Not much at all,she was starting to realize.
Elara’s world narrowed to the journal in her lap, her fingers tracing the faded ink that wound from the brittle front cover to the tea-stained back. EveryTírríshword, every hurried Latherian translation pulled her deeper. One read-through wasn’t enough. She flipped back to the beginning and plunged in again, devouring each line, letting the ancient language and its meaning imprint itself in her mind.
At some point, a soft gray light crept through the windows, mingling with the warm, golden glow of the orb that had kept her company through the night. She was sprawled across the window seat now, cheek cool against the glass, limbs heavy with exhaustion, her eyelids sagging.
Elara rubbed her eyes, watching the sun peak over the horizon. She needed to leave. Any minute now, Tristan and the Hunter would wake, and the absolute last thing she needed was for them to find her like this.Later, she promised herself. She would come back later. She clutched the journal to her chest as she peeled herself away from the window seat, but the journal slipped from her grasp and fell open in her lap. The pages fluttered softly before settling, and her gaze instinctively dropped to the open spread. She blinked, trying to clear her vision, but something caught her eye—a phrase scrawled in the margin she had somehow missed before.
Chun ceolghaoth.
Her breath stilled, a cold shiver rippling down her spine as the words sank in. It was the same phrase—theexactsame—that had burned into her skin earlier after she'd touched the quartz. Her heart thudded, loud and erratic, almost drowning out her thoughts. She leaned in closer, eyes scanning the page for the translation.
To Wind Sing.
“Wind sing?”
Her fingers flew over the pages, flipping through the journal in a frantic search for anything that would add context. But there was nothing. She bit her lip as a dangerous idea slithered into her mind.Could I cast the spell?Her heart gave an excited little jolt at the possibility. This morning, she wouldn’t have even considered it—but now, after the ritual...
Maybe she could try. The thought took root, growing, tempting her. What harm could one little wind spell really do?
Wetting her lips, Elara inhaled deeply, her gaze drifting back to the journal. The words “Chun ceolghaoth.” rolled softly off her tongue. In her mind, she heard Reynnar’s voice—rich, lilting—guiding her pronunciation, just as he had done countless times before.
Elara’s breath slowed, deepened. She reached within herself and found the Hunter’s seal waiting. It throbbed eagerly, as though it recognized she was paying attention to it again. Clearing her throat, she took another breath, deeper this time, letting her mind and body settle.
“Chun ceolghaoth.”
The moment the final syllable slipped from her lips, the surrounding air exploded. A wild gust burst from her palm, spiraling out with a force that caught her completely off guard. Before she could brace herself, it slammed her backward into the bookshelf with a resounding thud, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs. Above her, the wind roared to life, a chaotic swirl of dust and scattered papers spinning like miniature tornadoes. Books tumbled from the shelves, thudding heavily onto the floor, one after another.
Elara’s eyes widened, heart racing, but a grin stretched across her face, unstoppable. The room whirled in a vortexshehad conjured, the air thick with the charge of her spell. Heat surged through her veins, her fingers still tingling with the aftershocks.
With reckless abandon, Elara stretched out her arms, feeling the ether surge in response as though it were an extension of her very soul. She laughed, the sound bright, mixing with the howl of the wind she had summoned. Spinning, she coaxed the tempest, guiding it through the room like a conductor commanding an orchestra of chaos. Books spun into the air, pages fluttering wildly, crystals clinked and chimed in disarray, and the orbs of light flickered erratically. Every nerve in her body thrummed with the thrill of it. The room bent to her will, and for a moment, she was limitless—untouchable.
But in her excitement, she misjudged her control. The wind grew stronger, and before she could rein it in, a heavy book flew across the room, slamming into the crystal-laden window. The sharp crack of shattering glass sliced through the roar of the storm, the sound echoing off the walls. Her heart plummeted, the joyous beat turning erratic.
Frantic, Elara tried to rein in the current, willing the wind to obey her—but it was completely out of her control. She swallowed hard, eyes darting to the jagged hole where the window used to be, the cold night air tearing through the room.
Shit.Shit.
She didn’t know how to stop the spell.
Wind tore through the library, rattling shelves and flinging the Hunter’s belongings aside. Leather-bound books littered the floor, pages fluttering helplessly; chairs lay overturned amid the wreckage.
Shame slammed into her.What have I done?Elara thrust her palm toward the floor, willing the gust to still—but it resisted, surging back like a wild thing refusing its cage.
A scream tore from her throat as the force of the gust ricocheted, hurling her into the air. The room spun violently, her tunic flaring up past her waist, and everything around her—books, papers, the remnants of her dignity—swirled in her wake, caught in the whirlwind like debris in a cyclone.
She was weightless, helpless, the wild current dragging her higher and higher toward the stained-glass dome. Her hands flailed, grasping desperately for anything to stop her dizzying ascent, but there was nothing but empty air. One wrong move, and she’d fall—plummet to the floor to her death.
She was such a bloodyidiot.
A thunderous crash reverberated from below, a violent sound that sent shockwaves through Elara's already racing heart. She wrestled furiously with her tunic, the fabric whipping and slapping against her face like it had a personal vendetta. Just when she thought she’d managed to get it under control, another gust would send it flying upward, blinding her all over again. “Oh, for the gods’ sake!”
Finally, her fingers clamped around the unruly fabric, yanking it back down into place. Victory, however, was fleeting. Because there, glaring up at her with an intensity that tamed the storm surrounding them, stood the Hunter.
Chapter 42
His curls were a wild tangle, his shirt rumpled from sleep. But his eyes—those eyes—bore into Elara with such force she could hardly breathe.
“What are youdoing?”
