Chapter 21
Elora
Elora froze mid-step. Behind the house, nestled in the half-rutted dirt like a jewel dropped in mud, sat something impossible.
Sunlight glinted off gold filigree that traced elegant patterns across polished mahogany panels.
The enchanted lamps pulsed with a faint blue glow even in daylight.
Through the tinted windows, she glimpsed deep crimson velvet seats unmarred by a single wrinkle.
Her mouth went dry. She rubbed her eyes, but the Empire motorcar remained.
“I—this—how...?” Her feet moved forward without permission, drawn by the magnetic pull of luxury so out of place it made her dizzy.
Rell’s lips curled slowly upward, eyes dancing as he watched her outstretched hand tremble.
“We hijacked it.”
She whipped around. “You what?”
He clapped a hand onto the glossy hood affectionately. “Empire caravan. Poorly guarded. Terrible idea on their part, excellent outcome on ours.”
Elora’s jaw slackened, her fingers hovering above the motorcar’s gleaming surface.
“Got the robes and gear the same way,” Rell said, patting the insignia embroidered on his chest. “Empire gold thread doesn’t come cheap.”
A laugh bubbled in her throat, but she swallowed it down, her hand drifting toward the door handle instead.
Footsteps crunched on gravel behind her.
Rowan, Marcus, and Nevin appeared around the corner, crimson fabric swishing at their ankles.
Marcus’s robe had a dark stain near the hem, Nevin’s sleeve was frayed at the cuff, and Rowan’s collar sat slightly crooked against his neck.
Each clutched bulging canvas bags that clinked with the unmistakable sound of glass bottles.
Marcus bellowed a groan. “Are we leaving already? I’m starving.”
Nevin swatted him. “You just ate.”
Rowan ignored them both. His eyes found Elora instantly. “You’re coming with us?” he asked, voice gentle but unmistakably eager.
Elora felt Rell’s eyes on her, waiting.
She swallowed and stepped closer to the motorcar.
The hours blurred together.
She kept replaying the goodbye in Grayhollow, hating herself for caring at all. Rell had driven the motorcar slowly through the square, villagers waving as if they mattered to her. She’d half-raised her hand to wave back, then let it drop.
The meat vendor—her supposed father—stood in his doorway, wiping bloody hands on a rag.
Not even looking up. Ten feet away from the daughter he’d abandoned, and nothing in him sensed it.
Her throat burned with the urge to scream his name, to make him see her, while another voice inside whispered: Why beg for recognition from someone who threw you away?
Her fingers trembled on the door handle, alternately tightening and loosening. Jump out. Stay hidden. Demand answers. Preserve dignity. Her body couldn’t decide.
Rell’s hand covered hers, warm against her cold skin. “Not now,” he whispered. “There will be time.”
She nodded, grateful and resentful all at once.
Now she sat beside him in the front seat, loose strands of her hair whipping across her cheek with each gust through the half-open window.
The engine’s vibration traveled up through the soles of her boots, oddly soothing against her tense muscles.
Rell’s hand rested casually on a leather-wrapped knob between them while his other guided the wheel with practiced ease.
His gaze never lingered too long on any one point of the road ahead.
The three boys sat in the back.
Adults, technically. But they bickered like children.
Marcus swore every time they hit a bump. Nevin complained about his legs being cramped. Rowan tried and failed to keep the peace.
Their voices were background noise.
The real tension crackled between her and Rell.
Each accidental brush of his arm against hers when the motorcar jostled sent her thoughts scattering in opposite directions: the urge to shift closer battling the instinct to press herself against the door.
Every time he opened his mouth then closed it with the boys in earshot, she found herself both holding her breath in anticipation and exhaling in relief.
Finally, he cleared his throat.
“We’ll hit Ravenpoint soon,” he said, as if the words mattered more than the silence between them.
Elora’s gaze drifted beyond the glass. The city rose from the horizon like a jagged wound—chimney smoke hanging in dirty ribbons, slate rooftops hunched and crowding together, the river a black gash dividing everything in half.
Even as noon approached, Ravenpoint’s buildings cast long shadows across muddy streets.
The empty road transformed with each passing mile.
A wooden wagon rattled past, its wheels throwing mud against their gleaming door.
A farmer yanked his horse’s reins, the animal’s eyes rolling white at their approach.
A merchant clutched his crates closer as if they might steal them.
A mother pulled her wool-wrapped child against her hip, mouth falling open, finger pointing. Whispers followed in their wake.
The golden filigree of their vehicle caught the weak sunlight, reflecting it back tenfold—a boast, a threat. Elora’s heart stuttered and skipped in her chest like a trapped sparrow as another face turned, then another, then dozens, all eyes locked on their passing splendor.
Elora’s collar grew damp with sweat. Her heartbeat drummed in her ears, drowning out the engine’s purr. Ravenpoint meant Empire checkpoints.
Empire soldiers.
Wanted posters.
Her own face nailed to boards with the word ESCAPED WARD stamped across it.
And if she turned her head just slightly west, she could almost smell it from here—alkaline and iron, the particular stench of Thorn’s laboratories. Her gaze drifted out the window, narrowing to that distant point beyond the sea.
Her muscles coiled tight, shoulder blades aching where wings could burst through.
Freedom and vengeance, just an hour’s flight away.
She could picture it—Thorn’s body sprawled across cold tile, robes dark with blood, those clever fingers curled into useless claws.
His salt-and-pepper beard matted crimson.
His eyes—empty, finally empty—stared at a ceiling he would never command again. It was—
A hand closed around her wrist.
Elora blinked, the road snapping back into focus, the motorcar’s engine filling her ears again.
Rell’s hand was still on her wrist.
He hadn’t spoken yet. She glanced at him, and for a moment his expression was unreadable—as if he’d reached for her on instinct and was only now becoming aware of it. His thumb moved once across her skin, then stilled. His gaze flicked from her face to the window and back again.
“You might want to, uh—” He cleared his throat, finally letting go. His fingers drummed once against the steering knob. “Maybe not look out the windows so much.”
She frowned. “What?”
“Your eyes.” He turned toward her so the boys couldn’t hear. “They’re... you know.”
“Right,” she murmured.
Silence settled between them, thick and awkward. Rell’s hand found the steering knob again, fingers tightening around the leather. He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again.
But before he could say anything—
From the back seat, Marcus groaned dramatically. “Rell, I swear on all the gods, if we don’t stop right now, I’m going to explode out both ends!”
Rowan groaned. “Marcus! Why would you even say that?”
Nevin gagged. “Please don’t explode anywhere near me.”
Elora closed her eyes.
For the first time in the last ten minutes, her chest eased.
Chaos, it turned out, was a perfect distraction.
Marcus whined again, clutching his stomach, and Rell didn’t even look back.
“Hold it,” he ordered. “We stop after the checkpoint. We can’t afford to pull over this close to the city.”
Marcus groaned loudly. “I’m dying.”
“Then die quietly,” Nevin muttered.
Rowan, ever the problem-solver, shoved a small vial into Marcus’s hand. “Drink this.”
Marcus sniffed it, grimaced, and downed it anyway. The scent reached Elora even from the front seat—bitter juniper with the unmistakable tang of copper that made her tongue curl against the roof of her mouth. Her own bladder tightened reflexively as Marcus’s squirming suddenly ceased.
Marcus made a strangled noise. “Okay, that… helped.”
The motorcar slowed.
And Elora understood, for the first time, why Tehvan had told her to go through the Whispering Woods instead of along the road to get to Kilfaire.
Ahead, a line of wagons and carts stretched back from what looked like a fortress cutting the road in half. Two stone buildings with narrow windows rose on either side, connected by an arch where soldiers paced. Metal teeth gleamed overhead—a gate that could drop in an instant.
A guard yanked a farmer from his wagon while another rifled through hay bales. Nearby, a woman’s hands trembled as she clutched her papers, while the wails of a child pierced the air as uniformed men ransacked their family’s trunk.
Elora’s mouth went dry. She pressed her palm against her chest as if she could manually slow the hammering beneath her ribs.
Rell steered the motorcar beneath the archway and eased it to a stop. The shadow of the gate’s metal teeth fell across Elora’s lap like prison bars.
Her spine straightened of its own accord, remembering the drills each morning at The Institute. She tilted her chin up and fixed her gaze at a point just above the nearest soldier’s head, mimicking the posture of her classmates, whose faces were always a perfect mask of obedience.
A guard’s boots crunched on the gravel. Rell’s fingers drummed once against the wheel before going still.
He rolled down the window with the unhurried motion of someone who’d done this a hundred times, the glass descending with a soft mechanical whir.
The papers he slid through the slot didn’t tremble in the slightest.
Rell was good at this. Very good. Calm enough to be convincing. Confident enough to bluff through anything. Knowledgeable enough to answer questions without hesitation.