Her teeth clenched, bile rising in her throat. She held his gaze a beat too long, defiance burning in her chest, before looking away.
“There’s my girl,” Osin purred, yanking her upright as shadows coiled tight and held her fast. With a snap of his fingers, the shadows lifted her, just enough that her toes skimmed the ground. “We’re going to have another rite today. Now, I know it hasn’t been three months, but I thought, why wait? You’re here, after all. Might as well make the most of it.”
Elara’s heart slammed against her ribs, each beat a heavy thud that roared in her ears. But her body wasn’t her own anymore, just a lifeless weight as Osin dragged her through the twisting corridors.
The Grand Hall came into view—long, gleaming tables stretched endlessly, laden with glistening meats, overflowing fruits, and rich pastries that shimmered under the warm glow of chandeliers.
But it wasn’t the feast that stole her breath.
It was the faces around the tables—they were the real spectacle.
The High Lords sat with their families, draped in silk and fur. Opulence clung to them—crowns gleaming, jewels heavy at their throats—but none of it softened the viperous glint in their eyes. Every gaze fixed on her, watching, waiting.
Whatever drove that attention had nothing to do with the feast before them.
“A little treat for my most loyal,” Osin announced to the crowd as they moved further into the room.
A chorus of murmurs rippled, heads dipping in demure gratitude. But one head caught her attention—chocolate brown waves that fell just so, lifting from a bow as his gaze landed squarely on hers.
Tristan.
He sat there like he belonged. And, she supposed, he did. She had always known he held a rank, a status high enough to be on a first-name basis with the king, to win a night with the ‘Hallowed’ if he wanted. But what really struck her was who he was sitting beside: Chancellor Vellon. The resemblance was impossible to ignore now—the angular jawline, the haughty set of their mouths. How hadn’t she pieced it together before?
Vellon was hisfather.
To Tristan’s left sat another surprise—Lady Calista Thorne. She spoke with effortless poise, as if this were nothing more than idle gossip over tea. She barely glanced at Elara, her gaze sliding past her like she was part of the décor.
Tristan was different. His eyes burned into hers as if trying to say something—then, just as quickly, he looked away. His expression smoothed as he turned to acknowledge whoever had spoken to him.
Osin glided to the head of the table and settled into his seat, folding his hands over the polished surface. “Go on, Branwen.”
Shadows seized Elara, dragging her down and forcing her to her knees beside the table—placed just far enough back for everyone to see. Shame burned hot beneath her skin.
Beside her, Branwen’s expression tightened as he watched her pinned to the floor. His hand twitched, lifting as if he might act—then stilled, fingers curling back.
Elara flicked a glance at Osin from beneath her lashes.
His perfect smile faltered, just enough for the corner of his mouth to twitch.
“Do your duty, acolyte, or I will find someone else who can.”
Branwen’s throat bobbed as he lifted his trembling hand. A gust of wind tore through the room, snapping against her wrists like fractured ice. Elara squeezed her eyes shut, biting hard into her cheek—then felt warmth spill over her hands, blood pooling beneath her.
She blinked her eyes open, vision swimming, and looked up at the faces looming above. They watched like vultures over fresh prey, eyes gleaming with a twisted fascination she knew too well.
But not Tristan. Not Calista. They leaned close, heads bowed, murmuring.
Hope stirred in Elara’s chest. Tristan had promised to speak to Calista about her—was that what he was doing now?
Osin lifted his goblet,swirling the dark wine before taking a slow sip, his gaze never leaving hers. When he lowered it, crimson stained his teeth, a smile twisting at his mouth.
Branwen carried on in silence, siphoning ether from her blood into waiting vials. The drain left her weak, strength bleeding away by the second. Through the haze, she clung to the low murmur at the table—the High Lords dining and debating as if nothing were amiss.
As if she weren’t kneeling there, bleeding at their feet.
Snippets of conversation drifted toward her—ether shortages in the western provinces… Yes, more soldiers have gone missing in the north… Trade routes disrupted, patrols stretched thin… The king’s latest military campaign, the push to secure the borderlands, their forces already spread too far.
It was all politics and war, the cold calculus of power. The kind of talk that decided the fate of realms. This was how kingdoms rose and fell—not in grand battles, but in quiet rooms like this, where decisions were made over feasts and wine, where the game was played with lives, and no one at the table ever got their hands dirty.
