Edgar's reaction was as swift as it was predictable. His expression tightened, the flicker of irritation clear in his piercing gaze.
A twisted sense of pleasure pricked at her. Ruffling Edgar's composed feathers, even slightly, felt gratifying. Beneath the stern priest was a man who could be ruffled; a man who wasn't as unshakable as he pretended.
It was by Edgar, within the province of Aewora, that she had been kept hidden away from the rest of the world. Onlyemerging when summoned by the Lord Sovereign—Osin, who ruled over the realm of Latheria.
Edgar was her jailor, her guardian, and her only connection to the world outside of the southern region.
In Latheria, power was ostensibly shared between the Lord Sovereign and the High Council—Edgar included—a blend of highborn Druids and secular lords. However, the real control often seemed to lie with those who mastered ether, and with the Druids who whispered in their ears. Her journey today was a direct result of such political maneuvers.
In three days’ time, Osin would hold the Convergence Ceremony—a spectacle where his followers, after years lost in training, would stand before the masses and attempt to bind their blood with her own. Such a ritual, they believed, would tether their souls to an element, awakening the concealed ether that surged like a hidden river through her veins.
This ether, a dormant force within Elara, stirred only when invoked and sanctified with prayers—when transformed from a mere whisper in her blood to a roar in theirs.
Her blood was a gift, they said. An offering, they preached. But all Elara saw was a curse, a cruel joke of the Fates who wove her destiny with threads of pain and sacrifice.
Her gift, hercurse, had become her existence—something she could never outrun.
For she was the Hallowed. Her blood the final reservoir of pure ether within the realm. It was a power that was not hers to wield, but hers to give. A gift she paid for with every beat of her heart, every drop of her blood. And it was all for them. For the High Priest, for Osin, for the realm that needed ether, and for the gods that had abandoned her.
“Recite your prayers, Elara,” Edgar commanded. “May the Mothers bestow blessings upon your travels, and may the discerning eyes of Osin deem you worthy.”
Her temples pounded, but she forced her gaze down, a careful show of submission, and drew in a breath.
“Rhiannon, in death and balance, guide my path,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the roar of the elements. “Epona, life's nurturer, enrich my spirit. Aine, sun and moon, instill courage and wisdom.”
Her words were like fragile tendrils in the storm, reaching out for the divine beings that had gifted her to a world that had forsaken her.
“Divine Trinity, hear my plea; walk with me.”
In the vast expanse of the cosmos, where gods were as numerous as stars, three divine sisters stood apart from the rest, forging the mortal realm of Latheria. Rhiannon governed the mysteries of death, ensuring the balance of the afterlife. Her counterpart, Epona, breathed life into every crevice of the world, nurturing growth and ushering in every new beginning. Between them stood Aine, the goddess of both sun and moon, who governed the cycles of time, painting the skies with daylight's brilliance and night's tender luminescence.
While many gods have their domains, it was these three who sculpted the very essence of the mortal realms, their legacy echoing through every sunrise and sunset, in every birth and final breath. And Elara hated all three of them.
Edgar reached for her. The jasper stone set in his iron ring reverberated, charged with the ether set to transport them directly into Osin's throne room where the blood rite awaited.
A knot coiled in her stomach, and Elara bit back the urge to grimace as she slid her hand into his. She gritted her teeth, bracing herself as they prepared to leave the line of Druids. But then—a soft, barely-there whisper threaded through the air.
It brushed past the towering oaks behind her, a quiet, mournful sigh that seemed to carry on the breeze. It stirred thefabric of her chemise, a fleeting touch, but enough to make her breath hitch.
Edgar’s impatient tug barely registered; her feet rooted to the spot, every nerve straining to discern whether the haunting melody was real or just a figment of her fraying sanity.
Yet, there it was—the song of the earth.
A chill prickled at the back of her neck.
It was a song of yesteryears, sung in hushed undertones, woven through the threads of time. It echoed through the tempest overhead, threaded its way into the storm's heart, and nestled within the turbulence. The ground pulsed beneath her, a gentle heartbeat that resonated up through the soles of her feet and wrapped around her bones.
Elara's breath caught as something primal stirred within her; a presence that felt as ancient as the oaks and as savage as the storm.
She held onto it, gripping it tight like a warrior grasping a shield.
“Elara!” Edgar's voice cut through the air. His dark eyes pierced hers as the pounding in her chest morphed into a defiant drum, the rhythm countering the mounting pressure that thrummed through the land.
She quickly scanned the surrounding faces.
But it was as if she stood alone in a world gone deaf and blind.
Huh.
