She swayed, the room tilting under her.
“Are you well?” Edgar asked, his voice carrying a rare note of genuine concern.
“Fine,” Elara managed to say, pressing a hand against her chest where her heart hammered wildly. She knew better than to reveal her true feelings to him; it would only lead to lectures, judgments, or worse, punishment. So, taking a deep breath that barely steadied her nerves, she moved to sit beside him, keeping her expression carefully neutral.
Before her, a massive eel was coiled and skewered from end to end, its mouth frozen open to reveal rows of sharp teeth. Its glassy eyes seemed to follow Elara's every move, twisting her stomach and completely erasing her appetite.
“Algernon mentioned you fared well during the purification,” Edgar began, taking a sip from his chalice. “He's optimistic about your return to the archives by tomorrow.”
Elara snorted. She knew Algernon didn’t truly care about her well-being; he just wanted to avoid the tedious task of organizing the scrolls the acolytes had scattered throughout the archives. His laziness was legendary.
“How utterly generous of him. Perhaps if I prove myself worthy, he might even grant me the honor of sorting his socks by color.”
The thrill of drawing one of Edgar's scowls was like collecting treasures, rare and delightful. But now, as his gaze fixed on her with that usual blend of annoyance and reluctant tolerance, she felt nothing. No spark of triumph, no secret thrill. Just an unsettling numbness spreading through her, quiet and deep.
And he saw it—the lack of fire in her eyes.
His gaze lingered on her face, probing, but after a moment, he seemed to give up on whatever he was searching for in her expression, his attention shifting to the Druid waiting to serve them.
Desmond, a stoic Astromancer on duty to serve the Sanct this evening, avoided her gaze as he heaped food onto her plate—enough to overwhelm even the heartiest of warriors. She must look truly awful if Edgar had quietly instructed him to bury her plate under a small mountain.
Elara shot a glare at the priest, but Edgar paid her no mind, already engrossed in his meal.
No matter, the wine was better company anyway. She knocked back her glass like it was water, not even pausing to taste it. Then, for a lark, she threw a casual glance over her shoulder.
“Desy, would you be a dear and refill my glass?” Elara asked, her tone dripping with sweetness.
“Elara,” Edgar warned, his fork clattering onto his plate.
She knew the rules—one glass per dinner. And although Desmond was aware of this directive, it had never stopped her from testing the boundaries.
“I understand the events at the capital were...taxingfor you,” he began, his voice dipped in faux sympathy as he took another sip of wine.
“Taxing?”” Her eyebrows shot up. “Fenlin isdead!” Her voice boomed through the chamber like a thunderclap. Wide-eyed, the Druids all turned to look at her, their faces showing everything from surprise to mild concern.
A heavy silence fell over the room, only interrupted by the gentle clinking of utensils and the soft crackling of the fire in the central hearth.
Edgar's jaw clenched as he leaned in toward her. “The boy was a traitor and deserved a traitor's death,” he hissed, the veins on his forehead standing out against his flushed skin.
A sharp pain gripped Elara's chest, radiating through her entire body. Every word sliced into her, each one twisting the knife a little deeper. Memories of Fen flooded back—laughing, challenging, vibrantlyalive—hitting her with the force of a tidal wave. Her fingers curled tightly, nails pressing into the tablecloth.
“Leave us, Desmond,” Edgar said gently, waving a dismissive hand. His gaze softened as he looked at her, a flicker of understanding replacing the earlier coldness. He gripped her hand, and despite herself, she felt comforted.
His touch had a bewildering effect on her—calming yet infuriating all at once, a contradiction she couldn’t make sense of and deeply resented. Despite her resistance, she felt a strange vulnerability, one she couldn’t fully explain. But under the weight of his gaze, she felt trapped. Stifled. Silenced, until everyroar within her dimmed, leaving only the faintest piece of herself intact.
“You mustn't champion traitors, Elara. It paints a target on your back.”
“I doubt there’s a brush large enough to paint me the traitor,” she murmured, picking at her plate.
Edgar raised a brow. “People talk. Whispers have already infiltrated the High Council. Rumors of your supposed assault on the Lord Sovereign are spreading like wildfire. Osin has chosen to dismiss it as the mere hysterics of a fragile woman. You should thank the gods he didn't cast you into the Pit.”
At the mention of the prison, a chill prickled across her skin, and she fought the urge to wrap her arms around herself. She had never seen it, but the terrifying stories of that hellish place were infamous throughout the realm. Rumors circulated that once you were thrown into the Pit, you never came back.
Is Godfrey there now? Is he even still breathing?
“Why did he take it?” she blurted out.
Edgar blinked, clearly surprised. But it didn't make sense. Both Godfrey and Fenlin had already bonded with their elements—what other use could they have for her blood? “Is Lord Osin blessing the realm on Luminalia?”
