She closed her eyes, feeling him draw closer.
“I can barely feel your heart,” he murmured, concern threading his voice—and only then did exhaustion crash over her, dragging her deeper into the dark.
“Where are you?”
The question was barely a thread in the air, dissolving the moment it left her. But even as it unraveled, she felt the pull—like that thread was tugging back, drawing closer, tightening around her.
“I’m already here,” he said, so close now that his words seemed to brush against her skin. “Open your eyes.”
Chapter 49
Elara’s eyes flew open, the world around her a blur of shifting shadows and flickering light.
Her pulse thudded dully in her ears. She blinked again, and Tristan’s face swam into view. His expression was tight with focus, brow furrowed as he worked over her.
A cool, soothing pressure brushed her wrists, like mist skimming still water. Elara’s gaze dropped—Tristan’s hands hovered there, a glow tracing her skin. His ether pulsed through her in a steady rhythm, knitting flesh as if it had never been torn.
Tristan.
He was risking everything by healing her, and she wanted to scream for him to stop—to run—but no sound came.
Then muffled voices cut through the haze.
The Hunter.
“They’ve breached the northern border,” he said, voice clipped and cold. “Faster than we anticipated. Two outposts already wiped out. If we don’t reinforce the ridge, the whole stretch from the river to the foothills will be theirs before the next full moon.”
The air in the chamber seemed to grow heavier, a ripple of unease passing through the council like a chill wind. A fewleaned in close to the Lord Sovereign, speaking in hushed tones, their words lost to the room but the stress clear in their furrowed brows. One by one, they turned and filed out, guards following closely behind, hands resting on their weapons.
Elara's head throbbed as she struggled to focus on what Osin was saying, but then, as if he could sense her attention, Osin's gaze shifted, landing on her.
His expression tightened. “Tristan, my boy. What are you doing?”
Tristan froze, hands suspended, then straightened and stepped back.
“One night with the Hallowed was all it took for you to warm to her?” Osin’s lips pressed together as he glanced at her healed wrists.
Tristan bowed low. “Of course not, my lord. But it would be imprudent to allow her to die. A waste.”
Osin raised an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably. Then, with a single nod, he spoke. “Quite. I applaud your due diligence.” The praise slid from his lips, smooth and polished, though his eyes held only cold calculation. “Malak,” his voice cracked through the air like a whip. “Return the Hallowed to her cell.”
Elara barely had a moment to steady herself before Malak strode forward and hauled her to her feet. Her legs wobbled under the sudden force, but she managed to stay upright. She shot a glance at the Hunter, but his back remained turned, his head lowered, engrossed in conversation with the remaining High Lords.
She closed her eyes, willing the world around her to fade, and reached through theDraoth Cara, searching for that thread between them. The pull was faint at first, but then she felt it—the frantic rhythm of his heart, beating against his ribs. She latchedonto it, feeling the pulse in her own veins, and squeezed, just enough for him to notice. A silent thank you.
He had come for her, helped her.Again.
Malak’s grip tightened as he dragged her toward the door. Her body jerked forward, feet stumbling to keep up, but then—shockingly—there was tightness in her own heart, a gentle, answering pressure, asqueeze.
She froze as the realization sank in. He had been able to do it all along—reach through theDraoth Cara, hold her heart in his grasp. He could have broken her with a flicker of thought, could have punished her a hundred times over.
He could have. Should have. But he hadn’t.
Not once.
Her chest felt heavy, the ache spreading like a burn.
Why? Why hadn’t he?
