At the tunnel’s end, the noise erupted, shouts and clashing weapons echoing through the Pit, ricocheting off the walls. They were fighting their way deeper in.Shit.
The group burst out of the tunnel, turning hard to the left toward the sixth, but Elara faltered mid-step, her gaze snagging on a figure amidst the storm of bodies.
Avis.
She stood on the front lines, her silhouette carved against the frenzy of fire and iron. Her arms moved in fluid arcs, wielding the earth with a power that seemed almost effortless. Rocks shot upward like shields, deflecting incoming strikes, and then hurtled down like battering rams, smashing through linesof Legionnaires. The ground shifted and buckled beneath her command sending Legionnaires scrambling.
Mother above.
Avis was wieldingDraoth.
Elara’s heart stuttered, her mind scrambling to make sense of what she was seeing.Avis is a remnant. She had to be. She had never converged with an element—a Sidhe. She had failed the convergence. She had…lied.
Elara’s eyes darted through the chaos, picking out faces in the fray—Dario, Yoni, Bryn, Dominic… even Saria. All of them were here, fighting for her. Her heart twisted, her body trembling as the realization sank in. Avis had always been a spy. And Saria.
Keepers, hidden right under Osin’s nose, just as Dominic had hinted.
All this time...
“Eilíara!” Reynnar’s shout pierced her daze, snapping her back to the present.
She blinked, chest heaving, then bolted after him into the sixth tunnel.
They sprinted past rows of empty cells, the desolate corridors a blur. Past the massive vaulted chamber she would never forget. The sight of it seared into her memory—the endless lines of caged Sidhe, their hollowed faces, the air thick with their despair.
And then there it was. TheAelfhenge.
The ancient stones stood notched and weathered, towering in the center of the chamber. The room swarmed with Sidhe, their forms a restless sea of movement. Voices rose in frantic, feverish murmurs, the words tumbling over one another in a rush, leaving her mind spinning.
As Elara approached the stones, her steps slowed, drawn forward by the eerie stillness that seemed to compress the air within the circle.
“Don’t touch the Aelfhenge!” she called out, her voice slicing through the din. She turned back to the Sidhe, meeting their wary stares head-on. “It belongs to Rhiannon.”
Death.
She knew it in her very marrow. One touch had been enough to cross that boundary.
The Wound of Light throbbed at her side, heat radiating through her palm. From somewhere deeper in the tunnels, the clang of swords and the cries of battle grew louder, closing in.
Elara gritted her teeth, tension flaring through her as she stepped into the circle of stones. The air dropped, her breath fanning out in white puffs, but she closed her eyes and drew in a slow, steady breath.
Every scar, every shadowed memory, every drop of blood—this was her armor. She sank into that deep, silent place within herself, untouched by fear or hesitation, where feeling dissolved and left only purpose and unyielding will. The surrounding noise faded, replaced by the steady thud of her heartbeat, the warmth pulsing through her veins, and the electric rush prickling beneath her skin.
She exhaled, channeling every ounce of rage, every shard of strength into a single, fluid motion. Her blade sliced through the air, trailing a glimmering arc of light, the faint whisper of her tunic the only sound that followed.
Time stilled.
Slowly, the thread of light faded, and a rift formed, widening before her. Elara let out a shaky breath, her chest tight with the thrill and fear of what lay beyond. Behind her, movement stirred—the soft rustle of Reynnar and Aoife shifting just outsidethe circle of stones—but she kept her gaze locked on the dark, swirling expanse of the Void.
“I’ll be right back,” she murmured, glancing over her shoulder and catching their watchful eyes before turning back to the rift. Once again, the Void was still, Epona’s blade tempering the dark expanse. She looked down at the blade in her hand.The Wound of Light is the door, and you are the key. Elara squared her shoulders and extended the blade, angling its tip through the subtle currents around her. The moment it touched, she felt a tremor—aripple.
The currents split apart, fracturing into dozens of shimmering threads, light scattering like rays through glass.Tír na nÓg, she thought, her heart pounding as she focused on the name.I want to open the gate toTír na nÓg.
Elara lifted the Wound of Light, the blade catching the faint glow of the currents as she traced it carefully through them, focusing on the memory—the kingdom of air she’d glimpsed weeks ago. She pictured the grand ballroom, its walls shimmering like spun silk, saw herself as a young girl, twirling with her brother.
Her throat tightened.
She bit hard into her cheek, forcing the emotion down, shoving it aside. Now was not the time to dwell on a life stolen from her—or a boy whose soul might be lost somewhere within this endless expanse.
