“Not the prey.” She whispered into the space between them.
Heart hammering, Elara edged to the side of the cell, careful to keep her distance from the wards. Her gaze drifted to the wall near the bars—to the loose stone she’d discovered during her first week. The vial was still there. Waiting.
Whoever had left the note—Saria, most likely, though Avis crossed her mind as well—expected her to trust a mystery pill? She almost scoffed. Trust was a luxury she no longer afforded. Not without proof.
Still, that didn’t mean she couldn’t play along. See where the game led.
On her terms.
Don’t hold back on the theatrics.
Oh, she’d give them a show.
Elara raked her fingers through her hair, tugging free a few pins and pocketing the cool metal. Her hair spilled loose in messy waves over her shoulders. She untucked her tunic, rumpling the fabric, then reached for her cloak. Her hand lingered on the edge—her last scrap of warmth—before she tore it from her shoulder.
She winced as the ruined cloth fell away and set her shoulders, ignoring the cold seeping in.
Focus.
She cleared her throat, a smirk tugging at her lips, tipped her head back, and launched into a song—loud, and deliberately off-key.
“Oh, I knew a bloke from down the street, his breath was foul, his socks were sweet, he’d boast of women, wealth, and fame, but couldn’t remember his own damn name.”
Elara grabbed what remained of her breakfast and dumped it down the front of her tunic, smearing the greasy mess into the fabric. She slammed the plate against the stone—clang. Again. Harder. Then against the bars, rattling them as she made as much noise as possible.
She wanted them to think she’d snapped. That she was losing it. Her movements grew wilder, more erratic, as she kept singing.
“He’d swagger ’round like he owned the place, with an ale-stained shirt and dirt on his face, claimed he’d bedded a duchess or three, but when it came to it, he’d wilt like a tree.”
“Shut your bloody noise, you daft woman. You sound like a dying goat.”
Malak.
Elara didn’t stop. She locked her eyes on him, widening them in exaggerated madness, and belted out the rest of the song at the top of her lungs, banging the tin plate against the stone with every word.
“So raise a pint to men like him, who can’t tell their arse from a proper whim, for life’s a mess, and so are we, at least we drink ’til we’re piss’d for free!”
“She’s cracked,” another guard muttered, and soon enough, a small cluster of them gathered outside her cell. They stood there, arms crossed, weapons hanging lazily at their sides, as if they couldn’t quite decide whether to laugh or be concerned. Elara didn’t bother acknowledging them, though she caught a glimpse of Reynnar from the corner of her eye, watching silently. He probably thought she’d lost it too.
She started the song over, tugging at her clothes, rolling her eyes like a madwoman as her voice climbed higher with everyline. But even through the act, something inside her twisted. A cutting pang, right in her gut.
Avis. That night. The one time they’d gotten well and truly pissed together. Sneaking Algernon’s whiskey, laughing so hard they couldn’t breathe, drunk on more than just the booze. It felt like a lifetime ago. The memory sparked, uninvited, and she snuffed it out, hard. Buried it deep where it couldn’t touch her.
“Maybe we should call for Saria,” one of the guards muttered under his breath. Elara caught the words and ramped up the performance, her voice rising into a full-blown wail.
Yes, she thought.Call the healer. Call the bloody healer.
“Can’t. She's out for the day,” Malak muttered, the words just loud enough to pierce through the racket of her own voice.
Shit.Shit.
Could it be that the note wasn’t from Saria?
“I’ll take it from here.”
Her head jerked up, the voice cutting through her like ice down her spine. The Hunter stood at the entrance, fully armored, mask in place, exuding that terrifying, unshakable calm.
Oh, she was cursed. Well and trulycursed.
