's sharp intake of breath.
"Elora," he said slowly, "You don’t have to do that. I’ve been through these woods enough times—"
“I want to. As much as I’m haunted from how I got these abilities, I can’t deny that I feel safer with them. Capable.” She flexed her claws, testing their sharpness against her palm. “Not a complete burden.”
“You’re hardly a burden. I should tell you about some of my other jobs,” Rell giggled to himself, remembering some adventure.
"With Snatchers and whatever else lurks in those trees, I want to make sure I can hear it coming. See it coming. Be ready for it with claws raised."
Rell studied her for a moment, then nodded slowly.
"Fair enough." He pushed open the door, letting in a gust of cool morning air that her enhanced senses immediately cataloged—dew, earth, the distant musk of wild animals, and underneath it all, a tinge of magic calling from the Woods. "Just promise me something."
"What?"
"Don’t listen to the whispers. Don’t go running off chasing ghosts. These woods play tricks on the mind."
The thought of her past constantly whispering in her ears for the next week almost made her change her mind. She considered taking the long way around and pray that she made it to Kilfaire in time. But she couldn’t. She knew she needed to face whatever the woods planned to throw at her.
"That's all I ask." Rell stepped out into the morning, then offered her his hand. "Come on. Those woods aren't going to whisper to themselves."
Elora took his hand, letting him pull her out into the dawn light. Behind them, the barn stood empty and silent, already becoming part of the past. Ahead, the Whispering Woods waited, dark and ancient and full of secrets and danger.