A shiver traced her spine as she stared at the pill. And here she’d thought the day couldn’t get worse. Elara let out a sharp breath, slid the note back into the vial with the pill, and shoved it into her pocket.
She was tugging the sock back on when a low, resonant growl sounded behind her, stopping her cold. Elara spun, locking eyes with the Fae. His gaze burned with a fierce focus as it swept over her, lingering long enough to make her skin prickle.
“Rinne tú go maith,Tank yeh.7”
A laugh burst from Elara despite everything she had just been through. She shook her head, a wry smile tugging at her lips as her hand pressed to her chest, feeling the wild dance of her heart beneath the skin. “Elara,” she named herself.
His brows drew together, a question in his gaze. She extended her hand, pointing toward him. “Reynnar?” she asked. He nodded slowly, confirming her guess.
“Eilíara?”
His attempt to mimic her name raised goosebumps on her skin, a strange thrill coursing through her heart.
“Yes.”
“Tá sé deas bualadh leat, a Eilíara.8”
His words were as incomprehensible as ever, yet the sentiment he expressed seemed to bridge the gap between their languages, and a strange, profound connection blossomed in that space.
“I’m glad to have met you, Reynnar.”
His answering smile flashed white in the dim light, the sharp tips of his fangs glinting like hidden daggers. Warmth stirred in her chest—an unexpected ember against cold stone, iron bars, and the shadow of an uncertain future.
The vial pressed against her leg as Reynnar cast her one last look before vanishing into his cell. A spark of hope flared in Elara's chest.
In this wretched place, she was not alone.
Chapter 23
Time lost its edges—day bleeding into night, night dissolving back into day, until it all felt like one endless stretch of gray. Elara, alongside Reynnar, drifted through their days like ghosts occupying the same space.
Life had settled into a numbing routine, a continuous loop of mundane tasks punctuated only by the sporadic arrival of meals too scant to sate any hunger. The occasional appearance of the jailers, heralded by the metallic scrape of trays and the shuffling of the weary souls throughout the Pit, marked the only variance in the monotony that had become her reality.
Each captive was allotted two buckets: one for bodily relief and the other for washing, a situation that was as degrading as it was disgusting. The water they provided for bathing was always dirty and cold, and no matter how vigorously Elara scrubbed, each attempt to wash seemed only to embed the dirt further into her skin. When she redressed in the same grimy, sweat-soaked clothes, it felt as though she would never rid herself of the filth—or the shame.
And Elara did feel shame. So much of it. Shame for endangering the Keepers by bringing a ring into their midst, shame for her role in Edgar’s death, shame for deluding herselfinto thinking she could be anything other than what she was. How stupid—how painfully naive—to believe her darkest days were behind her.
Her cell was a prison in every sense. Her hair clung to her scalp, clothes sticking to her skin with a dampness that never left. Raw patches had formed at her wrists and ankles from constant friction, and her fingers, swollen and blistered, bore the beginnings of sores. Every inch of her body felt like it was slowly decaying, making sleep impossible.
Her nights were spent twisting and turning, searching for even a sliver of comfort that never came. The weak torchlight would flicker against the walls, playing tricks on her, turning shadows into monsters that lurked just out of sight. But it wasn’t just the walls trapping her—it was the crushing sameness of it all. Day after day, nothing changed, nothing shifted. The repetition was worse than the bars, worse than the stone. It was the slow death of everything she’d once been. An erosion of her spirit.
In those first days, she searched the prison for any sign of Godfrey, holding onto the faintest hope of catching a glimpse of him. She even tried to request another visit with Saria, praying it might give her a chance to see more of the Pit and map out its layout in her mind. But she’d been right—seeing a healer was a rare privilege down here, one even the sick and dying didn’t receive. Every day, the air would reek of death, and bodies—so many bodies—were carried out of this wretched place. Almost always, they came from the tunnel where the Fae were held.
Each night, like clockwork, Elara’s mind drifted back to the binding ritual. To the way the Hunter’s seal had been hers to command, how she’d held it in her grasp, feeling his power throb beneath her control. It was intoxicating, that rush. But now, after hearing Avis’s excuses, it left a sour taste in her mouth. She didn’t know what to feel. Edgar had ordered them to control her?Fine. But they could’ve at least had the decency to tell her what they were doing. To explain it. Make her understand. Instead, they hid behind their lies, protecting themselves, and left her to piece it together, left her to rot in the dark.
After what felt like hours of twisting beneath the covers, Elara would finally give in, curling into herself, knees pulled tight to her chest. Sleep was elusive, always just out of reach, so she spent those endless nights chasing it through the only way she knew—ritualized control. Over and over, she walked that familiar mental path, searching for any trace of the seals, pushing herself until exhaustion finally dragged her under. But even in her dreams the memory of thatforce, that blinding light kept replaying on a loop. It had been pure instinct, an impulse that flared to life in the heat of the moment. And now, she didn’t have the faintest idea how to call it back.
A fragile connection with Reynnar offered her a sliver of contact with the world outside her cage. It wasn’t much, but it kept her tethered, kept her from drifting entirely into despair. Alongside this, she became an expert observer, gathering scraps of information like a squirrel hoarding nuts for winter. From fragmented whispers to the soft shuffling of bodies in the dark, she pieced together that this place was filled with Faeries.
Somany of them.
She had always assumed the prison was filled with rebels, yet she seemed to be the only human captive here.
She thought back to thatsmall group of Keepers she’d traveled with and the knot in her stomach twisted tighter. Had they survived? If her suspicions were right—if Osin had used that dagger, sent his shadows crawling inside her mind, picking apart her memories—then he’d seen them. He’d seen their faces, marked them all. The traitor prince, he’d called Dominic. Elara’s heart clenched. She could only hope they’d made it out alive.
But hope felt thin, fragile—especially in a place like this.
Tortured screams echoed through the tunnels every night. On some occasions, the sound was so unbearable that Elara could only curl into herself, sobbing until exhaustion finally dragged her into a fitful sleep.
