“Further down,”Aoife panted, her eyes flicking back anxiously.“They—they've been quiet for some time now.”
It felt like something inside her shattered, the pieces grinding together as she gasped. Her knees wobbled, but Aoife’s grip kept her moving.
“Don’t lose hope,”she whispered fiercely.“Not yet.”
Movement flickered up ahead, a shifting shadow in the dim light, and Elara yanked Aoife into an empty cell, her back slamming against the stone. Aoife crouched near the bars, the flickering light from the corridor dancing across her narrow features. She glanced back.
“Three guards,” she whispered, her eyes dropping to the blade in Elara’s hand. “Can you fight?"
Elara’s grip tightened around the hilt. "In a manner of speaking."
Aoife raised an eyebrow."And what manner would that be, exactly?"
"I can’t claim any real expertise. But when I focus, the blade responds—light erupts from it. It feels like an extension of my will, somehow, though I can’t explain it."
It was like what Ivan taught her with theDraoth Cara, but without precision, and no threads to control. Just… raw force.
Aoife’s gaze held steady, assessing her, measuring. After a heartbeat, she gave a slight nod.“Stay close behind me. Only use it if you must.”
Elara nodded, but a hollow weight pressed against her. All those hours with theDraothCara, all those lessons meant to prepare her, now surfaced like an ugly scar. Guilt simmered, hot and edged, shame twisting at the thought of the stolenDraoth—the four souls bound to Ivan she had drawn from.
Reynnar’s.
Her teeth sank into her lip as she shoved the thoughts aside, but the heaviness lingered. She buried it as they slipped out of the cell.
They pressed to the wall, slipping into cracks and shadow as they crept closer to the guards. Three men stood laughing, passing a flask between them, carrying the easy confidence of those certain they wouldn’t be caught. They likely assumed the solstice revelries above were still in full swing.
Down here, deep in the Pit, the walls devoured sound, betraying nothing of the battle raging at the prison’s entrance.
Aoife’s bare steps made no sound as she glided toward the guards, a harbinger of death slipping through the darkness. Elara shivered as she glimpsed her face—pure, murderous intent etched in every line, her fangs bared and gleaming.
The faint shuffle of boots faltered as one guard’s head snapped up, his gaze catching the faintest flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. But it was too late.
Aoife pounced.
Her claws pierced the soft flesh of the man’s throat, cutting off his scream as blood gurgled past his lips. Her other hand shot out, raking across his chest like knifes. Before his body hit the ground, she was already on the second guard.
Her fangs sank into his ear, ripping it clean off in a spray of blood that spattered across the stone walls, streaking her silver hair like war paint as the man’s scream echoed through the air.
The third guard’s hand darted for his weapon, his body trembling as he fumbled for the hilt. Elara didn’t give him the chance. She lunged and drove her dagger into his back, more force than precision. The blade bit deep, tearing through leather and flesh.
The guard choked out a strangled gasp, his body convulsing as he staggered back, arm swinging wildly to strike Elara, but Aoife was there, fangs latching onto his throat. A wet, gurgling sound escaped him—a half-formed scream—before she tore through his flesh, leaving him to collapse in a lifeless heap at her feet.
Elara could only gawk, rooted to the spot as Aoife spat—the shredded remnants of flesh landing with a wet splat. Her crimson-streaked face twisted into something savage, almost gleeful. And then, to Elara's utter shock, she laughed.
"Weak men taste like shit."
The second guard lifted his head, blood streaming from his ear. His eyes were glassy and wide, unfocused—like someone drunk on pain. But Elara felt the faint, sickening pull of Draoth from his ring, the thin tendrils of power he clawed for in a desperate bid to save himself.
Without a thought, she drove he Wound of Light into his chest.
His eyes flew open, shock etched into his face as blood spilled over her hands, dark and thick. For a beat, he was frozen, pinned in place, before his head lolled back.
Elara ripped the ring from his finger and dropped it to the ground. Her boot came down hard, shattering the jasper stone with a resounding crack. A thin wisp rose from the fragments, fading into the air.
Aoife stepped forward, crouching to strip the rings from the other two guards. She set them at Elara’s feet, and Elara crushed each stone under her heel, shards scattering as faint wisps drifted upward, barely visible in the dim light.
Elara swallowed, unease twisting in her stomach.Please, she thought,let them have bodies to return to.She took a steadying breath, her gaze falling back to the men—and it hit her. She’d just killed someone. Killed. The word echoed in her mind. Her hands trembled, the blade nearly slipping from her grip. Her gaze dropped to her right hand, smeared with blood. Her vision blurred, black spots creeping at the edges.
