Her throat bobbed. “I haven’t seen him since the day you left.”
“He ran?”
Avis shook her head, her expression pained. “No. He didn’t take anything with him. He went out to find you… and he never returned.”
Elara turned on her heel, eyes squeezing shut. Was he dead? She shouldn’t feel a damn thing—she didn’t want to. But the thought of Dario lying somewhere lifeless and cold...
Gods, why did shestillcare?
She clenched her fists, wanting to slam her head against the wall, do anything to drown out the mess of emotions raging inside her. The anger, the hurt, the guilt—it was all too much.
“Elara, I don’t have much time.”
She pressed her palms to her eyes, breathed once, and turned—eyes narrowing on Avis.
“Stay quiet. Keep your head down. Don’t cause trouble,” Avis said, her gaze flicking toward the door, as if every second counted. “Algernon’s trying to get you out, to get you back home.”
Elara’s lips curled in a bitter smile. “That place isn't my home.”
“It is better than here,” Avis said tightly, the strain breaking through before she paused, eyes closing briefly. When she spoke again, her tone was softer but no less intense. “You cannot imagine what Osin is capable of… the things he does to those who?—”
The door creaked open, and Saria stepped in, two guards shadowing her.
“Thank you for assisting, Healer Hartwell,” Saria said smoothly, her tone polite but firm. “I’ll take it from here.”
Avis dipped her head in a quick, controlled bow. “Of course,” she said, her voice steady, betraying nothing. Without another word, she turned to leave. But as she reached the doorway, she hesitated, glancing back at Elara.
Something flickered in her eyes. Another warning, maybe. Sadness, definitely. Then Avis turned away, her footsteps fading down the corridor, leaving the room colder in her absence. The faint scent of flowers still lingered, the only trace that she had been there at all.
Mother save her,she was so bloody tired of being manhandled.
Elara shoved herself upright, jaw tight as she clutched the bundle of clothes Saria had practically thrown at her.“Healer’s orders.”
By the time they reached the cell, she was hauled inside like cargo. The door slammed, iron grinding against stone as the wards flared, ether buzzing in the air like angry wasps.
She lifted her chin, eyes blazing as she memorized the guards' faces. One looked half-dead, sallow and pocked, like he’d crawled out of a sickbed. The other, jittery as a rodent, his eyes darting everywhere. She stored them away, adding them to the growing list of bastards who’d dared lay hands on her.
They didn’t spare her a glance as they walked away, talking amongst themselves like she wasn’t even there, their crude laughter looping down the tunnel.
Elara clutched the clothes tighter to her waist, pressing the bundle against the small jar of salve she’d hidden earlier. If Saria had noticed the awkward bulge beneath the fabric, she hadn’tsaid a damn thing. And now, as Elara sat with her heart still racing from the thrill of having smuggled it away, she couldn’t help but wonder if the healer might have simply given it to her, had she only thought to ask.
Pushing herself up from the floor, Elara placed the stack of clothes on the cot, her gaze darting around to ensure no one was watching. She grabbed the pants first, sliding them on in one smooth motion. They were soft, thicker than anything she’d worn in weeks—months, maybe. With a swift yank, she peeled off the thin chemise and reached for the tunic, followed by the chunky, knitted wool sweater that carried a faint scent of rosemary and mint.
The smell pulled her to a stop.
Such a small, simple thing, yet it steadied her for a brief moment. It brought to mind her room in the Sanct—the herbs she had hung by the window, and the gentle way the sun filtered through the curtains. And for just a second, she could almost feel it again. That sense of safety.
Elara closed her eyes. She knew the Sanct had never really been safe. Not truly. Not in the way she’d wanted to believe. It had all been a lie—a fragile illusion she’d clung to before the veil over her eyes had ripped apart.
Still, for a moment, it had felt like safety, and some part of her longed for that lie.
The socks came last. Wool again. Soft and warm, and she sat down on the cot, pulling them on one by one. She could have cried at the feel of them, how they instantly heated her cold, aching feet. But as she slipped on the second sock, something hard pressed against her toes, smooth like glass.
She stopped short, then tore the sock free and dug inside until her fingers closed around something small and solid. A vial.
Her breath hitched as she uncorked it, hands shaking. Inside was a tightly rolled scrap of parchment. She unwrapped it, nearly dropping the tiny pill that slipped free.
Her eyes scanned the words hastily scrawled on the note:“Wait for the signal, they come in threes, then swallow this. Make sure you’ve got an audience when it kicks in. Don’t hold back on the theatrics.”
