The light—if it could be called that—offered no sense of time, but her body knew a night stolen of sleep. Silence pressed in as they moved down the tunnel. No one spoke. Not a breath out of place.
The Pit had its rules she was starting to realize. Speak, and you suffered. Elara wasn’t sure who she hated more—the guards who enforced it, the prisoners who obeyed, or herself for falling into line so easily.
Her gaze swept from cell to cell, searching for another Fae. Yet every iron cage she passed stood empty.
At the top of the spiraling staircase, they emerged from the Pit into a vast atrium of stone columns and vaulted ceilings. Sunlight poured through narrow windows, fracturing across the polished floor. Servants hurried along the edges while soldiers lingered near the columns, voices low. Nobles in silk and steel drifted past in murmurs beneath the steady hum of movement.
Something was stirring—an assembly, perhaps?
Her fingers twitched as she caught her reflection in a nearby window—wrinkled dress, fresh bloodstains dark as bruises against the fabric. Her hair… she didn’t need to look. She could feel the loose strands slipping from the ruined chignon. She stood out like a smear in a pristine painting, misplaced in all that order.
Malak didn’t slow. He cut through the castle with single-minded purpose, straight for the throne room. The iron doors swung open, and Elara’s thoughts screeched to a halt.
The High Council waited inside, stiff and regal, seated in a rigid line. Twelve chairs—eleven filled by the High Lords, the Sovereign’s chosen enforcers spread across Latheria. Elara’s throat tightened, her heart stuttering as their gazes locked onto her, tracking every step.
And at the center of it all sat Osin himself.
While the council sat cloaked in black, Osin burned like a flame among them. Deep red robes—the color of aged wine—marked him as the center of power. Where the others were severe, he was lavish: gold embroidery coiled in intricate spirals, dragons and phoenixes woven through the fabric. Symbols of power. Of rebirth. Of a rule forged in fire and blood.
As Elara stepped forward, their gazes bore down on her, heavy as a sentence already passed. Each look stripped her bare, cataloging every flaw. She felt it all—the bloodstains, the wrinkles, the loose strands of hair—magnified beneath their scrutiny, as though her very existence were on trial.
And maybe it was.
A cluster of Druids came into focus to the right, and Elara’s stomach dropped at the sight of Edgar and Avis among them. Avis’s expression was hollow, distant, as though she were looking straight through her. Confusion tangled with the ache tightening Elara’s chest.
“Hallowed,” Edgar said, voice tight as he inclined his head. He looked afraid, though he tried to hide it. She couldn’t tell whether his fear was for her—or himself.
Osin clapped his hands, the sharp sound making her flinch. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
His voice was smooth, almost pleasant, as he rose from the throne and descended the dais with infuriating ease. He stoppedbefore Edgar, towering over him like a wolf sizing up a rabbit. “You have one minute—exactly one—to justify your grievous mishandling of my most prized possession before I decide whether you’re worth the air you’re breathing.”
Edgar straightened, pale fingers trembling as they gripped his robes. “My Lord, the fault is mine entirely.”
Elara’s brow furrowed as Edgar continued, his tone polished with subservience. “I sought only to grant the Hallowed the honor of attending the equinox festivities this year. The city was secured—I ensured the most stringent lockdowns were in place. Yet somehow, the traitors managed to infiltrate. I assure you, my lord, I took every precaution, every measure to?—”
Osin’s shadow struck, quick as a whip. Edgar’s neck twisted with a sickening crack.
Elara’s knees buckled as the air slammed from her lungs. The world smeared at the edges, a hollow ringing filling her ears and swallowing the sound of Edgar’s body hitting the floor.
“Lies,” Osin murmured, brushing an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve. “Lies, my pet, are such tiresome things.”
He clicked his tongue softly, shaking his head. “A pity, really. I had hoped the High Priest would surprise me. But no matter.” He stepped over Edgar’s body to her, his voice lowering to an almost conspiratorial tone. “You understand, don’t you? The world has little use for liars. And even less patience.”
The faint twitch at the corner of Osin’s eye was her only warning. Druids swarmed her, hands tearing at her hairpins and tugging at the ties of her dress. Rage shook her as she stared at Edgar—until fingers reached her bodice. She reacted on instinct, arms flying up to clutch it tight to her chest.
Osin returned to his throne without another glance.
“It’s okay, Hallowed.” Avis’s voice was as cold and empty as her eyes. “You won’t be summoning a spirit today, so you can keep your chemise on for the ritual.”
In that fragile moment, Elara found her friend again—and somehow, it steadied her. She dipped her chin, swallowed the swell of emotion, and let them continue.
They stripped away her gown, leaving only the thin silk chemise clinging to her like a second skin, tracing the soft curve of her waist, the rise of her breasts, rosy beneath the pale fabric.
She shivered, drew a slow breath, and forced her nerves into something like control. Then the doors to the right of the dais groaned open. Footsteps followed—measured, deliberate. She didn’t need to look. She could feel it.
Still, she lifted her gaze, drawn to the inevitable.
The Hunter strode in, flanked by two of Osin’s Druids, the marks of recent battle clinging to him. His armor—usually immaculate—was scuffed and dented, grime streaking the skin beneath his mask. He favored one side as he walked, the limp unmistakable. He hadn’t expected this summons any more than she had.
