Something inside felt… off.
Wrong.
Nausea twisted her stomach, but the emptiness—the void the power had left behind—was worse.
“Did it work?” Osin's voice cut through the quiet, laced with a frantic edge. “Is she bound?”
Elara lifted her gaze, vision swimming as the room came into focus. The council lay scattered—some slumped in their chairs, others thrown clear, one even cowering behind the table. But Osin still stood. Barely. His face was ashen, disbelief hollowing his expression.
Avis struggled upright, hands trembling as she tried to speak—but the Hunter answered first.
“It worked,” he said, tone flat as he rose, his movements almost too controlled.
But Elara could feel him—every frantic beat of his heart, every shallow, uneven breath he tried to steady, even the bead of sweat slowly tracing its path down his temple. She squeezed the pulse again, testing it, and saw it—the faintest twitch in his eyes.
Subtle, but enough to betray him.
A spark of satisfaction surged through Elara, quiet and clean, like a blade slipping between ribs.
He waslying.
Chapter 22
Why would the Hunter lie?
The question thundered through Elara’s chest—louder than her heartbeat, louder even than Malak’s heavy footsteps as he dragged her back to the cell.
Despite Osin’s words, lies were the true currency in Ulrith. She knew that. They were traded like silver in the markets above, passed from tongue to tongue with a smile. But what had his lie cost? What price did his deceit demand? Power? Fear?
Elara bit her lip.
Perhaps he was stalling—buying himself a few precious seconds before Osin’s fury came crashing down. The ritual had failed. That much was obvious. Any competent observer could see it.
But then… perhaps it hadn’t failed in the way Osin believed.
Something about the bind unsettled him. Something he didn’t want Osin to uncover. Elara knew he had no desire to be bound to her—no more than she wished to be bound to him—but men like the Hunter never acted without calculation. If he was lying, it wasn’t for Osin’s sake. And it certainly wasn’t for hers.
Her stomach twisted, a sharp, sudden pang cutting through the thought. Hunger. When had she last eaten? A day—barelymore? Fear and upheaval had pushed the need aside, buried it beneath more urgent concerns.
But now… now it made itself impossible to ignore.
As the hunger settled, something else followed. A spark. Small but stubborn.
Osin had wanted her broken. Had wanted to watch the light die in her eyes. Instead, she felt the opposite. A faint pulse thrummed beneath her skin. The ritual hadn’t crushed her. Not the way he’d intended. Somehow, she’d held on, even without understanding how.
But with every step deeper into the Pit, her grip on the Hunter’s seal began to loosen. Bit by bit. Like water slipping through her fingers.Does distance weaken the connection?
Her cell door waited open at the end of the tunnel, iron-bound wood groaning as they neared. Malak shoved her forward, fingers digging into her arm, rough and careless.
Then someone cleared their throat behind them.
Malak froze mid-step, his grip tightening before he let her go. Elara looked back to see a Druid striding toward them, emerald robes billowing with purpose. A Greenheart. The color alone marked her, but the tension in her face made it clear she hadn’t stumbled on them. She’d been waiting.
“I have orders from the Hunter to tend to the Hallowed’s wounds,” she announced, voice firm. Her gaze flicked over Elara in a swift assessment before snapping back to Malak, daring him to object.
Elara blinked, startled. The cut on her wrist had slipped her mind entirely. After the ritual, she hadn’t even registered the lack of pain. She glanced down now to see the wound had finally clotted.
The Greenheart handed Malak a neatly folded missive. He hesitated, eyed it as if it might bite, then unfolded it, parchmentcrackling as he read. His expression darkened, his lip curling in distaste.
