Maybe that had been the Druids' plan all along—to bring her here when she was so frayed just to see what the spirit would do with her—or to her.
Maybe it wouldn't give her back at all.
Before she could second-guess herself, Elara exhaled, surrendering to the river. Its vines tightened, claiming victory, as the spirit's murky fingers slid down her throat, flooding her lungs.
Her consciousness bloomed into being,senses awakening to the taste of rain—crisp and slightly acidic, with a subtle hint of the earth it had touched as it slipped past her lips and onto her tongue. She opened her eyes to a world lit softly by the dawn, cradled by a breeze whispering through a forest and the rhythm of raindrops pattering on her skin.
“Awake, sweet one,” a serene voice murmured. Elara's eyes fluttered open to the sight of her creator—the Goddess Aine, standing above her like a figure carved from sunlight. Her voice was a melody that seemed to weave the very passage of time into its tones—the ebb and flow of the sun and moon, the silent whisper of the ages slipping by. “Awake and fulfill your purpose. Heal and restore. Give and consecrate.”
Each word fell like seeds into fertile soil, taking root deep within the furrows of Elara's heart. Wide-eyed, she took in her surroundings, a soul birthed into a world of quiet wonder.
The goddess lifted her from the dew-kissed earth, infusing life and knowledge into her with every exhale. She was a flower blooming in fast-forward, petals unfurling in the morning sun, drinking in the goddess's breath and growing from it. There was no toddler's babble for her, no faltering first steps; she was made whole and complete in an instant, her spirit blossoming with the full, rich awareness of her destiny.
Give. Give. Give.
Elara blinked, her vision sharpening. The Goddess was radiant, almost painfully so, with a cascade of red hair that spilled over freckled shoulders, tumbling nearly to her feet like a torrent of flames.
Blood. It was the first word, the first real thought that pierced through the fog of Elara's mind as her eyes traced the crimson spirals. She didn't know why she had made the comparison, reaching back to the essence of who she was and who she was meant to become—lines painted in deep, rich red.
A young man stood next to the goddess. He was a lordling, Aine said, Osin by name. His hair was slicked back like the feathers of a crow, and he had icy blue eyes that didn’t just look at you but seemed to pierce right through.
The wind played with Aine's words, lifting them to swirl around her before snatching them away again. “He is your guardian, and you, his guiding light.”
But the way Osin's eyes devoured Elara felt far from safe. Doubt whispered through her thoughts, a shadow curling around her heart, but against the weight of divine will, what could she do but nod?
Aine smiled as she guided Elara forward, her hand—a delicate, almost fragile thing—finding its way into Osin's imposing grip.
“In the light of the Hallowed, you shall rise to sovereignty, guiding my children, and ushering in an age of greatness.”
Yet, as Osin's fingers closed around hers, a chill slithered up Elara's arm. His fingers, elegantly long, felt like they were leeching the very life from her veins.
The two continued to speak, but Elara felt only half-present, suspended between realms. It was as though her soul had been cleaved in two; one part trying desperately to reconnect with her body, while the other lingered, untethered, unable to fully integrate back into her physical form that stood below. It was a paradox that left her grappling for a sense of reality that seemed just out of reach, scattered by winds she could neither see nor control.
Elara didn't notice Aine's departure until the goddess was already gone. It wasn’t until the abyss had swallowed her whole that she realized she’d been falling all along. And the true path of her life only became clear when she lie bleeding on the cold floor of Osin’s throne room, her eyes finding his in that moment of raw, brutal clarity.
The dread that had hissed through her veins at their first touch wasn't just her imagination—it had been a warning, a sharp, clear song resonating from a part of her that had known danger even before her mind could grasp it. It was a harbinger of how mercilessly humans could wield their malice, a foretelling that cruelty might be all that remained.
Chapter 6
A midday breeze swept across Elara's bare arms, a fleeting relief from the heat. She'd pushed her sleeves up, welcoming the warmth of the sun as she worked beside Avis, gathering herbs from the Sanct’s gardens. Autumn would soon come barreling in, stealing the heat, but for now, the sun was hers, and she planned to soak up every last bit.
She swiped her curls away from her neck, frustrated with herself for forgetting to bring a tie. Her hair was a mess, sticking to her damp skin where the sweat had collected, making her neck unbearably itchy. Tugging it back with a huff, she silently cursed the distraction. It was small, insignificant really, but enough to pull her out of the focus she’d desperately been clinging to.
With a sigh, she refocused as she moved quietly through the underbrush, gathering the last of the season’s offerings—berries, mushrooms, red clover, wild fennel—all nestled in patches that would soon wither under the first frost. The work was steady, predictable, and Elara tried to lose herself in it.
Out here, away from the Astromancers’ endless demands to chart yet another map of the stars and the Soothsayers’ cryptic musings, the world felt calmer. The quiet let her thoughtssettle in a way only research or a good book could. There was no pressure, no constant hum of expectation—just the earth beneath her hands and the fleeting peace it offered.
Elara could feel Avis’s eyes on her, that quiet, unspoken concern that had become constant over the past year. She knew what it meant—Avis was worried. She had been since the night before. But Elara wasn’t ready to deal with it. She didn’t need her friend’s pity or the reassurances that would inevitably follow.
What could be done about it anyway?
After months of silent concern, it had started to wear on her. It wasn’t that Elara didn’t want to be cared for—she did. Part of her wished Avis’s worry could somehow fill the emptiness inside her. But it didn’t. It was a reminder of a wound that wouldn’t heal, a thorn lodged too deep to pull out. And Elara was tired of pretending it didn’t hurt.
So, she did what she always did—ignored it. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the world, but the taste of the river lingered on her tongue—a bitter, brackish mix of silt and decay.
The river spirit—it had revealed her very first memory.
Elara had buried that day long ago, the first flicker of her existence, deep within her mind, hidden in a place so distant that even her darkest thoughts rarely wandered there. It was a fragile piece of her past, one she’d avoided for years. But now, the river had dredged it all back to the surface.
