Her fingers drifted upward, grazing the worn threads, tracing the shapes woven into the fabric. Her hand paused over each one: Aine, arms stretched to the stars; Epona, gently cradling the moon; Rhiannon, wrapped in shadows.
She took a breath and pushed the tapestry aside.
The door to Osin’s chambers was plain, unremarkable—a strange choice for someone who lived for grandeur. Elara pressed it open, and the instant she stepped inside, it hit her. A hum in the air—low,ancient. She froze, a prickling heat spreading across her collarbone. Something raw, something old and primal, stirred deep inside her, curling in her core like a waking beast.
She could feel it. The blade.
It wassinging.
Elara moved through the chambers, drawn by the pull of that song. The room stretched before her, stone rising high on either side, broken only by narrow window slits that admitted the faintest light. Near the back hung two heavy black banners, each bearing Ulrith’s totem. She moved silently, past the main hall and toward a narrow archway that led to Osin’s private quarters. The bedroom was darker still, with thick velvet curtains drawn tight across the windows, blocking out any trace of light. The bed was massive, its black iron frame looming in the center of the room, draped in deep red silk that pooled onto the floor. To the right, a hearth burned low, casting long shadows against the dark wood paneling that lined the walls. A heavy, ornate mirror leaned against one wall, its edges sharp and angular, reflecting the faint glow of the fire.
And still, that hum—growing louder with every step.
Elara’s steps slowed as she drifted further into the room, then stopped, eyes locked on the painting she had only ever glimpsed through the veil of death. Her pulse thrummed, the song in her veins rising to a fever pitch. She took in every detail: the field of oíche blossoms, petals vivid and soft, reds and pinks scattered like droplets of blood. And at the center of it all, nestled among the flowers, lay the Wound of Light.
Slowly, she walked closer, the song thrumming louder. Her hand hovered over the painted blade, her fingers just a breath away from the surface. She could feel it—like a heartbeat, waiting for her touch. The instant her fingertips brushed the edge of the painted dagger, it was as if a burst of fire struck her, searing through her blood and hollowing her lungs with a rush of energy so fierce it stole her breath.
Mother above.
Elara shook herself, forcing the feeling away, re-centering her focus. She needed to be quick. She had a plan—one that had taken root ever since Thane’s memory surfaced, circling her thoughts relentlessly. The oíche blossoms. It hadn’t been a coincidence that Avis had taken her to the gardens, coaxing the blooms open with her spell, spreading their roots through the Sanct.
Avis had been showing her what needed to be done. Elara knew it as surely as she knew her own heartbeat.
How Avis had known about the painting in the first place…
Elara’s heart clenched. She inhaled deeply, the air shuddering through her. When she finally spoke, her voice came harsh, jagged, scraping like iron dragged over stone.
“Druvakh.”
The word ripped through the air, quaking with power. She pulled hard on theDraothCara, forcing it to obey. Energy surged through her, slamming into the command. She pushed everything into it—her will, her desperation, herfury.
For a moment, nothing. Just the crackling stillness, her breath in the air.
Then—a tremor.
The painting’s surface rippled, as if disturbed by a single drop of water.
Slowly, impossibly, the dagger emerged. Unearthly steel caught the light, gleaming as though untouched by time. It hovered there, suspended, defying the laws of nature.
Elara’s breath caught as she stared.
A relic of the gods.
She reached out, her hand trembling as her fingers wrapped around the pommel. The moment her skin made contact, the world stilled—a pregnant pause in the storm raging through her mind. The power hummed up her arm, electric, alive, searing into her grip like it knew her, like it had been waiting for her. And then, white-hot light tore through her skull, blinding and brutal, but she gritted her teeth, holding firm, pulling on theDraoth Carato steady herself, to wrest control over the blade.
Holy gods. Holy fucking gods.
The power coursing through her veins was staggering.
Immeasurable.
Elara’s grip tightened on the dagger, knuckles paling against the hilt. A faint pulse stirred at the edge of her awareness, a shadow brushing the corners of her mind.
Damn it.The surge of power had caught Ivan’s attention. His presence tugged at the thread—a subtle, probing pull, almost a question.
She answered with a measured tug of her own, a silent reassurance meant to hold him at bay. Just enough to buy herself the time she needed to finish this.
At least, she hoped it would.
