Chapter 44
Rell
The shadows swallowed him again as he slipped back through the alleyways, boots light, thoughts heavier than they had any right to be.
She was safe now. Or safer, anyway. That was the whole damn point.
So why did it feel like he’d just left something vital behind?
The tavern he found was small, grimy, and mercifully quiet.
A slanted sign above the door read The Silver Jug.
He pushed the door open with his shoulder and stepped into the warm haze of lamplight and low conversation.
The smell of alcohol was strong and lingering, almost a comforting scent amongst the dirt and grime.
The bartender didn’t look up. Good. Rell wasn’t in the mood to be noticed.
He slid onto a stool in the far corner, away from the hearth, where shadows clung to the floor and the noise was just distant enough to feel unreal. When the barkeep finally shuffled over, Rell didn’t bother ordering anything fancy—just something strong, cheap, and fast.
The first sip hit like a punch to the gut. Exactly what he wanted.
He leaned back against the wall, letting the rough wood dig into his spine, and stared at the empty chair across from him. His fingers drummed a slow rhythm against the side of his mug.
He exhaled through his nose. He hadn’t expected her to get under his skin. Elora had been a job. A contract. A favor. And then she'd become… something else. Kira.
He was sure of it. Even without her memories, she said enough.
His heart just about melted when she told him about the cloak.
His cloak. Deep down, not quite buried under alchemy-induced memory erasure, she knew that cloak was a symbol of comfort.
Comfort from a young boy who didn’t even know her but promised to save her. Her subconscious never forgot him.
He finally found her and already lost her again.
He told himself this wasn’t the same as before.
She’s free now, even if Tehvan is overbearing and a controlling jackass at times, he loves her.
More than her actual father ever did. She’d be safe in Al’tera.
That’s all he ever wanted for her, to be safe.
Wasn’t it? He should have at least stuck with her until she got on the boat.
Then he would know for sure. Instead he was a dumbass and let her traverse this deprived city alone.
Rell downed the rest of his drink in one pull and motioned for another.
She’d be fine. She had to be.
Because if she wasn’t… he'd burn that whole damn district down looking for her.
He ran a hand down his face and smirked bitterly into the rim of his cup.
“You’re getting soft,” he muttered to himself.
The ale didn’t disagree.
The second drink was starting to do its job.
He was on the edge of letting himself go completely—thoughts unraveling, loosening around the image of her eyes, the sound of her voice—when it hit him.
Not a blade. Not an arrow. A voice.
Smooth, sharp-edged, and too damn familiar.
“You’ve got some nerve showing your face in Kilfaire.”
Rell didn’t look up right away. Took a long, slow sip, then finally let his gaze drag toward her. “It’s a good face,” he said, a lazy smirk tugging at his mouth. “Seems a shame to keep it hidden.”
Kazimiera leaned against the post beside his table, dark eyes gleaming with that knowing spark she always carried.
Her black and gold leathers looked nearly untouched by the grime of the city, her curls twisted into a crown of quiet control.
She held a jar of something amber and dangerous, sipping it like it didn’t bite on the way down. Still stunning. Still furious.
He leaned back in his chair, feigning nonchalance, but the tightness in his gut told a different story. Shit. Of all the ghosts in this city…
“Miera,” he said with mock surprise. “Didn’t realize you still haunted these parts.”
“What are you doing here, Rell? Come to honor the dead? Or join them, like you should’ve all those years ago?”
Rell’s smile turned cold. “Dramatic as ever. Your little rebellion would’ve gotten them killed either way, with or without me.”
Her eyes darkened, and when she spoke next, the words cut close to bone. “They died trying to save you, Rell. Don’t you dare pretend they didn’t.”
He stared down into his glass, jaw flexing once. “You here to dredge up ghosts, Miera? Or just to gloat?”
She tilted her head. “I’m here for a drink before the execution.”
That pulled his gaze up. “What, another poor soul who gave the wrong name in the wrong tavern?”
“There’s one every other day,” she agreed coolly. “But this one’s worth watching.”
He raised a brow. “And what makes this one so special?”
She leaned in, her voice a quiet knife. “Because the Empire’s executing one of their own.”
That… that got his attention.
He straightened slightly. “Who?”
She watched him closely. “A Thorn.”
The glass slipped in his hand, the thud against the table louder than it should’ve been. “What? They’re killing the leader of the Institute?”
“You never paid attention to names during the rebellion, did you?” She rolled her eyes. “No, Rell. Abernathy Thorn is the one you’re thinking of. He’s still alive. Still running that hellhouse.”
Rell’s blood went cold.
She went on, “They’re executing his brother. Tehvan Thorn. For treason. Helped a ward escape, they say.”
Elora.
Rell stood so fast the chair skidded back and slammed into the wall. “Shit.”
Miera blinked, startled by the sudden shift. “Rell—?”
He was already moving. Tossing a coin on the table without looking back.
He shoved his way out of the tavern and into the crowded street, now teeming with bodies all moving in the same direction—the arena at the city’s center.
Rell didn’t bother with the streets. The press of bodies was too thick.
He could already hear the distant clang of bells, the rising murmur of a crowd hungry for a spectacle.
He ducked into an alley, footsteps splashing through puddles slick with runoff and filth.
A crooked scaffold leaned against the side of a warehouse, and he scaled it two rungs at a time, ignoring the creak of old wood.
He hauled himself onto the slanted roof, crouching low as the city spread out before him.
Think, dammit. She’d head for the arena. The news was out; she wouldn’t ignore it. But the city was a labyrinth, and she could be coming from any direction. His eyes narrowed as he considered his options. The gates—he’d get there first and watch for her as the crowd streamed in.
He ran low and fast, leaping gaps between buildings with practiced ease, boots barely making a sound thanks to the balm still slick on their soles.
His breath came hard and fast, heart thudding not from the exertion, but from the thought that somewhere in that crowd, or worse, in that pit, she might already be caught.
Brave. Reckless. And too damn loyal.
Tehvan—the man who raised her in a gilded cage, who measured her every breath, who wrapped her in rules and called it protection. The man who taught her to fear herself, to fear wanting, needing, feeling.
The man who made her believe it was love.
Of course she would go. Of course she’d risk everything for him.
Even now, even after everything.
If he was being honest—really honest—the execution was a good thing.
For him.
Rell jumped a gap between buildings, hit the next roof in a crouch, then kept moving. His lungs burned, but he didn’t slow.
Tehvan’s death meant Elora would be free. Untethered. No more “for your own good” restraints.
He could convince her—maybe—not to vanish into some far-off land where he'd never see her again. Maybe she'd consider the Hive. Maybe she'd choose something with him in it.
The idea twisted something low in his chest, almost hopeful.
But that hope was laced with guilt.
Because he knew what it would cost her.
Tehvan might’ve been a manipulative bastard, but to Elora? She loved him, even if it was the kind of love built on cracked bones and careful lies.
And Rell didn’t want to see what losing that would do to her.
He angled west, toward a set of lower rooftops that edged closer to the crowd gathering at the arena’s eastern gate. If Elora had made it out of the Scholastic District by now, that’s where she’d be—where the common folk funneled in, unaware they were walking into a show of control, not justice.
If she was there, he’d find her. If she wasn’t...
Then he’d tear the city apart until he knew where they had taken her.
He ducked under a broken chimney stack, the rooftops narrowing, his gaze scanning every cloak and scarf in the crowd below.
Come on, Sunshine, he thought, blood roaring in his ears. Don’t make me fight the whole damned Empire to get you back.