He stopped across the dais and faced her. Then, to Elara’s astonishment, the Druids stepped in and began stripping away his armor.
Straps were unbuckled, metal lifted free and dropped to the stone in echoing thuds. Chest plate, pauldrons, gauntlets—piece by piece—until he stood in a plain white tunic, rumpled from the weight it had borne, and sturdy breeches.
When the Druids reached for the Hunter’s mask, he stopped them with a look sharp enough to cut steel. They bowed low—nearly to the floor—and withdrew.
The room went still. His dark gaze found Elara’s and held, unwavering, sending her pulse skittering. He didn’t look away as he lifted a scarred, battle-worn hand and removed the mask in one smooth motion.
Elara’s breath caught. Time seemed to stall.
He was striking. Dark curls spilled over rich brown skin, framing a face carved with harsh, masculine beauty. Sweat darkened his neck and brow, some strands clinging, others falling wild and untamed to his shoulders. His cheekbones looked carved from marble, with a brow that seemed perpetually furrowed, softened by his full, brooding lips.
This—this was the Hunter?
Elara’s thoughts reeled as she tried to reconcile him with the boy she remembered—haughty, distant, always watching from the sidelines, like he didn’t quite fit in. Hiding behind a mask even then. She’d assumed the years would have done their work. That the blood he’d spilled, the horrors he’d unleashed, would have twisted him into some kin d of monster.
Abeast.
But unmasked, he was only a man. Flesh and blood and bone.
And somehow, that was so much worse.
Heat surged through her, rooting her in place as he closed the distance. Avis gave her a gentle shove, and Elara stumbled forward, unsteady, unsure of what was expected—of what they were meant to do.
The Hunter stopped inches from her, the space between them barely enough to breathe. His scent washed over her—smoke and something darker, rich with cedar and clove. His gaze swept her with unsettling focus, lingering on the wreck of her hair, the line of her neck, her parted lips, before dropping to her arm, where blood still seeped, stubborn and bright.
His jaw tightened. Something flickered in his eyes—gone before she could name it—and then he turned away.
Osin slammed his palm onto the table, the crack reverberating through the chamber.
"Ah! Tonight’s entertainment," he announced to the High Council. "I cannot recall the last time these halls witnessed abinding ritual. Truly, it’s a tradition we should indulge in more often."
He rose in one smooth motion, eyes gleaming with playful malice. “Elmweaver.”
The word snapped like a lash. Avis rushed forward, bowing so low her forehead nearly brushed the floor.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Proceed with the ritual. I understand you are intimately acquainted with its finer points, given your unique role as a seal bearer.”
The world tilted beneath Elara’s feet.
Avis was the second seal.
Her fingers dug into her thighs, nails biting deep, but the pain couldn’t ground her—or stop the burn behind her eyes. A tear slipped free, then another, tracing down her cheeks before she realized she was crying.
“Yes, my lord.”
It’s not true. It can’t be true.The words pounded through Elara as Osin demanded to see the seal. Avis lifted her hand and pulled the robe from her shoulder. The air seemed to vanish as the fabric fell away, revealing the mark Elara prayed wouldn’t be there.
Her knees nearly gave out as the last threads of denial snapped. She tore her gaze aside, fixing on anything—anything—to keep from reacting, from crying, from giving Osin what he wanted. Her hands trembled as she clenched her chemise tight.
Osin inspected his nails as he spoke. “So you’ve performed the ritual before?”
“I have,” Avis replied. “About a year ago, when I was first sent to Verdara.”
Elara blinked, tears blurring her vision as she stared at Avis.
They had never performed any ritual together…
