It was enough to keep her standing, enough to fake the appearance of health.
Saria had made it clear—if she didn’t take all six doses while she pushed her limits, she’d pay for it. Her muscles would seize up or fail entirely, leaving her locked in place for hours, maybe days. All the progress she’d made would be for nothing.
Six vials for six hours. Healer’s orders. And even that was pushing it.
Elara rolled her eyes. Osin didn’t give a damn about"healer’s orders".
The Lord Sovereign's rich laughter drifted through the royal gardens like honeyed wine, wrapping around the air with that slick, sensual undertone that only came when he was several drinks deep. The sound snaked through the night, curling around the rustle of leaves, slipping under the soft light of the enchanted lanterns hanging from the trees. Their dim glow bathed the garden in an almost otherworldly haze, turning the night into something soft, dreamlike—too perfect to trust.
A warm breeze stirred through the gardens, twisting through Elara’s thick curls and bringing with it the heavy scent of jasmine and the sweetness of stardust roses. The party was a sight meant to dazzle—an intricate maze of silver-leafed trees, their branches shimmering like molten metal under the moonlight. But the air was too warm, unnaturally so for mid-autumn. Elara could feel the ether woven into the atmosphere, sticky and cloying, clinging to her skin like a layer of sweat. It coated everything—the food, the drinks, even the flowers. A faint, deadly undertone, like candies dipped in poison.
She’d been sure, when Osin had led her into the gardens, that he’d force her to parade around at his side like last time. But tonight he had something else in mind. He’d stationed her among the statues, making her stand there like a piece of stone while the rest of the party carried on around her. Not quite part of it, yet not entirely separate. Just another ornament for the elites to admire and forget.
She knew the feeling well enough.
Her gaze swept over the guests that were scattered across the clearing, limbs tangled in impossible configurations as they played some ridiculous game. The game was simple—players spun a crystal dial that hovered in the air, its glassy surface shimmering with runes that shifted with every spin. When it stopped, the runes would glow, marking a place on the enchanted grid beneath their feet. The tiles moved and shifted beneath them, charmed to keep everyone just a little off-balance. The more they drank, the more chaotic it became, laughter spilling out as bodies twisted, arms and legs crisscrossing in a drunken tangle of silk and gold.
Everyone was already halfway to oblivion, the wine flowing freely, but there was an edge to it. Their eyes shone a fraction too bright, their laughter cracked and wild, teetering toward madness—like their drinks were laced with a bit of something else.
Laughter echoed off the marble statues that loomed over the garden, silent watchers carved in the likeness of gods long forgotten, their stony faces indifferent to the revelry below. Elara stood rigid beside the towering figure of Aine, her hands outstretched, as if she held eternity in them. Her own hands, though far less steady, reached out to the nearest nightbloom, her fingertips grazing the cool, velvety petals. She clung to that small sensation, grasping for any distraction from the incessant ache screaming through her legs.
But even without looking up, she could feel him—Osin’s gaze burning into her. She looked up to find amusement glinting in his eyes, his lips curled into a lazy, predatory smile. Everyone else was lost in the game, limbs tangled and slipping as they laughed, but not him. Osin had hardly looked away from her all night. He watched every twitch of her muscles, every slight falter. He enjoyed it—her struggle.
From across the gardens, Elara could sense the anger simmering beneath his smug exterior—a tightly coiled beast barely restrained. She knew he was furious over what she’d done. But she’d expected something worse from him, something harsher than this quiet glee he seemed to revel in.
Unease curled low in her stomach.
Elara tore her gaze away, tugging uncomfortably at the too-tight bodice, the cheap, thin fabric clinging to her skin. Layers of flimsy lace and low-cut satin, dyed in garish shades of crimson, left little to the imagination. If, at the last party, Osin had wanted her to resemble a goddess, this time, after her insult, he’d made sure she looked like a harlot. A mockery wrapped in gaudy material, designed to humiliate.
And it worked.
Their gazes crawled over her like the cheap fabric she was forced into, clinging tight. Lust. Obsession. It radiated from them, lingering on every inch of bare skin, on every scandalous curve Osin had chosen to display. The whispers weren’t even subtle, low murmurs filled with heat, with a desire that made her stomach churn. Her skin prickled under their attention, but... she couldn’t bring herself to care. Not tonight.
Let them look. Let them think whatever they wanted. It didn’t matter.
Because her mind was locked on one thing—finding Lady Calista Thorne.
Elara had thought of the young woman endlessly during her days in the infirmary. The look Calista had given her at the last party—the faint glimmer of recognition—paired with those fragmented memories...
They had known each other. Elara was certain of it.
Maybe Lady Thorne could fill in those missing pieces, the gaps torn from her past. Maybe even more than that. It was reckless. Elara was grasping at the thinnest of threads, but at this point, it was all she had left to hold on to. And cling she had—four vials of Stonebrew downed, waiting for the night to spiral—for Osin to drink himself deep enough into his cups that he wouldn’t notice her slip away. He was nearly there. His glances had grown fewer, lazier, drifting off as the wine took hold. At the moment, he was stretched out on the grass, telling the story of his pilgrimage.
A swarm of admirers—men and women alike—gathered around Osin, utterly enraptured by his every word. Their eyes were glowing with admiration—or lust, by the looks of it. It seemed as though they were but a breath away from flinging themselves at his feet, and Osin, ever the opportunist, basked in the attention, soaking it in as if it were his natural due.
"The climb," he said, "was treacherous, as you’d expect. The air so thin, I could scarcely breathe. But I pressed on, knowing the fate of the realm depended on me. On my strength, my will." His audience gasped, wide-eyed and enthralled, as if they hadn’t heard the tale a hundred times before. Hands reached out, fingers brushing his arms, his chest. "When I finally reached the summit, Aine appeared to me. Radiant, divine, her voice thunderous. I knelt before her, pleading for the return of ether to our land. And she listened. She listened tome."
One of the women, eyes bright with awe, gasped. "How could she not?" she said breathlessly. "A man of your strength, your devotion..."
Osin grinned, soaking in the adoration. "Indeed," he purred, "how could she not?"
Elara rolled her eyes, unable to hold it back anymore. She endured his tale for a while longer, watching him sink further into his drink, half hoping he might let slip some new detail. But it was the same tired story she’d already read inOsin’s Sacred Journey, repeated word for word, as if he had rehearsed his own legend. And after all she had come to learn, she found herself doubting whetheranyof it had ever been true.
Her gaze flicked to the banquet tables, and her stomach twisted. She’d never seen so much food in one place, enough to feed the guests three times over, maybe more. Her tongue flicked across her lips instinctively. Silver platters gleamed under the soft glow of lanterns, each one piled high with figs dripping in honey, roasted pheasant with perfectly crisped skin, and sugared pears that shimmered like they were plucked from a dream. She tore her gaze from the food, forcing herself to focus on the courtiers instead. Their chatter filled the air, a constant hum that blended with the soft strains of music. The courtiers drifted between tables, plucking bites from the decadent spread, sipping wine from crystal goblets. Elara’s eyes scanned the crowd, searching for Calista, but a floating platter of sparkling wine slid into her line of sight, nudging her to take a glass.
She shot a quick glance over her shoulder at Osin. He hadn’t noticed. Good. “No, thank you,” she murmured, edging away from the floating platter, moving closer to the nearest table. At the edges of the feast, desserts sat in neat, tempting rows—rich cakes dusted with powdered sugar, pastries oozing with spiced cream, delicate bowls filled with candied flowers that shimmered in the light like tiny jewels.
Everything was lush, indulgent—a feast meant to overwhelm the senses, to pull you in, and never let go. Elara’s fingers hovered just above a candied flower, its soft petals practicallybegging to be touched, the faint scent of honey and vanilla curling up toward her.
