Chapter 8
Leo
I found Elle on the lower training deck, still dressed in that ridiculous gown.
She’d ducked out of the ball early, and it had been noticed. The nobles were combing the gardens with their polite concern and nosy curiosity.
But I didn’t need to search.
I knew exactly where she’d go.
The moonlight hit the marble floor through the high windows in pale slants.
Her gown shimmered like a ghost as she moved—barefoot now, one of her heels abandoned near the stairs.
She was attacking a wooden dummy with the dull training sword someone had left out.
Her strikes were off-balance, shoulders tense, breath harsh.
The hem of her dress was torn. It looked like she had done it on purpose. One of the sleeves had come loose at the shoulder. Her hair—whatever Maddie had done to it—had mostly fallen, wild curls clinging to her face with sweat.
She was attacking a practice dummy like it had personally wronged her.
Over and over.
Blade. Turn. Slam. Again.
There was no rhythm. No technique. Just fury. Raw and quiet.
I stood back and watched for a minute, heart twisting.
“Elira,” I called softly.
She didn’t stop.
“Elle.”
The next strike hit with enough force to crack the wood. The dummy swayed. She stilled, chest rising and falling in hard, shallow breaths.
Then, without turning, she said, “You here to make me go back there?”
“No.” I stepped closer. “I’m just here.”
She finally turned to look at me, her gaze fixed on me like she expected me to argue.
“What?” I said, shrugging. “That ball was boring as shit anyway.”
Elira snorted slightly, like she couldn’t help herself.
Internally I was dancing.
She laughed!
“So what now?” She asked.
I leaned back against the wall of the room and looked around. “Trust you to find a place like this.”
She shivered slightly. “It was the furthest room from the damn ballroom.”
I eyed up the weapons on the wall, picking up a few to test them. Swords, daggers and spears decorated the room. “Some nice stuff in here,” I said, picking up a slender dagger and flipping it once in my hand. “Could definitely do some damage.”
She walked over slowly, barefoot and tired but still sharp around the edges.
“Planning to stab a diplomat?” she asked dryly.
“Only if they talk about alliance-building again,” I muttered.
She smirked. The smile faded quickly.
“So, I saw Syrena back at the ball. She looked upset.” I began.
Elira rolled her eyes and went back to her dummy.
“You two have a little chat?”
“You could call it that.”
“What would you call it?” I asked.
She glared at me. “A disagreement.”
“Anything you want to talk about?” I asked, my voice carefully calm.
She slammed her hand hard into the side of the dummy. “Ok. That’s it. Can you stop?”
I straightened. Didn’t move closer. Didn’t speak right away.
She clenched her fists so tight they went white. Her whole body was rigid with tension. “Elle –“ I began.
“Stop treating me like I’m fragile!” she exploded, voice sharp and ragged.
“You and Slade and Phoenix—and gods, even Maddie—you all keep looking at me like you expect me to break down or shatter at any second!”
Her hands were shaking now, clenched at her sides. Her eyes were wide, not with fear—but with fury. With exhaustion. With everything she hadn’t said since the moment she got dragged into this new life.
“I’m not a porcelain doll,” she snapped. “I don’t need to be protected like I’m about to snap in half. I’ve already snapped. I put myself back together—like always!”
I straightened, tension creeping into my spine.
“Elle, we’re just trying to help—”
“I don’t need any help!” she shouted. “I am fine, Leo. I’ve always been fine. I know how to fight. I know how to breathe on my own. So stop—” her voice cracked on the word, but she pushed through it— “stop handling me!”
I stepped forward, my eyes narrowing. “Okay, fine. You want me to take the gloves off? I will.”
Her jaw tensed.
“You’re not okay, Elle,” I said. “You are so far from okay, it’s horrifying.”
She glared at me. “Don’t be so dramatic.”
I almost laughed—but there was no humour in it. Just disbelief.
“Dramatic? Elle, you don’t talk to anyone. You push us away, pretend like we can’t see you falling apart.” My voice rose—not in anger, but in grief. “You think we don’t notice how hard you’re holding it all in? You think we don’t see it?”
“Finn died, Elle. And Thorne—” I swallowed hard. The words burned.
“Don’t,” she snapped, voice sharp and dark. A warning.
“Don’t what?” I stepped forward, closing the space between us. “Don’t talk about them? Don’t say their names? What, are you trying to forget they mattered?”
She turned her face away, but I didn’t stop.
“Do you think you’re the only one who lost someone? The only one with pain?”
I lowered my voice, but it hit harder.
“Thorne was my brother,” I said. “And I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
The words burned coming out.
“So, yeah. I know what you're feeling. Maybe not every part of it, but I know what it’s like to carry grief like a goddamn second skin.”
I took a step closer, my voice rising—not loud, but rough.
“You think I’m not angry too?” I snapped. “I am. I’m fucking furious, Elira.”
My fists clenched. My jaw ached from holding back.
“I’m mad at Ashton. At Vael. At fucking Mother Ashford. I’m pissed you left us at Shade Tower without a word—gone, just like that. You could’ve been hurt, or worse dead! And you didn’t even tell us you were going. No note. No word. Nothing. You just left!”
Her eyes widened, but I didn’t stop.
“I’m pissed that you had to lose Finn the way you did. That it had to be that brutal. That no one gave you a choice.”
My voice broke slightly, but I pushed through.
“And I am goddamn furious at Thorne—for making us leave him on that dock. For choosing to stay. For not giving us another way out.”
The words seethed in my chest. I let them out, let them burn.
“But I’m still trying, Elle.” My voice lowered, rough and aching. “We all are. I’m trying to stay strong, to stay positive, to hold everything together like it won’t fall apart if I look away for five seconds.”
I shook my head.
“And it’s godsdamn exhausting.”
Elira stared at me.
For a long moment, she didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just breathed—shallow, sharp, like the room had turned too small to contain her.
Then her voice came, low and flat.
“I don’t know how to be different.” She said quietly. “I don’t know how to feel… things.”
Her shoulders sagged with the weight of it. Like the admission itself cost her something.
I didn’t speak right away.
I just looked at her—really looked. At the tired slope of her shoulders. At the way her hands fidgeted like she didn’t know where to put them.
Then I said, quietly, “Then don’t.”
She blinked.
“Don’t try to be different,” I said. “Don’t force yourself to feel what you’re not ready to. Just… let me be here. Let us be here. However you are.”
A long silence stretched between us.
“I don’t know how to let anyone do that,” she whispered.
“I know,” I said. “So let me show you.”
“And what if I can’t?” She whispered. “What if there is something in me that … can’t be fixed.”
“You don’t need to be fixed, Elle. You need to grieve. You need to be seen. And maybe you’re not ready for that either. But I am. I see you, Elle. I always have.”
Her mouth parted slightly, like she wanted to argue—maybe even scream.
But she didn’t. She looked at me, those beautiful blue eyes full of turmoil.
But also something else. Recognition.
Like maybe… maybe I’d reached her.
Not enough to fix anything. Not yet.
But enough to keep her standing.
She bit her lip, then reached down and gripped the end of a wooden sword.
Without looking at me, she held it out—handle first.
A quiet invitation.
“Feel like sparring?” she asked, voice rough but steady.
I smiled, warmth curling in my chest like fire catching kindling.
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s do it.”