Her gaze followed Avis's hint, landing on the all too familiar figure of Branwen, clutching those accursed ogham staves. He glared back at her, his lank black hair hanging like a dark curtain around a face pale as bone.
Elara dragged her gaze back to Avis, a flicker of shared wariness mirrored in the Druid's sympathetic grimace. With a hard swallow that did nothing to rid her of the lump lodged firmly in her throat, she tried to force down the panic. Her steps faltered, the Druids’ chants echoing in her ears like a physical force, prodding at her heels. Each note seemed to amplify Branwen’s pull, his malevolence a tangible force, a black hole drawing her closer.
She braced herself, every instinct screaming to turn and flee, but her traitorous feet carried her on.
The moment she stood in front of him, his scrying lashed out. The savage intrusion pierced her mental barriers, her vision momentarily blurring. She gritted her teeth.
There was nothing gentle in this force, no guidance or foresight, only violent demand.
The staves clattered to her feet, rolling in the muck as the incantation spilled from his lips; an ancient language she could only guess at. But she had no interest in deciphering his divination.
Though the ether of the Druids tugged insistently at her, urging her forward, Elara had danced with this power before. She had learned the cadence of its pull and the subtle ways to defy it—if only for a moment.
Her jaw tightened as her eyes, glinting with challenge, locked onto Branwen's.
His pupils dilated, just a fraction, perhaps expecting her to falter. But instead of merely stepping as the spell beckoned, she deliberately planted her foot atop one of his staves, grindingit into the mud and finding the sensation of the cold muck squelching through her toes oddly satisfying.
His eyes widened, nearly swallowing his face, his knuckles whitening from the urge to strike her. And she was certain any other would've felt the wrath of his hand. Yet she stood tall, her chin lifted, meeting his blazing eyes without a flicker of fear. Basking in the one shield her position granted her—immunity.
Elara didn’t bother with a backward glance as she strode forward, her foot landing squarely on one of his precious tools and grinding it deeper into the muck. If he wanted to unsettle her, he’d have to try harder than that.
“Think you're above us all, do you,Hallowed?” The venom in his rasp made her pause. “Tonight, you'll learn your place.”
A fleeting glance revealed him clinging to his muddy staves, a grotesque smile carved into his face. A prickle of revulsion crawled up her spine.
What a gods-damned creep.
Pushing aside the uneasy feeling, she mustered a flicker of disdain, rolling her eyes at the twigs he so cherished. Whatever cryptic nonsense his sticks foretold meant nothing to her. It was as irrelevant as the man himself. His staves could whisper all the doom they pleased; Elara didn't give a damn.
Today, of all days, she refused to put up with Branwen's divination. Not when it was Summons Day. The whole ordeal was a charade—pomp and ceremony draped in the pretense of sanctity, but anyone with half a brain could see it for what it really was. She certainly did.
It was just another power play, a reminder that she was nothing more than a tool in this cursed realm—a figurehead to be controlled, a marionette in their hands.
As she moved down the final length of the procession, she couldn't help but peer back at the hardened faces watching her. The people she encountered daily, who she prayed with, sharedmeals with—they too bore the same unblinking stare. They watched her, but their eyes didn't see her.
They saw the vessel.
A small voice, one Elara tried to suppress whenever it dared to surface, tiptoed into her consciousness.
What if Branwen spoke the truth?
What if, by some cruel twist of fate, his spellactuallyheld water this time?
“You have upset my apprentice, Elara.”
The High Priest Edgar’s voice, smooth as polished stone, rang out as she completed her journey down the path, stopping before him just as the Druids’ chant faded into the storm.
Edgar stood rigid, his silhouette stark against the tempest. A raven perched on his shoulder, then took flight at his whisper. The downpour only sharpened his regal bearing as his gaze returned to her.
That irritating, all-too-familiar twinge tugged at her chest, and for a split second—just a breath—her confidence faltered.
Of course, he would rush to Branwen's defense.
The thought was so pathetically predictable she almost laughed.
“Well, perhaps he should consider a less sensitive line of work,” Elara said, fluttering her eyelashes in mock innocence.
A petty jab, but she couldn't help the satisfaction it brought.
