Chapter 27
Elora
Elora kept her eyes down, but every inch of her was on alert. Every face, every shift in the corridor, every flicker of movement in her peripheral vision made her hands shake more. She clawed at her flesh so hard it hurt.
Her mind still screamed about Tehvan’s absence.
You’re still wearing the ring. How could you not know?
She wanted to be angry at him. He was supposed to protect her, but she knew she had no right.
Even if he’d known something was wrong, he couldn’t stop it.
He was unable to oppose Thorn. But would he have?
It doesn’t matter now. He didn’t know. He wasn’t there.
Her feet stopped at the threshold of the ward’s quarters. Her body wouldn’t move forward.
I can’t go in there.
Amara’s hand was on her shoulder before she heard her voice.
“There you are!” Amara wore a big smile, her slightly crooked teeth on full display.
She was wearing the typical boring gray uniform, but there was a string of pink and purple flowers around her neck. Twenty pink and seventeen purple. The numbers and colors floated around in her head.
“I was wondering where you’ve been. You missed dinner.”
Elora tore her gaze away from the garland, pushing the memories from her head. Missed dinner. As if she were simply running late, as if her body weren’t still sore, still filthy in ways a bath couldn’t fix.
Amara tilted her head, her expression shifting as she took in Elora’s face. “What happened? You have a—” she pointed to her chin, where a slight scratch must’ve remained.
Elora hadn’t even realized. She hadn’t dared look at her reflection back in Sadia’s room.
“I’m fine,” she blurted. Too quickly. Her body was already turning toward the direction of the bedrooms. “I… I just want to sleep.”
But Amara wasn’t hearing it.
“No, no, you can’t go to bed yet,” she insisted, looping her arm through Elora’s. “There’s a celebration tonight, for the Harvest of Light! Come on, it’ll be good for you.”
Please, no. I don’t want this. I don’t want to be around anyone. The words stayed locked inside her. What was the point? Amara wouldn’t listen unless she gave her a reason. And she couldn’t.
As they entered the communal area, the warm glow of firelight and the scent of freshly baked fruit pie filled the air.
Wards were gathered around tables, talking and laughing, some playing cards, while others clinked mugs together in celebration.
The atmosphere was almost festive, almost normal.
It all seemed wrong. The world was moving forward, but she wasn’t.
And then she saw him.
Gerard.
Her body locked before her mind caught up.
He leaned against the far wall, laughing, completely at ease with two other guards, a mug in his hand. Casual, smug, untouched, as if everything was normal. As if he hadn’t—
Her legs trembled, everything blurring, the festive scene twisting into a grotesque parody of happiness. The fire’s warmth became a suffocating heat, the laughter of the wards a mocking chorus.
A noise rang in her ears. Not from the room. From inside her. The rush of blood, of nausea, of panic clawing its way up her throat. She was gulping up air, yet it felt like none of it was reaching her lungs.
Amara pulled her to the table, oblivious. “Come on, sit down! Let’s get you something to drink.”
No. No, no, no, no.
She attempted to break free from Amara, but her body refused to listen. She wasn’t in control anymore. If she ever actually was. Every time she tried to look anywhere else, her eyes immediately shifted back to him.
Please don’t look at me. Please don’t see me.
But he did. Of course he did. His gaze met hers. His smile widened, his shoulders bouncing from a chuckle. Puckering his lips, he blew a mocking kiss across the room to her.
There was no air left in her lungs. Her esophagus burned, stomach twisting like a geyser about to erupt.
She bolted.
Her legs carried her to the latrine before she even knew where she was going. She stumbled inside, knees hitting the cold tile. Bile surged up, burning her throat as she retched into the basin.
Her whole body shook, sweat dripping down her forehead as she gasped for air. She pressed her hands against the tile, seeking stability, but nothing appeared real. Nothing was real except him. His voice. His hands. His smirk.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn’t stop the memories. Didn’t stop the feeling of filth still clinging to her.
A voice. Too close.
“Elora?”
She flinched.
Amara’s voice. Amara. Not him.
The stall door creaked open, and a hand touched her back. Elora recoiled, flattening herself against the wall, shaking her head. Don’t touch me. Don’t—
Amara’s hand lifted immediately. “It’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to say anything.” But then her voice lowered, cautious. Testing. “Was it one of the guards?”
She couldn’t answer. Couldn’t think. But her body betrayed her. A sharp, broken inhale. A slight shake. The tiniest nod.
Amara’s breath hitched. Then, softly, her hand returned, careful, barely there, rubbing slow, soothing circles against Elora’s back.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
Elora didn’t move. Was unable to move.
The weight of Amara’s hand was barely there, light as air, but her whole body tensed beneath it.
Not like him. Not like that. And yet. She wanted to pull away, to recoil, to make herself smaller.
But she was already nestled against the frigid tile, her arms wrapped around herself like a cage. There was nowhere else to go.
Amara said nothing at first. She just sat there, quiet.
The silence stretched. Not uncomfortable, but expectant. Elora waited for the questions. Who was it? What happened? But they never came.
Amara’s touch stayed light, careful. Not gripping. Not holding. Just the softest presence. Like she wanted Elora to know she wasn’t alone, but wouldn’t force her to accept it.
Elora let out a shaky breath, her body trembling in the aftermath. The panic was still there, churning within her, but the apex of it—the all-consuming suffocation—had passed.
Amara shifted slightly, adjusting her weight.
“When I first became a ward,” she said carefully, “one guard took an interest in me.”
Elora stiffened.
Amara didn’t elaborate right away. Her fingers picked at the hem of her sleeve, rubbing the fabric between her fingertips as though she were rolling the memory around before speaking it aloud.
“I was sixteen.” The words came slowly, measured, like she had to ease into them. “Not as small as some of the others, but... I think he liked I was new. That I still had fight in me.”
She choked back a sob, her throat bobbing. Her nails scraped against her sleeve now, pulling at the stitching.
“I had to stay behind in the kitchens to clean up. The guard, he… he pulled me into the pantry.”
Elora’s insides seemed to be vibrating; her shaking radiating from her organs to her limbs. She knew what Amara would say, but wasn’t ready to hear it.
Amara’s hands stilled, her fingers curling into fists on her lap. But she didn’t look at Elora. She stared at her fingernails, her eyes unfocused, as if she was somewhere else entirely.
“I couldn’t get away.”
Elora felt sick. The room suddenly was too hot, too stifling. She wanted to move, to shift, to do something, but she remained frozen.
Amara exhaled, but it was sharp. Not a sigh. A release. Like she had to push the next words out before she locked them inside forever.
“I reported what happened to Gerard.” The name left her lips like poison. “He’s the captain. I thought he would do something about his men. He just laughed.”
Gerard. His name rang in her head like a curse, rattling around in the spaces where she’d tried to lock him away.
Amara’s fingers dug into her knee, pressing so hard her knuckles turned white. “He said, ‘You’re a ward now, Amara. You have little purpose beyond satisfying my men. Get used to it.’”
The nausea that had been simmering beneath her ribs threatened to rise again, but she swallowed it back. She clenched her hands into fists, trying to focus on anything but the words still lingering in the air.
Amara shifted beside her. “I’m sorry. I don’t know if that helps. I only told you that because... I know that feeling.” Her voice softened. “The way the world suddenly stops making sense after. How everyone around you keeps moving like nothing happened, but you’re stuck.”
Elora barely heard her. The only thing she heard was that sentence playing over and over. You have little purpose beyond satisfying my men. Get used to it. He had laughed. Not because he didn’t believe her. Not because he hadn’t known. But because he didn’t care. He let it happen.
Her fingernails pressed against her palms, harder, leaving little crescents behind. A dull sting answered her, but it barely registered. Gerard didn’t just take from her. Others were also allowed to take. He made sure of it. He made it easy.
And no one would stop him.
Amara shifted beside her, and Elora realized she’d been silent for too long. Say something.
But what? I’m sorry? That’s awful? Empty words. Pointless words. Nothing she could say would erase what Amara had lived through. Just like nothing Amara said would change what had happened to her.
But she needed to do something. She reached out, gently squeezing Amara’s hand. She replied with a twitch of a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. After a moment, Amara moved, shifting onto her knees and standing. “Come on,” she said, offering Elora a hand. “You shouldn’t be on the floor.”
Elora hesitated, then let Amara pull her up. The moment she stood, she experienced it all again—the nausea, the exhaustion, the weight of everything pressing into her bones. She ran a hand down the front of her dress, smoothing the wrinkles, then dragged her fingers through her hair.
The strands snagged instantly. Of course. It was tangled, messy, undone. Just like her.
Her hands twitched, some part of her wanting to fix it, wanting to do something to feel like herself again, but she was too tired. Too drained. It was just hair. It shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
“Here,” Amara said, guiding her to their bunk and rummaging through a small chest next to their bed. She pulled out a little brush, the bristles gagged and frayed. “Sit. Let me.”
A knot formed in Elora’s stomach. That was what Tehvan would do.
He always had a brush in his study, tucked away in the top drawer like it belonged there. She would sit on the carpet while he read or worked, his hands gently untangling her hair. The slow, rhythmic strokes had been a comfort, a ritual—one of the many ways he provided her with a sense of security.
She hesitated, glancing at the brush. Her first instinct was to refuse.
To say no, to push her away. Every inch of her skin still remained wrong, tainted, like the filth had seeped into her bones.
She didn’t want anyone touching her. But Amara wasn’t him.
She wasn’t holding her down. She wasn’t forcing anything. She was just offering.
Her voice barely broke above a whisper. “…Okay.”
Amara sat behind her, pulling the strands over her shoulder before carefully working through them. The bristles tugged, but Amara was patient, her strokes even, her hand light.
Elora closed her eyes.
It’s not the same. But maybe, for a little while, it didn’t have to be.
Except... it wouldn’t last, would it?
The kindness of Amara’s presence, the softness of her touch, the illusion of safety—it was borrowed time. A fragile moment in a place that would never truly let her be clean.