Chapter 45
Elora
She hadn’t believed it at first. The words on parchment—execution today, Tehvan Thorn—smudged in her mind.
The letters disconnected, floating around the perimeters of her vision.
But as the crowd filed out of the Scholastic District, blending into the mob of cheerful city dwellers headed toward the arena, she knew it was real.
Elora moved with them, head down, shoulders hunched like the rest of them. Just another face swallowed in the churn of voices and boots on stone. But every step closer to the arena tightened something in her chest.
She kept her pace steady, her fingers pressed hard against her palm, feeling for a heartbeat that she could calm into submission.
She imagined him there: defiant, maybe a little bruised, but alive.
If Thorn wanted him dead, he wouldn’t be wasting time with a public spectacle.
It was bait. And she was running straight for it.
She knew. But she couldn’t let Tehvan die.
She wouldn’t. She was stronger now. She’d beat Thorn at his own damn game.
She ducked beneath a guard’s bored gaze, slipped through the press of bodies, and reached under her cloak.
The faint jolt of electricity rippled through her skin as she shocked herself, the shift responding to her desperation.
Her claws elongated, her pupils narrowed, and everything else sharpened—scent, sound, instinct.
Breathless by the time she reached the arena’s towering gates, Elora let herself get carried inside by the eager throng.
The smell of dirt and sweat hit her first, followed by the dull roar of anticipation reverberating through wooden beams and metal grates.
In the stands above the arena floor, the stage came into view.
She saw him instantly.
Master Thorn.
Standing tall, hands folded in front of him, dressed in his usual black suit, trimmed in arrogant gold.
Beside him—shackled, kneeling—was Tehvan.
She forced her legs to keep climbing, her fingers brushing the strap of her potion harness, checking what she had. Not much. A flash shard, a few decoys, a whisperwind shard, and—
A fire elemental.
Her eyes flicked to the brazier midway through the stands. A perfect ignition point. She started toward it, trying to move casually like she was looking for a seat closer to the action.
Then—
“Elora.”
The whisper kissed her ear like breath, low and sharp. Not a thought. Not a hallucination.
A voice. His voice.
She froze. Slowly, she turned her head, scanning the opposite stands.
And there he was.
Rell.
One knee propped on the railing, gaze locked on her like a tether.
She could almost see it in his face—pleading, angry, afraid.
He was using his own whisperwind potion. Only she could hear him.
“Elora,” his voice came again, soft in her ear. “What are you planning?”
She held his gaze across the crowd, across the gallows and guards and Master Thorn’s smug silhouette, as she drank her own potion.
“Go,” she whispered, keeping her mouth still as her voice threaded through the magic. “This isn’t your mess.”
“Not a chance, Sunshine.” There was no lecture. No plea for her to stand down. Rell wasn’t trying to talk her out of it. He knew she wouldn’t turn back, but he wasn’t going to let her do it alone.
She let out a slow breath. Rell was damn stubborn, but she didn’t have time to argue. Her eyes flicked between Rell and Tehvan, calculations scrambling for space in her head.
“There’s access into the sewers beneath the north gate—contestant entry. If you can get there with him, I’ll open it. You’ve got one shot at this.”
Elora’s gaze followed the subtle gesture he made, tracking to the thick metal gate nestled far behind the arena’s platform. Two guards stood nearby, half-bored, watching the crowd more than the prisoner.
Elora moved closer to the brazier. Her hand slipped beneath her cloak, fingers brushing the fire elemental shard at her belt.
She uncorked the shard and poured it into the brazier, letting the liquid hiss and vanish into the flames.
The reaction was subtle, at least to the untrained eye—the fire flared, flared again, then settled into a hungry, unnerving dance.
But she felt it. In the back of her mind, like something waking. Waiting.
She turned her attention back to the arena, heart hammering as she leaned over the stone railing. From here, she had a perfect angle—Thorn in the center on the stage, Tehvan beside him, head low, chains glinting in the light.
She just needed to wait for the perfect moment—
A hard shove and suddenly air was rushing past her with a stomach-lurching drop. She hit the dirt hard, knees buckling beneath her. The crowd fell silent.
Guards hauled her up, grip bruising-tight on her arms. She could feel the weight of Thorn’s eyes, the slow turn of his attention. “There you are, my dear. I was wondering when you'd join us.”
Above her in the stands, the brazier flickered where she’d left it primed with the elemental.
She could unleash it now—burn Thorn out of his smug suit, fry the guards too close for comfort—but she’d never reach Tehvan before they cut their losses and ended him. The gamble was too risky.
Instead, she let them see her falter.
A little girl lost in the big bad world.
Rell’s voice hissed through the panic in her mind. “Please tell me this is part of your plan.” She nodded. This had to be her plan now.
The guards hauled her toward the stage. Toward the man that claimed he owned her. She was terrified to look into his eyes, to see every cruel punishment he had planned for her in his gaze. I’m not alone. I’m not weak anymore. She reminded herself.
The stands above her, cramped full with people excited for the show, seemed to hold their breath in unison as she was shoved onto the platform, right into Thorn’s waiting arms. He grabbed her shoulders and examined her with his eyes. The slitted pupils, her claws itching to rake across his face.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk. You don’t get to play with my experiments.” A jolt of electricity ripped through her body. Her muscles seized, locked. She bit down on her scream so hard her vision blurred. All her defenses receded back in on herself.
And then he reached down.
She tried to pull away, to jerk her hand out of his reach. His fingers closed over the ring on her right hand.
“No,” she gasped.
He slid it off. Pocketed it. The cool weight vanished from her skin. With it, her connection to the shift. Her power. Her teeth. Her claws. Her only damn advantage.
Thorn smiled wider.
He slipped her satchel from her shoulder and handed it to one of the guards.
“That’s better,” he said, drinking in her anguish like her escape had left him dehydrated in a desert.
Her eyes darted to Tehvan, searching for something—anything—that might give her strength. But all she saw was his resignation, his silent apology etched in every line of his face. He looked so small, so fragile, and the sight of him chained and broken pierced her to the core.
Thorn grabbed her chin, forcing her eyes to his, demanding her defeat. “Did you really think he could help you escape?” He watched her reaction for the terror and submission he demanded.
She wouldn’t concede. She spat in his face.
Thorn’s expression flashed from surprise to anger. He backhanded her with precision more than force, a slap meant to humiliate, then shoved her into the arms of a guard. Her lip stung, the taste of blood sharp in her mouth.
Thorn wiped his cheek with a crisp handkerchief, regaining his composure as easily as if she had only spilled a drop of wine on his coat.
The guard’s grip tightened around her arm, metal-tipped gloves biting into her skin as she was dragged toward the back of the stage.
Thorn’s focus shifted away from her. “Citizens of The Gilded Empire! Welcome!” His voice boomed, commanding attention as he began to speak of Tehvan’s betrayal and the need for loyalty to the Empire.
His words washed over her like a distant noise, barely registering in her mind.
Her eyes locked on Tehvan, still slumped forward and shackled but now so close she could almost touch him. Close enough to reach him when the moment came.
She was ready, until a voice slithered through her mind, hot breath brushing her ear. “Hey, sweetheart.”