“You've been well, I trust?” he purred with a smugness that made her skin crawl. “I can only imagine how dull life must be in the intervals between our little meetings.”
Elara clenched her teeth so hard her jaw popped, and Osin's self-satisfied grin deepened, his thumb pinching her chin before the swish of his robes echoed in the chamber as he moved to claim his throne.
She drew a deep breath, trying to steady herself. But the moment Osin settled onto the throne, the room’s massive doors groaned open.
In synchronized steps, rows of soldiers advanced, their impassive faces mirroring the frigid cruelty of their leader. Each wore armor that bore no insignia, no sign of individuality. It was merely a mass of power and force flowing in to flank the dais. They were The Legion, Osin's elite guard.
Her eyes flicked downward, settling on her hands clasped tightly before her. The amassed gazes around her suddenly felt like tangible pressures, small points of force pinching at her flesh. These were the very soldiers responsible for the scars that marred the region.
For the past ten years, conflict ravaged the realm. Aewora, Bravell, and Ulrith—once proud and distinct territories—were now subsumed into a single oppressive dictatorship. Only the Northern Kingdom of Vredia, isolated and stalwart, stooddefiant. It was the last bastion of resistance, an enduring flame of hope against the all-consuming shadow. Yet even Vredia had proven no match against the wicked sorceries wielded from the east. For years, the realm had heard nothing from the north, as if a silencing spell had blanketed their lands.
And maybe... maybe Vredia was no more. Maybe the silent kingdom had become nothing more than a whispered story to quell the despair clinging to the bones of the world. Maybe there was truly nothing left to hope for.
Elara's chest tightened, and with conscious effort, she drew in a tremulous breath. But then Godfrey materialized before her, and every errant thought leeched from her mind.
His eyes locked onto hers as he released his ether with an unsettling elegance, his quartz ring gleaming with the effort. A stench slowly filled her nostrils, like a corpse in the late stages of decomposition; so potent she could almost taste it on her tongue.
Godfrey's ether waltzed through the air, writhing and coiling around her, gnawing at her flesh, spawning angry red abrasions that blossomed like flowers on her skin. Suddenly, the power surged—unforgiving and fierce—slicing through layers of scar tissue until blood spilled from her wrist in rivulets, splashing onto the onyx floor.
Elara's vision blurred, but she forced herself to watch, taking a twisted solace in the methodical, reverent way Godfrey extracted the sacraments from her blood before sealing it within glass vials. Her offering flickered like captive stars within the tiny bottles—as beautiful as it was horrifying.
She closed her eyes then, thinking back to the teachings of the Druids, to the whispered mantras that urged her to transcend the pain. Despite how she felt about their people she had accepted their help and learned to endure this tormentthrough the mastery ofritualized control—a skill that had become as vital to her survival as the air she breathed.
With every drop of her blood spilled, she focused on the intricacies of her own mental discipline. The tightening of her jaw and the clenching of her fists were not signs of submission, but declarations of her willpower. It was her fortress against the torment, the place she discovered her true power. And in this strange, quiet space, she found something precious. A sliver of control and a shred of dignity in a world that sought to strip her of both.
Her breath steadied as she walked the familiar paths of her routine. The pebbles she arranged in her room—homage to the earth. The measured breaths at dawn—reminder of the air she once breathed freely. The moments of solace in the flame of a candle’s dance.
The crimson pool at her feet marked her as a lamb to slaughter. But in her mind, untouchable, she drifted far away, bound only to her own thoughts. So she stayed by the candlelight, her fingers hovering close to the flame, daring it to burn her. It never did.
A crash reverberated through the chamber as the throne room's massive iron doors flung open once again, but this time with a force that rattled the walls.
Elara's heart leapt into her throat as her eyes snapped toward the sudden disturbance—a shadowy figure cut starkly against the ambient glow of the corridor.
Curse it to the Void.
At least Branwen wasn’t around to witness his prophecy hitting the mark.
It had been years since she last laid eyes on him, and a small part of her had dared to believe that perhaps he had met his fate in the arms of Rhiannon, the Goddess of Death. But as heswaggered into the room, a god in his own right, every shred of that wishful thinking shattered.
Her gaze trailed him as he strode across the hall, an inexplicable tug at her core drawn to his every movement. His battle-hardened leathers clung tightly to his powerful frame, punctuated by the dull glint of a glaive strapped to his back. It was the mask she found most captivating—a wicked sculpture of black stone crowned with twisted horns. But it wasn't just a mask. It was a symbol of his elevated position within the Legion, marking him as their most fearsome and unwavering warrior.
A hunter of unparalleled skill and unyielding devotion.
In every hushed corner and shadowed alley of the realm, people whispered his title, each syllable dripping with dread.‘The Hunter.’
A name forged from a legacy steeped in fear. One that carved crimson paths across the provinces, seeking and mercilessly snuffing out the last strongholds of those devoted to the old ways. The Script Keepers ofTírr—the rebels.
Back in Aewora, the Druids whispered of the cruel genius of Osin’s reign. How he'd systematically strangled the old world's voice, forcing everyone to speak only his tongue. The vivid accounts of public squares filled with roaring fires consuming manuscripts penned in theTírrishscript had haunted her. With the help of the Hunter and the Legion, the essence of a culture had burned to ash.
With chilling stillness, the Hunter surveyed the room from behind his obsidian mask. His dark eyes settled on Elara, a cold, calculating gaze making her feel like nothing more than an insect waiting to be crushed beneath his boot.
She kept her gaze steady, her eyes locked on his even as the air grew heavy around her. He had this effect on her every time they occupied the same space. His stare was intense, almost invasive, like he could peel back her skin and see everything shewas trying to hide. But years ago, she had made a vow to herself. She’d never let him see it—the way her nerves sparked under his gaze, the way his presence seemed to unravel her from the inside out.
These monsters from the east—they couldsmellfear, breathe it in, feast on it off the very air. And he, much like his master, seemed to have developed a particular craving for hers.
The thick scar across her throat throbbed under the Hunter's gaze as he settled in next to his master.
Elara fought the urge to touch it, to soothe the mark that wasn't the result of any sacred ritual but rather of violence. His eyes dropped to it as if heknewit was bothering her, as if he could read their shared damnation etched across her skin.
