The subcurrents weren’t random.
They had a rhythm, a logic.
That was the key. It had started as a theoretical exploration, one based on the idea that the Void’s subcurrents operated much like weather patterns. The fluctuations in energy, those seemingly random bursts of power and instability, could be traced back to core movements, central forces that governed the flow of ether within the Void. Like weather patterns that couldbe predicted if one understood wind currents, pressure shifts, and temperature changes—the Void’s subcurrents followed their own set of rules.
This was the crux of their theory: If they could isolate those core movements, identify the underlying patterns, then perhaps they could create something to anchor to them.
A method, or better yet, a spell.
The spell would need to act almost as a translator—taking the subtle fluctuations of the subcurrents and rendering them into something usable, something they could react to.
It wasn’t enough to simply detect the shifts in the ether’s flow; they needed something that could interpret those shifts instantly and adapt accordingly. A spell tethered to the larger current, but flexible enough to respond to the changes. Something dynamic, something responsive. The mechanism itself had begun to take shape in her mind. A spell tethered not to one person but shared between them—its strength drawn from their connection to the ether. It was delicate work, balancing the power they would need with the fragility of the bond itself.
Too much pressure and the spell could fracture, destabilizing the entire process. Too little, and it wouldn’t hold long enough to matter. The spell would have to function like a conduit, absorbing information from the Void without disrupting the flow, feeding back what they needed to know in real-time.
But with this discovery came a cascade of new problems. Elara couldn’t ignore the fact that without mastering her control, she would be a liability. She needed to learn, needed to be able to cast with precision if she was going to enter the Void with the Hunter. That left them with only one option:practice.
Every morning began the same. She woke to a soft knock at her door, familiar enough not to question. She’d meet him outside, where the early morning fog swirled at their feet, andthe dew clung to the grass, cool against their legs as they made their way to the lake. It was always so quiet there, the mist hanging low over the water, the silence almost sacred.
The Hunter guided her with a patience that surprised her. He showed her how to pull from the threads, how to weave the elements together into a seamless knot. How to touch the ether without forcing it, to coax it between the threads of theDraoth Caralike a dance.
And slowly, after countless hours of meditation and concentration, she began to sense it. The pulse of ether, faint but growing stronger. She could see it in her mind’s eye, the threads weaving between them, delicate and powerful, tethered at the chest.
But even with the small bits of success they were having the warmth of it faded just as quickly as it came. She hadn't been with the Hunter long, but it felt like a lifetime—like every hour stretched impossibly long without Reynnar. The constant knot of worry twisted tighter with each passing moment, gnawing at her insides, throwing her off balance when she needed to be steady. It was suffocating, the distance from him, even though she knew this was the only way. She was here for him, to help him—butgods, it hurt.
At first, Tristan had been there to lighten the mood, tossing in insights, and his usual sarcastic humor, making the long hours a little less unbearable. But his departure had been as swift as it was unexplained. Apparently, he had responsibilities that went beyond cake-eating, though he hadn't bothered to offer any details. Elara didn’t press him. She hadn’t asked the Hunter about it either—it felt like prying, and truthfully, she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer.
But when he left, it unsettled something in the air. Elara hadn’t realized how much his presence had maintained a delicate balance between the three of them until it was gone.
And yet, with Tristan’s absence, something began to change between Elara and the Hunter. It wasn’t anything dramatic—just a subtle shift that crept in unnoticed. The hours they spent together, buried in research, were filled only with the rustle of parchment and the soft clink of teacups. But somewhere in that quiet, an unspoken understanding began to form. It wasn’t about friendship, not exactly, but a mutual respect—a connection that transcended the mistrust they had carried for so long.
It was in the small things—the way he would pass her a book without needing to be asked, or how they’d both lean in a little closer when they stumbled across something promising. The quiet shared frustration when yet another lead went cold.
There were fleeting moments where she glimpsed something deeper, a flicker of something genuine behind the facade he presented to the world. He would catch her eye across a table strewn with open tomes, and in those moments, she saw not just the Hunter, but the man behind the title.Ivan.He was a man who could lose himself in the pursuit of knowledge, who showed a reverence for discovery that matched her own.And in the quiet moments, there was a gentle connection—a recognition of the kindred spirits within one another.
Elara found herself watching him more closely. The way he tapped his fingers absently against the edge of a book when he was thinking deeply, the rare, almost imperceptible smile that would ghost across his face when something in a text amused him. She even noticed how he took his tea—strong, without a drop of honey, but always with far too much cinnamon.
And, in turn, he watched her too. She could feel it—his eyes lingering with curiosity, especially in those moments when she lit up with excitement after unraveling a particularly complex theory. He noticed the way she chewed her nails when lostin thought, how she always gravitated toward the chair by the window where the light fell just right.
Their evenings, at first filled with wary distance, now found a comfortable cadence. After hours spent researching, they'd sink into plush chairs by the fire, the warmth seeping into their bones as they cradled drinks in their hands. It was one thing to share a task, but quite another to share silence. Surprisingly, they found themselves capable of both.
One night, the fire crackling softly in front of them, the warmth of the flames mixed with the haze of alcohol, he started asking her questions.
“Tell me about Verdara,”he asked. “Tell me about the ocean.”
Her spine straightened instinctively, an old defense rising before she could stop it. The question rubbed her the wrong way at first—too personal, too close to memories she kept tucked away. But then, with the firelight flickering in the dark and the strange sense of familiarity that had slowly crept between them, something in her softened. Or maybe it was the alcohol. Either way, her tongue loosened.
She found herself talking, the words spilling out more easily than she expected. She told him about her responsibilities in the Sanct—about forging with the Elmweavers, stargazing with the Astromancers, and how she’d spent countless hours in the archives, cleaning up after the scribes. She described the Jade Sea, how it glowed at night, shimmering like a field of diamonds beneath the stars. But then, almost reluctantly, she admitted that she had never swum in it. That despite growing up so close to its shore, the sea had always been something untouchable. Forbidden.
When she glanced at him, his expression had changed—surprise, yes, but something else, too. Disbelief, maybe evenanger, flashed in his eyes, as though the idea of her never experiencing something so fundamental struck a nerve.
In turn she asked him about the capital, its customs, its culture. She found herself curious about the world he came from, the life beyond the confines of their research and his duty to his lord. They never delved into anything too deep, both carefully sidestepping the weightier topics as if by mutual, unspoken agreement.
Their nights followed no set pattern. Sometimes they’d retreat to their rooms at the same time. Other nights, he’d linger—lost in a book or simply sitting there, his thoughts a thousand miles away. On those nights, when she had already gone to her room, Elara found herself listening for him, waiting for the soft creak of his footsteps as he finally made his way down the hall. She couldn’t explain it—the way her body seemed to relax at the sound, how her eyes would drift shut just after.
In the midst of their shared quest, reality would often intrude. The Hunter would leave, some mission of his own pulling him away, though neither of them spoke about it. Elara could always feel the shift. Then came the transformation—the armor, the mask. The scholar became the soldier, and just like that,Ivanwas gone.
When he returned, he always looked like he’d been through hell and clawed his way back. Exhaustion etched his face, the shadows beneath his eyes deepening with each passing day. Elara was caught off guard by the flicker of relief she felt whenever he walked through the doors—but she buried it, forcing her focus elsewhere.
