Chapter 30
Elira
The halls were quiet as I made my way down to the training grounds. I spotted Maddie huddled by a window in the corner and rushed over.
“You made it.” I whispered.
She winced, looking terrified. “Never say I don’t do anything for you,” she muttered.
The training hall was silent at this hour, the kind of silence that felt thick and ancient. Shadows clung to the high beams overhead, creeping along the stone floor like they knew what we were about to do.
I stood just behind Maddie, every sense on edge. My heart hammered so loud I was sure she could hear it. My breath came shallow, but my hands—gods, somehow—they stayed steady.
Maddie crouched near the narrow, arched window that overlooked the southern wall. She pressed her palms to the cold stone, fingers splayed wide. I could barely hear the words she whispered, too soft and old to understand—like a prayer made of wind and dust.
The stone beneath her hands began to glow.
Lines of silver shimmered into view—thin threads of warding magic woven across the opening like a living net.
Maddie’s brow furrowed in focus, and a bead of sweat traced a path down her temple.
Her eyes flickered. One second their usual warm brown, the next glowing faintly with something deeper, older.
“Elle…” she whispered, voice strained. “I’m going to stretch it—just enough for you to slip through. But I have to anchor the edges. If I don’t, it’ll snap back and trigger the tower alarm.”
I swallowed hard and gave a sharp nod. “Do it.”
She inhaled once—deep and shaky—then pressed her fingertip to the ward.
The magic hissed. Angry. Alive.
I watched, breath caught, as she slowly traced a glowing line through it. The ward fought back, sparks dancing at her touch, but Maddie didn’t flinch.
“I need more time,” she gritted out.
The ward pulsed like a net tightening, trying to reject her intrusion. But slowly—so painfully slowly—it began to open. A thin gap appeared, no more than the width of a person. Barely enough.
The edges of the magic vibrated violently, unstable and furious.
“Go,” she rasped, sweat dripping from her chin now. Her arms were shaking. “I can’t hold it long.”
I stepped forward, shadows already crawling up my arms. As I passed her, I touched her shoulder gently.
“Thank you,” I murmured. “I won’t forget this.”
I felt my magic come alive under my skin. It was like welcoming back a piece of my soul. Raw power filled me and I knew what I had to do.
My body melted into shadow, slipping through the breach like smoke—silent, unseen.
I didn’t look back.
Not at Maddie. Not at the tower.
Because if I did, I might never leave.
**
Outside, the world was swallowed in darkness—thick, endless, and silent. I slipped through the open air like mist, weightless in shadow form, heading for the grate I’d marked on my first fateful encounter with the Shades.
A chain-link fence had been erected around it since then—new, crude, and too late. It wasn’t enough to stop me. I seeped through the narrow gaps, one wisp at a time.
The air was damp and familiar. The smell permeated my skin.
And just like that, I began the journey back to the world I thought I’d left behind.
The tunnel swallowed me whole.
I phased again to get through the next sealed grate—just long enough to slip between rusted bars slick with filth and time.
The magic clawed at me this time, dragging its price deeper. I barely made it through before I collapsed, solid once more, gasping against the cold stone.
Everything spun.
My limbs felt heavy. My chest ached. I pressed my forehead to the ground and tried to breathe through the crushing fatigue, but the air was thick with rot. Mould, sewage, ash—familiar scents that clung to the underbelly of the city like disease.
I forced myself up, palms scraping against gritty stone as I rose to unsteady feet. My legs trembled beneath me, threatening to give way. But I couldn’t rest. Not here.
Not now.
And then, I stepped out.
The city greeted me with open arms—and a stench like rotting meat and smoke.
The street beneath my feet was slick with grime, puddles reflecting a sickly amber glow from flickering lamps overhead. Smoke curled from cracked chimneys. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked—sharp and guttural—followed by a crash and a scream that was quickly silenced.
Buildings leaned into each other like drunks, windows broken or shuttered, doors bolted tight against the night.
No one came here unless they had to.
And I had to.
I started my journey, each step another move away from the strange comfort I had found. I breathed hard, my body pushing itself to recover stores quickly. I couldn’t afford to be weak. Not with Finn’s life on the line.
I brushed away a tear before it could fully fall.
I never should’ve stayed that long, anyway.
My feet found the old routes on their own—instinctual paths through streets that once felt like the edges of my world.
I passed the bakery with its boarded windows, the rusting sign of Mac’s Deli swaying slightly in the wind.
Malar Square loomed ahead, empty now, the market stalls long packed down.
But the ghosts lingered. Leftover scraps from the day’s trade scattered like memories refusing to fade.
Then I saw it.
The old school.
Its roof had half-collapsed since I’d last come this way. Vines now strangled the cracked brick walls, and part of the front steps had caved in—but I knew it. Every line. Every shadow.
I stepped inside.
Dust coated everything. The air was cold and still, like the building itself had been holding its breath.
And there—in the corner of the old floorboards, behind shattered shelves and broken desks—our bed still remained.
Blankets, faded and ragged, stuffed into a pile.
His books were still scattered across the floor, some damp and curling at the edges.
A broken bottle of medicine lay forgotten nearby, crusted at the rim. It was a place stopped in time.
I knelt beside the makeshift bed, my fingers brushing the worn fabric.
I let them linger. I could still feel the shape of Finn here—of nights spent curled against him, trembling and comforted.
Of the warmth in his chest when I’d cried myself to sleep.
Of how he always stayed, even when I pushed him away.
This had been our sanctuary. A ruined school. A blanket pile. Two people who refused to let go of each other.
He had saved me, so many times. And I had left him alone.
What kind of person does that?
My throat burned. I closed my eyes and let the memories wash over me, just once more.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “For leaving. For everything.”
I took a slow, steadying breath.
And then, finally, I stood.
I knew where I had to go.
And I said goodbye.
**
The Pit blazed like a fire in the heart of the Southside slums—the brightest light in a city built of ash.
As I drew closer, the streets grew louder, more chaotic.
The crowd thickened, spilling out from alleyways and doorways like smoke.
Men and women loitered on the corners, drinks in hand, laughter sharp and jagged.
Somewhere ahead, a roar of cheering erupted—loud enough to rattle the glass in the broken windows.
The sound carried for blocks. The Pit was alive and well.
Eyes followed me as I passed. Some wary. Some amused.
They could sense it—that I didn’t belong here anymore. Or maybe that I did, and it made them uncomfortable.
A few faces stirred old recognition. People I’d once worked with. Some gave me a quiet nod. Others smirked, like they’d just spotted a ghost and weren’t sure whether to run or laugh.
I ignored them.
The front of the Pit loomed ahead—an ugly slab of concrete and rusting steel, lit by flickering neon and the glow of a hundred restless souls.
And there, guarding the entrance like a mountain carved from shadow, stood Jasper.
His skin was ebony black, his dark eyes bright.
He had muscles like a gorilla and little patience for those who pushed their luck.
He was nearly bigger than Slade. He was broader than the door itself.
He worked for Mother Ashford, always had as long as I had known him. But he’d always been kind to me. That counted for something here.
His dark eyes met mine as I approached, unreadable.
“I wondered if we’d see you tonight,” he murmured, voice low and rough.
“Hey Jasper,” I sighed. “Been a long time.” I didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch.
“It has. I can’t say I’m happy to see you back,” he said, his voice calm.
I let out a laugh. “You and me both.”
“Elle – “
“She’s expecting me,” I said coldly.
Something flickered in his expression—regret, maybe, or warning. “I’ll need your weapons,” he said finally.
“Will I get them back?” I asked.
“Hopefully,” he sighed. I handed them over without complaint.
Jasper gave a slow, sympathetic nod. “Go right up, Elle.”
He pulled the heavy door open, and the moment I stepped inside, the sound hit me like a wave.
Up the narrow stairwell I went, my boots thudding against worn stone.
The air grew hotter with each step—thick with sweat, smoke, and bloodlust. When I reached the upper tier, the noise became a living thing, echoing off the cracked walls and caged rafters.
Shouts, laughter, the metallic clang of weapons.
The crowd roared for violence like they were starving for it.
Below, in the dirt-streaked arena, two fighters tore into each other with wild, animal fury. Blood slicked the ground, spraying as one landed a vicious blow. I didn’t know either of them—and it didn’t matter. This wasn’t about names. This was a spectacle. And Mother Ashford was its queen.
I spotted her ahead, seated in her private box like a spider in the centre of her web. It was glass-walled, elevated just high enough to keep her safe from the chaos, but close enough to watch every drop of blood spilled for her entertainment.
Two bodyguards flanked her—hulking, still, and dangerous.