She could still feel it—the wonder and awe, mixed with a hint of something darker, a sense of destiny that seemed to pull at her even then. The spirit didn't just show her the memory; it immersed her in it. But to what end? She had allowed herself to hope, perhaps foolishly, that by yielding to the spirit it might impart something profound, something transformative. That maybe it would have even whisked her back to the Otherworld, dissolving her into a mix of stardust—or whatever cursed substance she was made of.
But there was no revelation, no understanding, only a bitter taste in her mouth.
“What did you see?”Caelum had demanded, his voice edged even as she sputtered and coughed, expelling water from her lungs.
Avis had been the only one immune to the spirit's influence. With a single stern look, she silenced Caelum, and moved to Elara’s side, steadying her as she coughed out the remaining water. Meanwhile, the others had turned to the moon, eyes lifted in silent reverence, murmuring their thanks to the Mothers for their endless blessings. Elara sat among them shivering, and by the time they decided she was ready to leave, dawn was painting the sky in shades of pink.
She’d barely gotten a few hours of sleep before Randall, the cook, shook her awake, and she dragged herself to breakfast duties, groggy and irritable. After that came her usual rounds with the Greenhearts. The healers always had her restocking supplies—bundling fresh herbs, sorting dried ones, refilling tinctures and salves. Sometimes she ground ingredients into powders, labeled vials, or ensured the healing poultices were ready. Linens needed washing, bandages had to be folded, shelves reorganized. Always something to keep her hands busy. She was just getting into the rhythm of things when Avis pulled her away, reminding her they needed to forage before the sun climbed too high in the sky.
Elara opened her eyes, pointedly ignoring the Druid, and focused on the task before her. She sifted through the underbrush, fingers brushing through the cool, damp soil as she plucked a few sprigs of fennel. Its bold, earthy scent mingled with the sweet, honeyed fragrance of red clover blooming in nearby patches. Her basket was heavy now, brimming with herbs and berries. She slipped a plump one into her mouth, its skin bursting as sweet-tart juice coated her tongue.
The Sanct gardens were vast, stretching like a sea of green and gold behind the towering citadel. Rolling hills dipped and rose, framed by the stone walls of the Sanct but still enclosed within the protective barrier. Light shimmered off the surface of the veil—a delicate, translucent layer of ether that rippled like silk with every breath of wind.
A rustling nearby drew Elara's gaze up to Avis, who now stood beside her, the burnished copper folds of her robes shifting softly in the breeze. “I think we’ve done enough for one day.”
Elara straightened, brushing the dirt from her hands. Foraging was only part of their routine—the rest would be spent inside, surrounded by stacks of parchment and paints. Avis had been diligently adding to the Sanct’s archives for months now, her journals filled with detailed, hand-painted illustrations of the plants they gathered. Every leaf, petal, and root was captured with painstaking care, the colors mixed just right to reflect the vibrant greens and soft purples they’d found in the fields.
Elara’s job was simple enough—filling in the details, listing each plant’s properties, its uses in salves, teas, remedies, and how it adapted to the changing seasons. But she didn’t mind. There was a certain satisfaction in the quiet work, a sense of purpose in knowing they were building something that would last.
She followed Avis, the soft rustle of their baskets the only sound as they wandered through the gardens. With each step, the air shifted—the fragrance of earth and herbs gradually fading into something colder. The damp, stony scent of the courtyard crept in, and the peace of the gardens, that fragile calm, began to slip away.
Then it came—the jarring clang of steel on steel, cutting through the air. Elara sighed, feeling the tension creep back into her shoulders.
The courtyard buzzed with energy. Sparring rings were marked out in the dirt, thick ropes tied to iron posts anchoring the borders. Inside them, men and women faced off, the sharp clash of swords cutting through the air with every strike, the metallic rhythm echoing around them. Elara’s gaze swept over the scene, tracing the sweeping arcs of the blades, until settling on Dario. There was something almost hypnotic about the way he moved, his sword an extension of his will, each parry and thrust delivered with a grace that made it easy to forget just how lethal he could be.
Had he actually tried to break in this morning, like he’d threatened? The thought of him squaring off against the Druids just for a chance to see her almost made her smile.Almost.
He was panting, flushed and breathless, his cheeks glistening with sweat as his eyes locked onto hers across the field. He stilled, eyes flicking over her quickly before settling back on her face. And then that slow, lopsided smile spread across his lips, the kind that made her heart stumble. She hadn’t even noticed she was smiling too until she felt the ache in her cheeks.
Her chest tightened. Gods,whyhad she let herself kiss him? Foolish, reckless—selfish.
The image of his gaze, that soft, almost fragile look he’d given her when she’d pulled away, lingered, haunting her. When she’d broken the kiss, his eyes had flickered with something raw, a hope he’d tried to hide but couldn’t quite suppress. As if that was the moment he’d been waiting for—her, finally stepping over that line, finally saying she was ready.
And she hated herself for it. For being the one to put that unguarded joy in his eyes, for giving him something she couldn’t take back, even when she knew she could never give him what he wanted.
Elara had once dared to imagine a different life—a quiet cottage filled with books and trinkets, a corner of the world thatwas wholly her own—but it was only ever a fantasy. Her fate was bound to Osin and the Mothers, her path carved before she could choose it, leaving her as little more than a puppet to divine whims with no strings to sever. That flicker of hope had been nothing but selfish grief, a weakness born of losing Fen.
Never again, she resolved.
Dario was too precious to jeopardize.
Elara’s eyes narrowed as Lorien sidled up beside Dario, his gaze finding hers. A cruel smirk spread across his freckled face.
“Well, well, if it isn't the Hallowed herself, deigning to grace us with her presence,” he said, his red hair glowing like embers in the late afternoon sun. “Shouldn't you be busy kneeling at some altar, acting the pious maiden?”
Acting?
Elara's gaze snapped to Dario, finding his expression murderous.
No, he wouldn’t have said anything. He understood all too well how dangerous it would be if it slipped out they had been together. Dangerous for them both.
Elara fixed the guard with a cold sneer. “Aren’t you overdue at some brothel, Lorien? Or have you already contracted every disease they offer?”
It was bold, even for her, but at the moment, her patience for his antics was hanging by a thread.
The red of Lorien's hair seemed to bleed into his features, his knuckles turning white as he jabbed a finger toward her. “You bitc?—”
A crow, black as the midnight sky, swooped down with a raucous caw, snapping its sharp beak at his pointing finger.
