Elara leaned in, just a bit closer, her brow arching as she studied him. "Sidhe?"
She rolled the unfamiliar word on her tongue, never having come across it in all the texts she’d devoured. But when she said it, Reynnar nodded, his eyes gleaming with something unspoken, like the word held a meaning far deeper than she could grasp.
"Is ea,14” Reynnar whispered, touching his chest with a gravity that rippled through the space between them. “Sidhe.14”
The air felt thick with the truth of that single word.
“Oi!”
Elara practically jumped out of her skin, her heart slamming into her ribs. She and Reynnar sprang apart so fast it was like they’d been burned. Too slow, though—far too slow.
“What did I say about talking to the other prisoners?” Malak’s voice was a low, menacing growl. “You deaf or just stupid?”
Elara’s stomach flipped. “I—I wasn’t. It’s the first time—I won’t do it again. We don’t even understand each other.”
The world shrank to the pounding in her chest, each beat so hard she swore it would crack her ribs. If Malak took Reynnar—she couldn’t survive without him. Would they punish him? Kill him? And all because ofher. The thought hit like a punch to the gut, stealing her breath, leaving her mind spinning. She couldn’t think, couldn’t focus as Malak’s gaze slid to Reynnar, then back to her, his lip curling.
“You’re lucky I’m not in the mood to gut someone tonight. But if I catch you whispering to thatthingagain, I’ll make sure you regret it.”
“I won’t,” Elara said quickly, nodding like her life depended on it. “I won’t.”
“Good,” he spat, canceling the wards with a sneer. “Now get your arse moving. You’re wanted.”
Chapter 26
Elara’s skin burned, every inch of her feeling like it was under siege. Who knew you could beattackedby an entire army of beauty potions?
Malak had barely shoved her into the readying chamber before the attendants descended with their bottles and brushes. Something was worked into her hair until it shone; lotions tightened her skin until it felt stretched over bone. And the body oils—she refused to dwell on those. Not a single inch was spared. She was scrubbed, coated, polished to a humiliating sheen.
Now, standing beside Osin as he held court, Elara fought the urge to scratch the maddening itch beneath her left breast.
The Great Hall stretched out before her, swathed in a splendor that must have out-valued anything the Sanct had ever laid eyes on through all its years. Elara, her arm looped through Osin's, could hardly believe the decadence—every corner gilded, every surface sparkling as if determined to outshine the next.
As they moved through the crowd, Osin was the picture of regal grace, greeting each lord and lady with a smile that was both a welcome and a display of his unwavering authority. His laughter rang out—rich, haughty—as he accepted compliments and gifts, each more extravagant than the last.
Elara did not speak. She didn’t dare. Osin’s command had been clear: do not speak, scarcely breathe. She was a symbol at his side, ornamental and silent.
So she played her part—smiles measured, nods demure, gaze lowered in practiced deference. She had learned this performance long ago. But beneath it, anger coiled low and tight. Quiet. Smoldering. How many could be fed with the gold dripping from these chandeliers? How many homes warmed with the cost of a single night’s indulgence?
Her smile faltered for a heartbeat, her fingers tightening in the fabric of her gown.
“Cheer up, pet. This is a celebration, not a funeral,” Osin’s voice flowed over her like silk, smooth and effortless, yet with an edge so calculated, that for a moment, Elara wondered if he could hear the thoughts screaming in her head. Her pulse spiked, panic flooding her veins. She sucked in a breath, the air too tight in her chest as her mind raced, searching for any sign of intrusion—any breach into her mind. But there was nothing. Just her own spiraling thoughts. Just her.
She forced a slow breath and settled the serene mask back into place, though her hands trembled.
Osin lifted his goblet and took an unhurried sip of dark red wine, staining his teeth as he swallowed. Tonight, even his usual excess had been elevated. Sapphire silk rippled over his frame like liquid light; phoenix-shaped cufflinks glittered with gemstones; silver thread stitched his high collar so finely it gleamed like moonlight. Even his boots shone to an absurd polish—wealth and power he was all too eager to parade.
And at his side, the sunlit blade rested in its sheath, incongruous against the opulence, its presence a quiet, unspoken threat.
Osin led her through the throng of guests, his hand firm on her elbow, guiding her with an air of authority that parted thecrowd without a word. The lords and ladies of Latheria didn’t even try to hide their stares, their gazes crawling over her, full of lust, disdain, and judgment all at once. These were the same people who nodded along with every word Osin spoke, whispering their approval while his reign of terror bled the land dry. They smiled, toasted their victories, and pretended not to see the blood staining their hands.
As they moved through the crowd, Elara’s attention caught on a young man leaning casually against a pillar, his dark, tousled hair falling effortlessly over his brow, the faintest hint of a smirk playing on his lips. He wore a green velvet jacket with a cravat loosely tied at his throat—careless, yet somehow intentional.
He was already watching her, dark eyes gleaming with amusement, like he was in on a secret she wasn’t. His gaze held hers for a beat longer than it should have before he gave her a slow, deliberate nod.
She looked away, heat creeping up her neck, forcing her focus anywhere but on the way his gaze lingered. Thankfully—or perhaps not—she didn’t wait long for a distraction.
Osin pulled her forward and stopped before an older man. Ashen hair, thinning and slicked back in a futile attempt to mask his age, only sharpened the hard lines of his face. A goblet rested loose in his hand, untouched, as his fingers tapped idly against the glass in a slow, measured rhythm.
