“Keep her awake this time,” Osin cut in. “I want to see the moment it happens. When the light fades from her eyes.”
Elara’s stomach lurched, nausea surging so fast she barely held it back.Keep her awake this time.
Avis hesitated, uncertainty flickering across her face. "It will be… much harder to control her if she’s awake, my lord."
"Are you saying it can’t be done?"
"No, it can, it’s just that?—"
"Good. Proceed."
Elara went rigid as Avis rose, Yoni and Dominic’s warnings crashing back all at once. An ancient spell. A battle of wills. Dominance and submission—each side pressing, testing, trying to break the other.
But what if she didn’t break? What if she refused to submit?
"On your knees, if you would," Avis said.
Before Elara could process the command, the Hunter dropped to his knees without hesitation. Shock rippled through her at the sight ofhimkneeling before her. But when his gaze flicked up to hers, there was no defiance in his eyes. No submission, either. Only emptiness.
Avis’s hand brushed her shoulder, light as a feather and just as searing. Elara flinched and shrugged it off before the weight could settle. She didn’t look at Avis—didn’t want to face the betrayal coiled there. Instead, she knelt opposite the Hunter, eyes fixed on the floor. She couldn’t meet his gaze either, so she focused on his hands.
A ring gleamed in the dim light, four elemental stones marking a power she didn’t possess—a power she would have to face.
Could she fight back—against him, against the seal?
He wielded the strength of all four elements. She had nothing but a broken bind she couldn’t even feel. No hidden surge. No power waiting to answer—only silence.
The Druids began to circle them, each holding a vial of dark, grainy powder. Their chanting rose into a low hum, voices blending into an unsettling harmony that vibrated through Elara’s bones, jolting her limbs.
It wasn’tTírrish. There was no gentle cadence, no whispered rise and fall. This language scraped—rough and guttural, the words grinding against her skin, almost painful to hear.
As they moved, the Druids tipped their vials, ash spilling in fine, glittering streams to form a perfect circle around Elara and the Hunter. It didn’t settle at once—hovered briefly, then sank into the stone, leaving a faint, glowing boundary behind.
The circle constricted. The air thickened, pressing in as Elara’s skin prickled with static, the hairs on her arms lifting.
Then the stone beneath them began to glow—first under the Hunter, then beneath her. Elara’s breath caught as the light shifted and swirled, etching patterns across the floor. Constellations emerged. Two sets. One beneath him. One beneath her.
Elara shivered.
“This is a map of the stars under which I was born.”
As the constellations formed, they began to twist and merge into a single pattern. Elara’s heart sank. It was unmistakable—hauntingly similar to the mark Dario bore. Tears burned as she fought to hold them back. She’d known he’d lied, known he’d betrayed her, and still it hurt—some last, foolish hope clinging to the idea that there might have been an explanation.
“Hunter,” Avis said, “this dagger has been blessed by the light of the blood moon. Obey your lord and use it to bind yourself to the Hallowed.”
Nausea roiled through her, despair flooding close behind—and beneath it, a slow, gathering rage. Her gaze snapped to the Hunter as he reached for the blade. He had to stretch, arm straining, because Avis didn’t cross the boundary—couldn’t. Elara saw the hesitation at the circle’s edge, as though something unseen barred her way.
The Hunter took the dagger—and to her surprise, didn’t hesitate. He cut through his tunic, baring his chest, then carved a circle into his flesh with a steady hand, the blade slick with his blood. Elara couldn’t look away as he reached for the boundary, mixing blood and ash along the blade’s edge. He didn’t flinch, though his jaw tightened as he pressed the ash-laden steel back into the wound, sealing the circle.
The moment felt unreal, dreamlike. The ritual wasn’t something done by instinct—so how did he know exactly what to do?
Then it struck her.
The book.
Osin had pressed it into his hands earlier—the one he’d accepted with visible reluctance. He must have studied it, memorized every detail.
He was prepared for this.
