Even as the unmistakable sound of boots echoed down the tunnel, drawing nearer with every heart-pounding second, he remained still. His gaze was a tempest—searching her face for something indefinable. Maybe it was a flicker of resolve, a glimmer of understanding, or the barest hint of defiance that he sought.
Then, as if he had found what he was looking for, he stepped back, the warmth of his presence vanishing as he disappeared through the rift.
Her hand trembled as she pressed her fingers to her lips, the touch doing little to still the significance of the words she had just spoken.
She had promised him.
Stay alive.
But as the cold crept back in, she couldn’t help but wonder how much longer she could keep it.
Chapter 48
Cold bit into Elara’s knees, her freshly scrubbed skin raw against the polished floor of the throne room. Every shift sent fresh pain up her legs, muscles trembling—but she didn’t move. Not with twenty guards standing watch, eyes fixed on her like she was a cornered animal, waiting to bolt.
What is taking so long?
She kept her gaze forward, but Osin’s onyx throne lingered in her periphery, its smooth black surface catching the flicker of torchlight.
Empty. Cold.
A jagged monument to the power crushing them all.
She shut her eyes, but the image clung—like everything else in this cursed room. When she’d first entered, her gaze had swept past the throne, searching the ranks of guards for Dario.
He wasn’t there.
Only a sea of hard, unfamiliar faces.
After bathing and dressing her in a gown far too perfect for what was coming, they told her to wait. So, she had waited. And waited. Each second dragging, pressing down on her until it felt unbearable.
She was meant to return shattered—a broken thing stripped of pride, barely surviving days on the run: fleeing a Cailleach across the wilds of Latheria, a week in the Hunter’s grasp.
But how, in the gods’ names, was she supposed to act?
Like you’ve been hunted. Like your spirit’s been trampled to dust.
A flicker of unease crawled up her spine, a warning hiss from some primal part of her. If Osin saw through the deception it would unravel everything they’d worked for, everything they’d set in motion.
One slip, and it would be over before it even began
Her entire body stiffened, every nerve drawn tight as the grand iron doors groaned open, the sound dragging through the chamber. She couldn’t see who entered, not from where she knelt, but the footsteps—slow, measured—echoed behind her, each one a hammer to her nerves. She fought the instinct to turn. Forced herself to breath.
Then, from the corner of her eye, Osin appeared. His pale hair was slicked back with meticulous care, not a strand out of place. Immaculate robes draped his narrow frame, his expression cool, indifferent—as if the moment bored him.
Another figure stood beside him, wrapped in the deep crimson of the Soothsayers, the fabric flowing like fresh blood across the polished floor. Elara’s breath caught as the figure turned, and her control slipped for a heartbeat.
Branwen.
“Hallowed,” Osin said, looking down his nose at her. “Lovely as ever to see you. I believe you’re already acquainted with this young man?” He gestured toward Branwen, a cruel gleam in his pale eyes. “He’s expressed interest in replacing poor Godfrey, after that… unpleasantness.”
The rage hit her like a flame to oil, burning through her veins.
“But I don’t expect we'll have the same issues with Branwen here.” Osin smiled, serpentine. “He’s quite eager to serve, aren’t you, acolyte?”
Branwen nodded stiffly, his dark hair falling over his eyes, “Yes, my lord.”
Osin turned to her then. “I expect your best behavior tonight, none of your usual tricks.” He took a step closer, forcing Elara to lift her chin. “I can count on you, can’t I? To be a good girl?”
