With a grunt, Malak crumpled the paper in his fist. No explanation. No argument. Just that sour look. Then he turned on his heel, stomping off into the darkness.
Elara watched him leave, her brow knitting. When had the Hunter found time to send the order? And why, after everything, was he still watching out for her?
“Follow me,” the Greenheart said. Her gaze lingered on Elara for a heartbeat before she bit her lip and turned away. Elara fell into step beside her as they took the far-right tunnel. The air grew colder. The passage was similar to the one leading to her cell—narrow, dimly lit, the stone walls damp with moisture.
The tunnel seemed to shrink around them, the ceiling lowering, the walls pressing closer until finally, at the very end, there was a door.
The Greenheart pushed it open, revealing yet another tunnel, but this one was different. It yawned wide, massive, the ceiling arching high above as it stretched endlessly into the dark.
Elara's gaze traveled upward, where cells stretched out in every direction, not just on the ground but rising level upon level, tier after tier, like some twisted library of the damned. Iron catwalks crisscrossed between them, suspended in the air, barely wide enough for a person to walk, their railings rusted and thin.
It wasn’t the size of the place that hit her—it was the people. Elara’s movements slowed, as if the world around her had blurred. Her mind numbed, unable to fully process what she was seeing.
The cells—they were filled.Packed. Figures huddled in the shadows, pressed against iron bars, their faces pale and sunken, skin stretched tight over bone.
Eyes, so many eyes, staring out—blank, hollow, lifeless.
The stench of rot and sweat clawed at her nose, thick and sour. Her mouth went dry, her stomach twisting violently. She tried to breathe, to swallow, but she felt like she was drowning in it—drowning in the sight, the smell, the sheer number of people trapped here.
No, not people—Fae. Hundreds, maybe eventhousandsof them crammed into cells like animals. Elara’s heart stuttered, then kicked into a frantic rhythm, pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.
How?How was this even possible?
She doubled over, pressing a hand to her mouth as if she could physically hold back the bile rising in her throat. The sheer scale of their suffering—it was overwhelming.
“Come,” the Greenheart urged, now standing in front of her, but she shook her head, refusing to move. She leaned back against the wall, only to jerk forward when wards crackled against her skin, sending a sharp sting through her body.
Elara shuddered and met the Druid’s gaze, throat tightening as she swallowed. “How are they here?” she rasped.
The Druid said nothing, not a flicker of emotion passing over her features. The silence felt intentional, like she was forcing Elara to draw her own conclusions, to see more than what was in front of her.
Her chest tightened as her hands curled into fists at her sides. “Why show me this? Why not just heal me in my cell?”
The Greenheart’s eyes danced with something unreadable as she stepped closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “Because there’s nothing anyone can do for them. But there is power in knowing,in seeing.To witness what’s hidden is to carry the burden of truth, and truth, as you know, has a way of making itself known.” Her gaze drifted down to Elara’s chest, where the seals had revealed themselves just an hour ago, now concealed within her flesh once more.
“What hides in shadow does not remain so forever,” she added, a faint smile touching her lips. “Light, in its own time, finds its way.”
The Greenheart’s hand was warm and steady, grounding Elara as she led her out of the chamber and through another door.
“The infirmary is just through here,” she murmured, but Elara wasn’t listening. The space they entered was nothing like the nightmare they had left behind. It felt ancient, as though it had existed long before the cavern walls were hollowed around it. As if the earth itself had cradled the place, protecting it—keeping it sacred.
The air was cool, heavy with damp stone and a faint, almost floral trace, like incense sunk into the walls. Her footsteps vanished into the vastness, but the low hum of power did not. It pressed against her skin, a subtle vibration.
Dominating the room were four monoliths, massive stones thrusting up from the ground as if they’d clawed their way out of the earth. They towered above the women, worn smooth in some places, rough and scarred in others. Elara couldn’t tear her eyes away. They felt holy, untouched, like the gods had left their fingerprints here.
She stepped closer to the stones, and that strange prickling at her skin intensified. “What is that?” Elara whispered, almost afraid to disturb the air.
The Greenheart’s steps faltered, just for a moment, before she forced herself to keep moving, her pace quickening as if to escape the question.
“We aren’t to speak of the stones.”
“Why?”
The healer shot her an exasperated look over her shoulder, but there was something else there too—fear.
“Doyour best to keep the wound dry. Constant exposure to moisture will interfere with the scabbing process and delay healing,” the Greenheart said briskly, moving from her cluttered worktable to where Elara sat on the edge of a low stone slab.
The infirmary was dimly lit by flickering candles set into the rough-hewn walls, their light skimming shelves lined with jars of herbs, dried roots, and ancient tomes. Earthy, medicinal scents hung close, prickling Elara’s throat.
