"Caithfidh gurb é seo do chéile cillín, mar sin, an cailín daonna19."the female said, her gaze appraising Elara with a mix of curiosity and something else.
Reynnar's response was a low hum of what seemed like affirmation, his attention shifting to Elara as a smile found its way onto his face. “A Eilíara, seo Aoife.20”
“Aoife.” Elara repeated and her smile broadened, a nod accompanying her approval, as if Elara’s attempt at her name had passed some unspoken test.
“Ainm láidir é Eilíara, ainm ársa i ndomhan s'againne. Nach oiriúnach gur ortsa atá sé.21”
Her smile was so warm, that whatever wariness, whatever suspicion she had thrown Elara with that look seemed to have disappeared.
“Enough jabbering, get on with it! Or I'll come over there and wash you down myself.”
The pockmarked guard’s gaze, laden with vile implication, settled on Aoife, sending a shudder through Elara at the menace it carried. Aoife, however, only rolled her eyes and began scrubbing her back.
That was when Elara noticed them—the scars.
Deep, jagged lines stretching from her shoulder blades down in two brutal slashes. Elara blinked, a cold numbness spreading through her as she watched Aoife quietly wash the wounds, her movements slow, as if she had long grown used to the pain.
Those scars could only mean one thing.
Wings.
She used to have wings.
And Osin mutilated them.
Elara’s heart lodged in her throat, her pulse pounding in her ears as her gaze darted around the room. Not all the Sidhe bore those marks, only a few. Her stomach twisted when she saw Caelion among them.
She blinked, once, twice, but her vision seemed to blur around the edges. Her hands trembled at her sides, curling into fists, nails digging into her palms. She tried to focus, to pull in air, but it felt like every breath caught in her throat. The low murmur of Sidhe voices grew louder, warping into a dissonant hum in her ears.
"Eilíara."
Her throat constricted, and the room seemed to tilt, narrowing in.
"Eilíara."
Broad, calloused hands cupped her face. Elara flinched, her gaze snapping up to meet a pair of amber eyes. His eyes. Warm, like the sun breaking through a storm, like safety itself.
“Déan anáil, a Eilíara.22”
She gasped, a sharp, ragged breath filling her lungs.
“Go maith. Arís.23”
Reynnar's voice wrapped around her like a shield, firm but soothing, a tether to pull her out of the spiral. So she followed it—one breath, then another, and another, until her heart slowed—until his grip on her loosened.
Her eyes darted across his face, taking in every line, every flicker of emotion, while his hands still cradled her.How had they endured so much pain?It was all too much. She wanted to ask him,neededto—wished she could sayanythingto him. But the gods, in their infinite cruelty, had stripped that from her too. They hated her—she was certain of it. Her life, from its beginning, had been nothing but a testament to their contempt, a constant reminder that she was never meant to have anything good.
Of course she wouldn’t have this either.
A sudden shout sliced through the air, freezing the room in place. Elara’s head jerked up, her breath catching as her eyes darted toward the source.
Malak stood rigid near the entrance, his wide eyes fixed on her. His gaze flicked from her to Reynnar and back again, the recognition dawning in slow horror.
Shit.
His face contorted, veins bulging at his neck as he shouted something at her—something venomous, a threat, but the wordsblurred in her mind. Elara’s pulse thundered, a dizzying rush of panic surging through her.Stupid.So stupid.She should have stayed locked in that cell, but she had let fear blind her.
The guards surged forward, a storm of fury and steel, their boots slamming against the stone floor like a rolling thunder that reverberated in the pit of Elara’s stomach. Her eyes flicked to Caelion the second he moved. It wasn’t much, just a slight shift, like the surface of a pond catching a breeze—but she felt it. The quiet authority in the way he stepped in front of her, his broad frame suddenly between her and the guards. Arms at his sides, not clenched, but ready, like he could tear them apart without even trying. And they stopped.
