Then, like the ripple spreading, the others followed. One by one, the Sidhe moved forward, deliberate and steady, forming a protective wall. Abarrier. A shield between her and the advancing threat.
Elara’s heart jolted when Reynnar stepped up beside Caelion, his gaze meeting hers for a fraction of a second. Just long enough to make her stomach twist. He turned, eyes hard, ready.
Her thoughts spun as she watched the guards freeze, disbelief clear in their wide eyes. Not rage—something worse. Shock. They hadn’t expected this. She hadn’t been in the prison long, but it didn’t take a genius to see how things worked here. The Sidhe didn’t push back. They moved when told, obeyed without a word, never once raising their heads. No resistance. No fight.
Until now.
Now, Caelion stood like he’d never bent to anyone. His spine straight, unshakable, and the others followed him—slowly at first, like they were remembering what it felt like to stand for something. To stand for themselves.
It was happening. The shift she’d felt creeping closer, the lines being drawn—and they were standing on hers.
Aoife shoved her way through the Sidhe, each movement pulling at the scars that twisted across her back. Her gaze swept over the guards, a sneer curling her lips.
“An é seo an méid atá ag teastáil chun eagla a chur ort?24” She eyed them up and down, disdain dripping from every word. “Go hainnis. Casadh babaithe beaga ní ba chróga orm.24”
And then, as if to punctuate her words, she spat at their feet, the sound cutting in the silence, her eyes daring them—begging them—to make a move.
Malak blinked, like he was just now waking up from the shock, and then he stepped forward, his arm jerking back, ready to strike. But it was in that heartbeat—that fleeting, suspended moment—that Reynnar moved.
No, not moved—exploded.
With a ferocity that seemed to tear from the depths of his soul, he lunged at the guard, a growl tearing from his throat. It was a sound that spoke of wild, untamed lands, of freedom fought for with tooth and claw, a call of the wild that echoed in the caverns of Elara’s heart, stirring something fierce within her.
But Malak, with a mere flick of his wrist, sent out a gust of ether. It was a gesture so effortless, yet it unleashed an invisible force that crashed into Reynnar like a tidal wave against a cliff. Elara's heart lurched as he was flung back, his body a plaything to the whims of Malak's power, crashing to the ground.
And then, as though Reynnar's insolence had been the very signal they’d waited for, the guards converged. Like a dark tide swelling with intent to drown everything in its path, they gathered around him. Fists and boots became weapons forged from bone and sinew. Each one of them was ready—eager, even—to stamp out that flicker of rebellion before it had the chance to ignite into something more.
The scream that ripped from Elara’s throat wasn’t just a sound—it was primal, a desperate howl that cut through theSidhe like an arrow and shot straight to Malak. His head snapped toward her, but she was already moving, already tearing through the wall of bodies, shoving past limbs and faces that blurred together. Her heart pounded in her ears as she forced her way into the circle of guards, fists and boots raining down on Reynnar.
She clamped onto the nearest guard’s arm. A feeble attempt to stop the onslaught, to slow the storm of fists crashing into Reynnar. But it was like trying to hold back the sea with her bare hands, and she was flung back.
The ground rushed up to meet her, knocking the breath from her lungs as her body hit with a force that rattled her bones. Blood bloomed in her mouth, the rusty, pungent tang bursting as her teeth sank into her lip from the impact.
Through the haze of pain, she caught sight of Aoife and Caelion. Their movements were a dance of fury. Aoife’s teeth found their mark, sinking deep into the guard’s arm—flesh tearing, sinew snapping beneath the force of her bite. The guard’s cry barely escaped his throat before Caelion struck, his fists a hammer against the man’s body.
Elara’s breaths came in quick, ragged gasps as she watched how their actions ignited the will of those around her. One after the other, they stepped forward, their movements a symphony of controlled chaos as their bodies melded into the struggle, limbs, and fury intertwining, as they threw themselves against their captors with a desperation born of too many silent grievances.
This wasn't just a fight, but an uprising. It was a clash of wills, a battle for freedom fought with every ounce of strength they possessed. Witnessing this, Elara saw not the beaten and broken individuals she had come to know in the dim light of their prison, but a united force of warriors, each fighting not just for their own survival, but for all of them.
Instinct took over before her mind even caught up. She was on her feet in a heartbeat, the stonebrew pulsing like fire through her veins, steadying her limbs. Her hand closed around the nearest thing—an abandoned guard’s baton, cold and heavy in her grip. It didn’t matter. In her hands, it became something more. It became the manifestation of her fury, her will, and she wielded it without hesitation.
The first guard went down with a crack to the jaw, teeth splintering, a spray of blood following. The next barely had time to register the blow before her baton smashed into his nose, the sickening crunch fueling the storm raging inside her. She wasn’t gentle. She wasn’t merciful. Every swing, every crack of bone beneath the baton, was a release. A pathway through the chaos.
But her eyes—they stayed locked on something beyond the blood and violence.Malak. He stood just out of reach, untouched by the storm swirling around her. And that—more than anything—drove her forward.
Bodies clashed and fists flew, but Elara slipped through the violence, her movements fluid, dodging blows that grazed too close, slipping past flailing arms. Her focus was razor-sharp, driven by something deeper, something raw, and all-consuming that swallowed everything else.
His back was to her, oblivious. That mistake was all she needed. Elara summoned every shred of rage, every piece of herself, and poured it into the swing of her baton. It cut through the air, connecting with a sickening thud against the side of his face, right at his ear. He grunted, his body stiffening at the impact, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Again and again, she struck, pouring every ounce of fury, fear, and desperation into each blow. Each swing was fueled by the untamed, wild need to make him feel it—every drop of her anger.
Blood gushed from his ear, staining the side of his face, but he spun around, and his hand cracked across her face. A white-hot burst of pain shot through her, exploding in her skull. Her jaw screamed in agony, the impact radiating through her bones as her body stumbled backward.
Malak yanked the baton from her hands, his face twisted with rage. Elara had no time to brace before the first strike slammed into her ribs, the crack of bone against metal ringing in her ears. Pain exploded through her side, sending her stumbling back. But Malak didn’t stop. The baton came down again, this time against her shoulder, the force of it knocking her to the ground.
She gasped, her breath stolen by the blow, and tried to push herself up, but another hit crashed against her thigh, agony shooting down her leg. The baton whipped through the air with a sickening whoosh, slamming into her side, her back, her arms—anywhere it could find purchase. Elara curled into herself, trying to protect what she could, but it was no use. A savage blow landed against her spine, forcing a scream from her lips, her body arching involuntarily from the impact. She closed her eyes, feeling the dirt that clung to her sweat-drenched skin as she shook against the earth.
Every nerve screamed, every muscle tensed, but then—it all stopped. The blows ceased, but the darkness remained. It was different now, heavier, more real, pressing in from every side like something solid. She cracked her eyes open, barely a sliver, and a harsh shard of light sliced through the shadows, cutting her vision in two.
A gasp tore from her throat, not from the pain she expected, but from the sight in front of her.
