The Hunter didn’t slam the door or raise his voice as she’d braced for. Instead, he cocked his head and stepped closer, closing the space until it felt impossibly small. He loomed over her, lashes casting shadows beneath the mask, dark eyes glinting.
Her breath hitched when he reached behind her and lifted a dark red slip of fabric, letting it dangle from his finger.
“Should I take this as a personal invitation?” he asked quietly.
Heat surged through Elara. She snarled, yanked the fabric from his fingers, and flung it into the fire. “Pig.”
Dark amusement flickered in his eyes. He turned to the attendants with a dismissive wave. “Make sure her dress isnothing short of spectacular. Perhaps add some extra lace? She seems to favor it.”
He left without another glance. The door shut with a finality that made her teeth grind, the urge to rip it open and claw at his mocking eyes nearly overwhelming.
There was no time to indulge the fury.
The attendants descended, hands cold and efficient, stripping her without a thought for dignity. She stood bare and exposed, every inch of vulnerability laid open.
She folded her arms across her chest, shoulders curling inward, trying to make herself small beneath their stares. Always the outsider. Always the oddity. She was used to it—but under their scrutiny, it still cut like thorns. They were searching for something. A flicker of the divine.
Let them look. Let them dig and prod. All they’d find was flesh and bone—human, breakable, just like theirs.
One of them turned away to ready the tub, and Elara’s eyes narrowed as a simple twist of the tap released a rush of steaming water. Warmth fogged the air almost instantly, the putrid tang of ether making her head swim. She’d heard rumors of such luxuries—hoarded by the upper crust while places starved of ether treated them like legend. In Verdara, Druids gathered around open flames, heating water in soot-blackened pots, every drop of ether counted and conserved. To waste it on a bath felt obscene.
And yet, as the heat seeped into the room, she understood the appeal.
The attendants eased her into the tub, hands gentle as steam curled around her. Fragrant soap—almond and honey—slicked her skin. One worked a fine comb through her hair, oiling it as she teased free leaves and knots.
Once clean, they lifted her out and wrapped her in plush linen, already murmuring over what she would wear, speakingas if she weren’t there at all. They chose a gown the soft blue of a robin’s egg. Pearls and crystals caught the low light as she moved, as though the night sky had been stitched into the fabric. The laces were drawn tight, the square neckline dipping lower than she’d ever dared, her skin prickling in the cool air.
Edgar may have imprisoned her—but he’d never paraded her likethis.
With deft motions, the attendants summoned a gust of ether, lifting and shaping her hair until it settled into a regal coiffure threaded with pearls and crystals to match the gown.
Elara met her reflection and barely recognized herself—alive, color blooming in her cheeks and lips against the shadows in her sea-gray eyes. But no amount of skill could erase the scars circling her neck and wrists. Their attempts to hide them felt almost ironic. Those marks were a twisted point of pride for their master.
Finished, they guided her back into the corridor, dipped quick curtsies to the Hunter, and vanished like whispers.
Her gaze caught on his, and the hollow look there sent a shiver down her spine. Whatever sharp retort had been waiting on her tongue withered. The process she’d just endured left her feeling… diminished. There was a particular cruelty in dressing someone up for torture.
“Come.”
He set off down the corridor at a relentless pace, too well matched to the pounding in her chest. They stopped before massive oak doors, their polished surface gleaming. For a beat, the Hunter stiffened, as if bracing himself, then raised his gloved hand.
Ether sparked. The doors swung open.
Beyond the doors lay a study of breathtaking grandeur. Mahogany walls rose to arched ceilings, crimson-stainedwindows bathing the room in a thick, velvet glow. Shelves of leather-bound books climbed to impossible heights.
At the center stood a dark oak desk, commanding the space like a throne. Osin sat behind it, his presence as imposing as the opulence around him.
The Hunter sank into a deep bow. “I’ve returned what was lost, my lord.”
The air thinned as Osin’s gaze locked onto hers. His sharp features were carved from ice, precise and unforgiving. Then came a soft crinkle—like parchment tightening in a grip—breaking the hush.
“Our vessel seems to have developed a spine during her little escapade.”
The Hunter whirled around, his usual mask of disinterest momentarily slipping. Then it hit her, a cold realization twisting in her stomach—she hadn’t knelt.
Her knees hit the floor hard, the impact lost beneath the thunder in her ears.
“Perhaps the Hallowed needs a reminder of her place here,” the Hunter said, his voice a dangerous murmur.
