His eyes flickered, softening as they traveled over her body. “What in the realms have they draped you in? You look like you've been swimming in a monsoon.”
She arched a brow. “I got caught in a southern storm. But it's not as if I can simply ask Osin to delay the rite because of a little rain.”
“Fair point,” he conceded, his smile laced with a trace of irony. As his hand unfurled, warmth emanated from his palm—a warmth that was far from comforting. It carried with it the scent of something unnatural, a malodorous reek of charred flesh and sulfur.
Elara shivered as wisps of heat snaked across her skin, drawing the moisture from her sodden dress until, thread by thread, she stood completely dry.
A flush of relief rose to her skin, despite the lingering scent of Fenlin’s ether. She wasn't warm, but at least the unpleasant dampness was gone.
Despite their roles in this dark place, Fenlin, like other staff, was granted a touch of ether—a rare privilege in their world. The modest sunstone embedded in his iron ring might've been minute, but it held power. Enough, at least, to serve the needs of his station.
Elara thanked him and forced a grin, a hollow attempt at levity. “What do you think? Do I look ready to be carved up for the greater good?” She gave a little mocking twirl, her chemise dancing around her ankles.
Twisting horror into humor was a tactic as familiar to Elara as breathing. It was a game she’d mastered long ago, walking the razor-thin line between laughter and despair, as if a well-placed joke could keep the weight of her world from closing in on her.
But Fenlin wasn't laughing. The humor in his eyes faded, replaced by a deep concern that brought out the faint lines beside his eyes.
“You may be confined within this life, Elara, but don't think for a second that I don't notice.” He took a step closer, his gaze searching hers. “Even in this place, you grow a bit each day.”
A knot tightened in her throat, and a rush of something raw and tender swelled in her chest. He had never called her by her name before. To the people of Ulrith, she was a title, a symbol, and never justElara. The rebellious thrill of hearing her name echo within these halls set her heart racing. It felt liberating, like a barefooted step on forbidden ground. And for a heartbeat, she felt lost, searching for the right words to mirror his kindness. Before she could grasp them, the grand iron doors groaned in protest, announcing another arrival.
The subtle scuff of leather against stone immediately sent her stomach spiraling.
Godfrey, Osin's personal Druid, entered with hesitant steps, the tray he carried quivering in his unsteady hands, each vial threatening to tip.
His dark hair, pulled into a neat topknot, projected an austerity that masked the timid soul she knew hid beneath. His green eyes met Elara’s from across the room. The fleeting connection lasted only a beat before he looked away and set the tray down on the ceremonial table, his knuckles white around the edge of the polished wood. A lone droplet of sweat journeyed down his temple, and Elara’s eyes narrowed.
This wasn’t his first rite, so why was he acting like a green apprentice?
They had never spoken, but there was something in those weary eyes that hinted at a shared understanding. Was it sympathy, or perhaps pity? Did he, too, take part in this sacrilegious rite out of forced duty? Even if he harbored such sentiments, he’d never voice them.
Osin strictly forbade them from speaking, and Godfrey was nothing if not obedient.
“Lord Osin will arrive shortly,” Fenlin murmured, the subtle furrowing of his brow betraying his unease. “It is best you take your position below the dais.” With a slight bow, he gestured for her to follow, guiding her through the vast space that sprawled before them.
Massive obsidian pillars flanked their path. Monoliths of an older era, their glossy surfaces reflected the torchlight, painting an illusion of warmth.
Her heart pounded, pulsing in time with the echo of their footsteps in the silence. The anticipation in Fen’s every step spoke louder than any words could. The minute she reached the base of the dais, Elara sank to her knees, the chill of the floor seeping through her dress.
Lord Osin didn't demand her subjugation verbally, but he didn't need to. Her very presence in his kingdom was command enough. And like a puppet on invisible strings, she obeyed, keeping her head low, and awaiting his arrival like the good little captive she was.
Elara's gaze followed Fenlin as he took his position beside the immense banquet that groaned under the weight of golden platters, boasting delicacies from the far reaches of the realm. The array was dazzling: crystal decanters filled to the brim with amber spirits, ruby wines, and golden meads all gleamed under the candlelight, standing proud at the feast's vanguard.
The subtle shift in Fenlin's demeanor didn't escape her. She saw a brief tightening around his eyes that matched the almost imperceptible set of his jaw. This was more than just a feast; it was a blatant display of extravagance and a vivid reminder of the chasm that separated the elite of Arinthel from the masses.
“Ah, the fragrance of fear.”
Elara's heart catapulted into her throat.
Osin's honeyed voice echoed before he even appeared. The very shadows in the room seemed to intensify, reaching out tendrils of darkness that kneeled in worship. He sauntered through the gathering miasma, moving fluidly into the dim light.
Elara couldn't help but notice his attire, tailored to every contour of his form. His jet-black velvet coat clung to him, accentuated with intricate embroidery of deep crimson and gold. While his clothing screamed of unparalleled luxury, a haunting weight in the air surrounded him. A dangerous allure signaled he was more than just a ruler. He was a force of malevolence made into flesh.
“Do proceed,” he commanded with a flick of his wrist toward Godfrey, who hesitated momentarily before frantically sifting through his tinctures.
Elara averted her eyes, but it was futile. Osin was already closing the distance between them; every footstep echoing like the toll of a war drum. He stopped in front of her and lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.
Piercing blue eyes met her own, taunting her, feeling even colder than his immaculately groomed, icy blond hair. He was a canvas of hard angles, every inch of him carved with imposing authority. Yet, it was his smile that felt the most treacherous—a wide, malicious, mocking curve.
