Chapter 48
Rell
It had been three days since the arena.
Three days since Elora stopped speaking. Stopped blinking like a person. Stopped being Elora.
Rell sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, watching her with the same helplessness since he brought her there.
She hadn’t moved. Not really. Not on her own.
She lay curled on her side beneath a coarse blanket, still streaked with dried soot and ash.
Her eyes were open, glassy and unseeing.
She didn’t react to his voice, his touch, the food he left by her side every few hours.
She hadn’t even flinched when a pipe burst in the hallway two nights ago, sending half the hideout scrambling.
She wasn’t asleep.
She was gone.
After Thorn summoned that thing—that shadow-twisted nightmare of magic—and crushed Tehvan like his bones were made of glass, Rell had scooped her up and ran.
He’d carried her through the Kilfaire sewers in silence, the stink of rot and alchemy thick in the air, her body limp in his arms. Even the rats kept their distance.
By the time they reached the Hive’s Kilfaire hideout, she was ice cold and barely breathing. He’d wrapped her in blankets, pressed water to her lips, sat beside her in this goddamn room until his back ached and his patience splintered into something close to fear.
Three days.
He’d done this with trauma before—watched Violette spiral after losing a squad, held Symond back from putting a blade through someone who looked too much like someone from his past. But Elora? She’d fought monsters. Snatchers. Fane. Thorn. Herself.
Now she just lay there.
And Rell had no idea how to bring her back.
He shifted against the headboard, the wood biting into his spine. Elora’s back was still to him. The soft rise and fall of her breath was the only proof she was still here.
Three days of silence. Of this fragile shell, when she used to hiss and spit and fight even when she was losing. When she used to meet his smirks with fire in her eyes. When she used to look at him.
And he couldn’t decide what was eating him more—the aching need to stay by her side, or the pull to slip out into the streets and gut the scumbags who did this to her.
He knew that vile guard didn’t die in that arena. And Thorn? He was no doubt in the empire’s gilded estate meant for royalty. Protected. Planning his next moves.
Rell’s hands clenched in his lap, knuckles popping.
He could find them. He wanted to. Right now, he could be sneaking into that estate, he knew the layout, he’d done it before. He could creep past Thorn’s defenses and skin the bastard inch by inch.
He could go.
But if he left… and she woke up alone?
Rell ran a hand down his face, dragging his fingers over the stubble on his jaw. It was like trying to put out a fire with a whisper.
He glanced at her again. The curve of her shoulder under the blanket. The ragged edge of her cloak clutched in one hand. He shut his eyes. But the same image wouldn’t leave him. Not the blood. Not the fire. Not even Thorn.
It was him. The ginger guard with the eyepatch. The way he leaned in like she was a prize he was reclaiming. Hands on her, caressing her cheek. And her. The way her entire body locked up, frozen between fight and flight and just… breaking.
Thorn shocking her and slapping her made his blood boil but Rell had nearly jumped into the arena when he saw that guard touch her.
He wanted to rip his hands off and shove his own thumb into his last good eye.
Only the plan—her plan—had kept him from doing something reckless.
And even now, he didn’t know if that was the right call.
He looked down at her again. “I should’ve been faster,” he muttered under his breath. “Should’ve stopped them.”
His voice cracked just enough to shame him. Rell leaned his head back against the wall, letting it thud gently.
He wasn’t used to this kind of waiting.
He was a blade. A storm. Something to be used. Not this—this anchor, this hand held out in the dark, hoping she’d take it.
And yet here he was.
Waiting.
For her.
A sharp breeze swept across his skin.
He jolted awake with a shiver.
The room was cold—colder than it had been when he drifted off. He blinked, heart thudding in that disoriented post-sleep panic. The balcony door was wide open, the sheer curtain rippling in the breeze.
He hadn’t left it open.
Rell sat up, silent. Instinct taking over.
His hand reached beneath the pillow and closed around the worn leather hilt of his dagger. He rose from the mattress slowly, eyes scanning every corner of the room.
That’s when he saw them.
Golden eyes. Four pairs.
Glinting from the dark corners of the room like stars in the night sky.
He barely had time to adjust before he heard it—a crack, like splintering wood and grinding bones. The shadows folded inward, reshaped themselves with liquid grace, and then—
They were standing in his room.
Al’terans.
Their skin was darker than oil, bodies limned faintly in silver where the moonlight caught. Not glowing—but reflecting, like polished obsidian. Ethereal. Alien.
Predators.
Four of them.
Two were unfamiliar—one tall and muscular, nearly Fane’s size, the other leaner but no less dangerous, a curved blade strapped across his back.
But two he knew.
Viliam. And her.
The girl from the woods. The one who nearly tore Elora’s throat out and had thrown him like he weighed nothing.
Rell’s jaw clenched. His grip on his dagger didn’t loosen.
“Viliam?”
He froze.
That voice—barely audible. He turned.
Elora was still lying down, still in her hollow trance. But her eyes were open now. Looking toward the Al’terans. Toward him.
Toward Viliam.
Rell’s stomach knotted.
Of course Viliam would be the one to pull her out of it.
He turned back to the Al’terans as they stepped farther into the room.
He braced himself. Didn’t lower his weapon. He’d fight if he had to.
But they weren’t here for him.
His eyes flicked from the silent, towering one to the girl, then landed on Viliam—whose expression was unreadable. Something between solemn and… possessive?
Rell didn’t like the way he looked at her.
He didn't like any of this.
He shifted slightly, putting himself between them and Elora, even though he knew it wouldn't matter if they wanted to go through him.
“You didn’t knock,” he said, voice low, biting.
The girl—part-shifted again, fangs gleaming—smiled. “We don’t need permission.”
The lean one grunted. The big one just kept staring.
Viliam’s gaze finally broke from Elora to settle on him. “We came for her.”
She was sitting up now—barely—but her face was still blank. Hollow. Like something inside her had cracked and the light couldn’t get in anymore.
Rell stood protectively in front of the bed. His blade stayed drawn. It was laughable, really, like a dagger would mean anything against them. But he wasn’t going to give her up.
He stared Viliam down. “You tried to kill her,” he said, his voice low, sharp. “That girl—” he nodded at the one beside him, her smile feral—“tried to claw her to pieces.”
No response. Just those four pairs of golden eyes watching. Waiting.
Rell’s grip tightened on the hilt. “What do you want with her?”
Viliam stepped forward. Not threatening—just deliberate. His gaze flicked to Elora, then back.
His voice was thick with his accent, his words broken but firm.
“Restore the balance,” he said. “She will live.”
“Maybe,” the girl muttered darkly.
Rell turned back to Elora. Kneeling slightly so he could meet her gaze. “Sunshine,” he said softly. “This is your choice. You don’t have to go with them. You can say no. What do you want?”
Please say me.
Please pick me.
“I don’t care,” she said flatly.
She didn’t blink. Didn’t twitch. Just stared past him, past the world, like nothing was worth seeing anymore.
Rell felt something inside him snap loose. Her voice—it wasn’t hers. It didn’t carry any of her usual sharpness, her spark. It sounded like it belonged to someone already halfway gone.
Viliam said something in Al’teran. A gentle command. A promise, maybe. The girl translated:
“We don’t wish to hurt you. But we must take her. If not, the world may rot. Shatter. Balance must be restored.”
Rell didn’t know what the hell that meant.
He didn’t care.
Viliam stepped closer. And so did Rell.
“Elora—”
Viliam reached her first.
Not rough. Not cruel.
But possessive.
He pulled her gently up from the mattress. Her knees buckled. She collapsed against his chest like a puppet whose strings had snapped. Rell moved forward to catch her—
And Viliam’s head snapped toward him. That look—not violent, but final—was enough to stop Rell mid-step.
Dagger still in his hand. And useless.
The biggest of the Al’terans stepped forward, his limbs already warping, cracking. Flesh unraveling into black fur and fangs and feathery wings. He shifted into something massive, something ancient. A full-grown nightglider, wings spanning nearly the width of the room.
Viliam laid Elora carefully on the creature’s back. Secured her in place with braided leather straps, her limbs limp. Her head slumped sideways. She didn’t resist.
The others shifted too, melting into beasts of shadow and stars.
Viliam was the last to go.
He gave Rell a long, unreadable look. Not triumphant. Not mocking. Just... sad.
And then he was gone.
The wings of four nightgliders snapped open, catching the wind like sails. With a shriek and a gust of cold air, they launched from the balcony, soaring into the moonlit sky.
Rell was left in the silence.
The empty room.
Rell dropped to the bed, dagger clattering to the floor. He felt like he’d been gutted, left empty and seething in a way that made him want to punch through walls until his knuckles bled.
"Fuck," he whispered to the walls. To himself.
Every instinct screamed at him to go after them, to do something reckless and stupid like he used to. He could find them again—if not by tracking them directly, then by shaking down every contact and lead until someone talked. But what if she didn’t want to be found?
She didn’t even look at him. She didn’t choose him.
He squeezed his eyes shut, his chest tight—too goddamn tight—like it might explode or cave in.
He slammed his fist against the wall, once, hissing at the pain it left in his hand.
He rose from the bed with a jerk, his mind already racing ahead to what came next. Thorn would have people searching for him by now, and Rell had already stayed in Kilfaire too long. It was only a matter of time before one of those bastards sniffed out the Hive’s hideout.
He couldn’t stay. He couldn’t risk the Hive getting caught in his own shitstorm. This whole mission had already cost them the Ravenpoint hideout.
Aszona. The Hive's headquarters. That's where he needed to be right now. Back to mercenary work, where rules were clear and personal feelings didn’t get you burnt. Something familiar.
He grabbed his bag, half-full with essentials—spare clothes, loose currency, a flask of dark liquor—and strapped it across his back.
His stomach twisted at the thought of leaving her behind, but he forced it down. Going after her meant going into Al’teran territory. Enemies on every side. He’d be dead before he got close. She’d be deeper in by now—in the heart of their goddamn realm. In Viliam’s arms.
No. Whatever this was with Elora, whatever he felt for her, it didn’t matter now.