Her hand slipped between the bars, her fingers brushing against his. Warm, steady. Grounding. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze but when she moved to pull away, Reynnar’s grip tightened, his fingers curling around hers, keeping her in place.
“Seachain tú féin air siúd. Ní nochtaíonn an daonnaí sin a rún ach rud éigin géar a bheith sa lámh aige.31”
“Are we nearly there?”Elara’s voice carried through the wind, her fingers curled into fists at her sides, not just from the cold, but from the irritation of shouting into the howling air, knowing full well she wouldn’t get an answer. Not even a glance over his shoulder.
She gritted her teeth, squaring her shoulders against both the biting wind and the maddening figure ahead of her. Each step felt like a battle, but something inside her refused to back down. Stubbornness, or maybe pure spite, drove her to match his pace.
He’d rifted them into this frozen wasteland, muttering something about how his wards required anyone entering his land to walk the rest of the way. Sure, it made sense in a strategic, paranoid kind of way. But after what felt like miles of trekking through ice-covered woods, she couldn't help but wonder if this was some sort of punishment. Though she wasn’t sure what she’d done to deserve it.
From the moment they’d left her cell, he’d changed. He’d been easygoing before—teasing, even—a concept she still couldn’t fully wrap her mind around. Then, without warning, he’d drawn back into himself, shutting her out.
She wasn't sure what to make of it.
"You know, a little conversation might make this torture marginally more bearable. Unless you're trying to freeze me into submission."
Still nothing.
She huffed, her breath forming a cloud in the air. And just when she thought the cold might finally break her—numbing her fingers, her toes, and every bit of her resolve—the forest thinned, the trees pulling back to reveal something entirely unexpected.
There, rising out of the vast wilderness like some forgotten relic, sat a manor. Dark, imposing, and completely at odds with the untamed landscape, it stood there like a rose in a field of thorns. Eerie and beautiful all at once.
Elara’s gaze drifted over the dark stone spires, reaching up toward the heavens, clawing at the gray sky. Thick, gnarled vines wove through the cracks in the windows—inching toward the chimneys like they were determined to reclaim every inch of the place. The tall, arched windows, caked in dust, offered nowarmth, only a reflection of the frozen world outside. As they approached a wrought iron gate, rusted and twisted, groaned with every gust of wind, as if to say,turn back now, if you have any sense.
Thiswas his home?
She couldn't imagine anyone calling this place home, though, considering her own situation—a cell—maybe she wasn’t in any position to judge.
Elara shot him a sidelong glance as they passed through the iron gates, the crunch of the dirt path under her boots the only sound between them. Had this been his family home? Had he really managed to keep it after all this time?
The moment she crossed the threshold into the manor, the biting wind ceased, but the air inside offered no warmth in its place. It was stifling, thick with the scent of age and neglect. Inside, the manor felt like it had been plucked from another time—once grand and imposing, now slowly rotting.
The ceilings still soared high above, but the chandeliers hung dim, their crystals muted and blanketed in webs. Beneath her boots, the wooden floors creaked, worn and uneven. The burgundy velvet chairs, arranged in a too-perfect circle around a baroque fireplace, had long since lost their luster, their fabric faded and threadbare. Despite the suggestion of warmth, the whole place exuded a stillness—an unsettling, creeping quiet that clung to the air like a bad memory.
The Hunter cleared his throat, breaking the silence, and Elara’s gaze snapped to him. He looked tense, more so than usual. “The library’s this way,” he muttered, nodding toward a shadowy hallway before striding ahead.
She hurried after him, boots tapping. He stopped without warning, and she nearly collided with him. He rubbed the back of his neck, stiff and uncertain.
“Are you hungry?”
“Uh, yeah,” she said, her voice betraying her surprise.Alwayshungry. The nagging ache had become a constant companion ever since she’d been thrown into that cell.
His shoulders tensed, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I don’t have any food.”
“Oh.”Does he not eat?
A beat of silence.
“I’ll get you some. After.”
“Okay, thanks,” she said, unsure of what else to say.
He dipped his chin and without another word, they continued down the long, decrepit hallway. Doors lined the walls, each one leading to rooms she mentally cataloged—parlor, drawing room, something else probably equally fancy and equally dusty. Too many rooms for one person, but all of them bore the same story: a place forgotten by time, abandoned to its own decay. The kitchens, when they passed by, looked like they hadn’t seen food—or a living soul—in years.
Finally, the hallway opened up into a large receiving room. At the far end stood a set of tall wooden doors. The Hunter stepped ahead, pushing them open, and the moment they swung wide, Elara’s breath caught in her throat.
It was a library—yes, but not just any library. This was a cathedral, a holy place dedicated not to gods but to knowledge. Books—so many books—surrounded her, immense shelves of them curving around the room in a circle, rising like mountains. Between them, floor-to-ceiling windows arched gracefully into a magnificent stained-glass dome.
The light filtering through painted the floor in a kaleidoscope of colors—gold, blue, and ruby that shifted with each cloud passing overhead.
