Edgar’s fingers dug into her arm, setting her teeth on edge.
The crystal in his ring flared, sending out a discharge of energy that crackled in the air as he tore open a rift before them.
Elara took a deep breath as she stepped into the Void, and for a fraction of a heartbeat—she existed everywhere and nowhere.
Chapter 2
Endless night unfurled around Elara, a darkness so absolute it devoured every thought, every fear, every dream she had ever clung to. This was a quiet that transcended mere absence of sound; it was an emptiness that negated existence itself. She found herself unable to tell where her own flesh ended and where the vast expanse of the Void began.
They had become one, indiscernible from each other.
Within this realm, time shed its significance. Her thoughts echoing back at her were the only proof she still existed in this nothingness. That, and Edgar's harsh grip as they moved through the Void's thrashing currents.
A sliver of light appeared in the distance, sending her heart into a frenzied beat.
Edgar yanked her forward, and Elara braced herself, every muscle locking tight as the sensation slammed into her.
It was a tearing, a shattering, and then a violent reassembling.
But just as abruptly as it had started, it ceased.
The harsh winds calmed, the shrill noise faded into the backdrop, and as she opened her eyes, blinking against thelingering brightness, she found herself standing in Mordenhall—Lord Osin’s sovereign court.
The cavernous room, clad in polished onyx, stretched endlessly before her. Walls twisted into bizarre, organic patterns that mirrored bones grown over centuries, reflecting her sodden image back at her. Every detail in the room, from the claw-like chandeliers wrought from blackened iron to the sharp and predatory design of the furniture, spoke of a place not meant for comfort or ease, but a place of power.
“Do what they say and keep a civil tongue,” Edgar drawled, his voice dripping with the familiar, chilly condescension that never failed to leave a throbbing ache behind her eyes.
Her gaze rolled upward. “Your concern is overwhelming, truly.”
Elara’s fingers twitched, a restless, involuntary movement. But then Edgar paused, and she saw an uncharacteristic flicker in the depths of his cold eyes.
His jaw ticked, hesitating as he chewed over words. “Hallowed,” he muttered, taking a deep breath. His pale face tensed, drawing his already pronounced cheekbones even sharper. “There are whispers afloat. The Lord Sovereign’s temperament is rather... fragile as of late, even for him. I'd advise utmost discretion on your part. Now is not the time to play the rebel.”
Her heart clenched. Every summons toArinthel, the capital, was a game of roulette where every spin had the potential to seal her fate. Every journey back left her less—less bright, less strong, less herself.
And all the while, Edgar watched.
He did nothing.Said nothing. Reducing her agony to a mere routine, an itinerary to be followed meticulously with an almost clinical detachment. It was like salt being rubbed into a corrodedwound. A constant reminder of her worth. She felt like a utility, a resource. Less than human, and entirely alone.
With one last pointed look at her, he turned and stepped through the rift, his cloak billowing behind him as the Void swallowed him whole.
A cold sweat broke out on the back of her neck. Edgar typically stayed longer than a few moments, didn’t he? Damn it all. If he was this nervous then perhaps she did need to watch her step closely tonight.
A throat cleared behind her, pulling her attention away from the fading glow of the rift. Elara turned on her heel to find one of Lord Osin's many attendants, a figure adorned in garments worthy of a lavish festivity rather than the grim duties of the day. Yet in this court, even servitude was a spectacle of grandeur; a direct result of Osin's relentless pursuit of beauty and order that extended even to the staff.
“Hallowed.” Fenlin dipped his head, his soft brown hair falling over his brow. “Under these circumstances, 'nice to see you' seems a bit out of place, doesn't it?”
She smirked. “”When have our meetings ever been conventional?”
Among the countless faces in this cursed kingdom, Fenlin’s was her favorite. They had met seven years ago in the Verdaran archives—she was fourteen, he seventeen, but their age difference had never stopped him from treating her with kindness, nor had her title ever intimidated him. She could always count on him to "accidentally" leave out forbidden scrolls and books for her to find, treasures she’d devour in secret, her heart pounding with the thrill of it.
But it wasn’t just the books. It was the way he’d sit beside her long after the scribes had left for the day, telling her stories about the eastern mountains he called home. Stories about wild storms that could split ancient trees in half, about meadows thatbloomed with flowers so vibrant they looked like they’d been painted by the gods themselves.
Once he’d found her crying in the far corner of the archives, her face buried in her hands after yet another brutal summons to Ulrith. He hadn’t asked questions. He’d just slid a handkerchief onto the desk beside her, its edges embroidered with tiny, clumsy flowers she knew he’d sewn himself, and said quietly, “The first book I leave out for you tomorrow will be something happy.”
And it was. A ridiculous tale about a fox who outwitted a king, full of mischief and cleverness. She’d laughed so hard she forgot, just for a moment, the reality of her life.
Though his time in Verdara had been brief, his kindness lingered, following her whenever she was summoned to Ulrith. She’d missed him, but knowing he was in the eastern kingdom had always been a small comfort—a sliver of warmth in a court where cruelty was currency.
