Elara had witnessed just one Convergence Ceremony in her lifetime—the inaugural one following her arrival to the realm. Osin had been the first to step forward, and everything about it had been a catastrophe. He hadn't prepared, no fasting, no training, which the Druids later realized were crucial for bonding properly with an element. When he mixed a drop of his blood with hers, carefully placing it on a stone at the altar, the ritual didn't connect him to an element as intended. Instead, it devoured his life force, dragging him into the Void. He hadclawed his way back, but he was forever changed, bound to its shadows.
Since that day, no other aspirant who attempted to bond with ether—or any element—had been sucked into the Void like Osin had. No one could explain why it had happened to him; there were theories, of course, endless whispers and speculations. But what everyone knew for certain was that Osin stood unmatched as the most formidable caster of their age.
She traced the stones with her fingers, careful not to topple them, finding a strange sense of calm in their subtle lines and divots. These stones were devoid of ether, yet they were anything but empty. They sang to her, as all stones did—a soft, continuous melody.
Reluctantly, Elara withdrew her hand. She would never be permitted to attempt a Convergence; her role was to aid.
Heal and restore. Give and consecrate.
She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes. Give and give and give until there was nothing left of her.Thatwas her purpose.
The harsh cry of a raven drew her attention from the stones to the window. There, perched on the sill, was the same raven that had bitten Lorien.
“Tell your master I will join him shortly,” she drawled.
The bird’s reply was a more demanding squawk.
Elara sighed deeply. Even when promised moments of privacy in her room, she never truly had them. It was always something—the ravens, the guards, or?—
A knock echoed from her door.
She sighed again.Or Beatrice.
Chapter 7
Beatrice was not one to bother with formalities like invitations.
The door groaned softly as she nudged it open, her head slipping through the gap.
“A fine afternoon, Hallowed,” she crooned, her velvety voice dripping with ulterior motives. She glided into the room, the very picture of fragility with her slight, bent frame, but there was nothing frail about the sharpness in her gaze. “The Sanct is abuzz with whispers of last night's events at the capital. There is talk of traitors and plots against the Lord Sovereign.” Her brow pinched, a perfect portrait of concern.
Elara kept herself tightly wound, every muscle, every expression carefully controlled. Any crack, even the tiniest slip, and Beatrice would pounce. In the dangerous dance of court politics, Beatrice was a master at twisting words and emotions into deadly weapons. With a mere look of irritation, she could spin a tale of treason by evening.
“Thank the Mother that your association with thattraitorhasn’t tarnished your own reputation.” Beatrice's lips curled into a knowing smirk. “One shudders to think what the Lord Sovereign might do if he were to discover such... questionable connections.”
A hot flush crept up Elara's neck, coloring her cheeks a bright, angry red.
So much for staying composed.
“If you're looking for a tale to satiate your thirst for drama, I suggest you look elsewhere,” she snapped. “I have no intention of discussing the matter.”
Beatrice's eyes glinted with feigned innocence. “My, my, someone's prickly today. I merely thought you'd want an ear. But very well.”
Her gaze held Elara's for a moment longer, a hint of calculation flickering behind her eyes before Elara broke away and seated herself at the vanity. Beatrice sifted through the wardrobe, scrutinizing each gown. “These vibrant hues would be splendid if not for your ghostly pallor,” she muttered dismissively. Each sharp word felt like a needle pricking at her patience, but Elara held her tongue.
Even as Beatrice chose the solemn gray dress from the back of the wardrobe and yanked Elara’s hair into an elaborate updo, causing waves of pain to crash against her temples, Elara maintained an unwavering mask of calm. By the time she reached the refectory for dinner, the tension in her head had morphed to a full-blown migraine.
“You're late.” Edgar’s frigid voice sliced through the air.
The High Priest sat near the center of the refectory, beneath a massive tree whose roots burrowed through the floor and branches stretched up to the rafters.
Around the room, members of the Druidic Sect sat, their robes blending seamlessly with the autumnal hues of fallen leaves and moss-covered stones. Elara's eyes darted across the room from one group to the next: Scribes, Greenhearts, Elmweavers, Soothsayers, and Astromancers. Each cluster was deeply engaged, some poring over age-worn tomes, others softly speaking to young seedlings that sprouted eagerly around them.
They came from every corner of Latheria: Scribes on the storm-lashed cliffs of Valdor’s Reach, keepers of history and lore; Elmweavers in the rain-soaked groves of Elderglen, herbalists who worked in harmony with root and leaf; Greenhearts in Bravell’s fertile valleys, healers who drew life from soil; and in Ulrith, Soothsayers reading futures on Mistwatch’s fog-bound cliffs, while Astromancers traced the heavens from Nightspire’s starlit peaks. Each year, as apprenticeships ended, they gathered at the Verdara Sanct to serve the High Priest and await their fates, handed down like cards in a game they could never play. Perhaps that was why none sought her friendship, Elara thought bitterly; attachments meant nothing when everyone was destined to be scattered in the end.
Candles set in hollowed-out logs cast a warm, flickering glow over the feast of glistening meats and bowls brimming with bright fruits and vegetables. Elara’s stomach twisted.
She shut her eyes, breath hitching as memories crashed over her. A Legionnaire’s shove. A harsh collision with the table. Fenlin’s eyes—wide, terrified.
