Yet she couldn’t deny the bond forming between them—one she wasn’t ready to name. Not yet. Within the library’s walls, they’d carved out something separate from the rest of the world: a sanctuary the chaos outside couldn’t touch, a refuge they hadn’t known they needed.
Their shared work, the stolen glances, the ease that had begun to settle between them—it felt like something solid, something they could hold onto. But beneath it all, an unspoken truth lingered, hanging over them like a dark cloud.
This sanctuary was never meant to last.
Their bond ran on borrowed time—and soon, the world outside would come to claim it.
Chapter 44
Slowly, the thread began to loosen, delicate and glimmering, a current of energy pulsing between them. Elara matched her breath to the Hunter’s, her inhales and exhales syncing with the rhythm of his chest. She focused on the thread, feeling its pull but refusing to yank, instead coaxing it, guiding it with care, unraveling the tangled edges with the gentlest touch.
Each frayed strand she found, she carefully rewove, connecting new threads, building new links where there had been breaks.
Blood trickled from her nose and sweat pricked at her brow despite the cold wind whipping against her back. Every ounce of focus, every fragment of energy, poured into the delicate balance of unraveling and rethreading. The sheer effort—controlling the flow, pulling without pulling too much—left her breathless, her skin damp with strain.
After days of practicing, something finally clicked. She could feel it now, the subtle differences woven within the link—elements pulsing with their own distinct rhythms. It had taken time, and the Hunter's connection to all four only added layers of complexity she hadn’t anticipated. But today, at last, she could separate them, could feel their individual signatures.
Earth was the strongest—steady, unmoving, a deep, slow thrum. Fire came next, a wild, crackling heat she could almost feel sparking at the edges of the thread. Water was smoother, flowing like a cool current slipping between the others, weaving in and out like a river cutting through stone. And air danced at the surface—elusive and free, always shifting, never still.
Surprisingly, once she mastered the slightest bit of control, the Hunter allowed her to practice whenever she liked throughout the day. The first time she tried it without warning him, however, he practically leapt out of his skin, muttering something about needing a bit of notice before she decided to burrow inside his chest.
He still didn’t trust her casting indoors—not after the last two…threeincidents. This morning, he had her working with the wind again, insisting she had a natural affinity for it. Elara hadn’t had the heart to correct him. She wasn’t about to admit that she’d stolen the spell, taken it from somewhere she definitely wasn’t supposed to. And shecertainlywasn’t going to mention how she’d been rifling through his things to find it in the first place.
No, that little detail was staying firmly buried.
“Move the fallen leaves around us,” he instructed.
“You haven't given me a spell.”
“You don’t need a spell. Ether bends to your will, not just your words. Spells are for precision. But right now—focus on the wind, feel the leaves. Move them.”
Itshouldhave been simple. But simple, she was learning, was much harder than brute force. The precision it took to unweave the air thread, to pull just enough energy without letting it spiral out of control—it required an almost maddening level of focus. The leaves barely stirred, a pathetic twitch, yet the strain ran deep, all the way to her bones. TheDraothCarabeneath her skin hummed, whispering for more. Always more.
But water kept tugging at her this morning, slipping through the threads each time she tried to pull on the wind. It moved as if it had a mind of its own, weaving through the strands, and insistently brushing against her senses, almost as though demanding her attention. She’d push it back, trying to reweave it into the main thread, only for it to return, persistent and unruly.
“Focus,” the Hunter grumbled. Mornings were always a challenge with him—Tristan had warned her about that—but Elara had figured out that if he had his tea before lessons, he was at least marginally tolerable. Today, though, he had skipped breakfast, and the bags under his eyes indicated he hadn’t slept either. There was a restless energy rolling off him. He was still wound tight, still reeling from the night before—another failed attempt to tear thatthing—whatever it was—out of her.
Parasite.
That’s what she called it, though she didn’t really know what it was. All she knew was that every time the Hunter got too close, it struck back, as if it had a mind of its own. And each time she opened her eyes afterward, those dark, twisting vines had crawled a little farther across his eyes.
He’d barely spoken—just vanished in that infuriating way of his, rifting out without a backward glance. She’d almost asked where he was going, but his foul mood that morning had stopped her.
Still, he hadn’t forgotten. Every night, without fail, a dose of Stonebrew and a sleeping draught waited on her bedside table.
She didn’t think she needed them anymore. Her muscles had mostly recovered, just as Saria promised; a few days of rest had worked wonders. She’d told him as much—reassured him she was fine, that the brews weren’t necessary. But every night, they were still there. Small, unspoken gestures he never acknowledged, as if he didn’t want her to dwell on them. As if he didn’t want her to think he cared.
She saved the Stonebrew, hiding it away for her return to the Pit. She had no idea what awaited her there—but she intended to be ready.
The sleeping draught, though—she had to admit—it was nice. It pulled her into dreamless sleep, quiet and empty, no more spiraling thoughts. After hours spent practicingTírríshand secretly poring over his journal, it was a relief she hadn’t known she needed.
Every night, like clockwork, he would disappear—off to do whatever it was he did—and she would sneak back into the library, working on her translations until her eyes burned from exhaustion. The draught was the only thing that kept her from collapsing under the weight of it all she intended to accomplish.
But if Elara were being honest with herself, she suspected the sleeping draught wasn’t just for her but for him, too. He didn’t want to see her in the dreamspace; he didn’t want any awkward, unintentional run-ins. Dreamless sleep meant no shared dreams, no strange moments where they ended up together without meaning to.
He was keeping things distant.
Clean.
