Elara forced the bile back, her face carefully neutral. "Maybe," she bit out, her fingers curling into a fist as she drew her hand back.
The guard stumbled away, leaving Elara to collapse against the bars, her body sinking under the weight of exhaustion and shame. Her skin still crawled from the feel of his lips on her. She wiped her hand on her cloak, scrubbing at the spot as though she could erase the moment, but the disgust lingered, festering under her skin.
Her mind drifted back to the alley, to the words of the Legionnaires.Shortages. Withdrawals.They needed her blood. For more than just the Convergence. Why? Her thoughts spun, circling back to Fenlin, to the Script Keepers. Was that all they had wanted from her? Just her blood? Had everything been as simple—and as brutal—as that?
Elara dragged herself toward the cot, each movement sending fresh stabs of pain through her body, harsh enough to draw a cry from her lips. Her muscles trembled, too weak to pull her up. With a frustrated sigh, she grabbed the blanket instead, crumpling it onto the cold stone floor. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. Curling into herself, she tried to block out the pain, her eyes slipping shut, when something rippled across the opposite side of the cell.
Her heart lurched as she pushed herself up on trembling arms. The ripple grew, and something thin and pale floated through. Parchment? She blinked, incredulous, as it driftedtoward her. With shaking hands, she snatched the note from the air and unfolded it; a pencil rolled free. Elegant, precise script stretched across the page.
“Summoning me already? You’re impatient. I’ve got a few loose ends to tie up. Think you can refrain from acquiring more injuries until I’m finished?”
So, he had felt it.A few loose ends?She shuddered, the memory of him cutting down his men flashing vividly in her mind. She didn’t envy anyone who met that kind of end. With a sigh, she grabbed the pencil, and scribbled her response, her fingers trembling slightly.
“Considering I don’t have working legs at the moment, I’d say I’m done collecting injuries for the day.”She paused, biting her lip, then added, “And for the record, I wasn’t summoning you. I’m just clumsy, not desperate. How exactly did you manage to get through the wards in my cell?”
Elara rolled up the note, tucked the pencil inside, and studied the ripple in the air. After a moment’s hesitation, she crawled closer and pushed the parchment through. Then she waited.
A minute passed. Her curiosity got the better of her, and she poked a finger through the ripple.
A shock of ice ripped through her.
Elara cursed under her breath, but before she could dwell on it, the parchment slipped back through. She unrolled it, finding the familiar elegant handwriting again.
“I made some adjustments last time. Now I can rift directly to you. Also, are you absolutely certain you’re not desperate?”
Elara narrowed her eyes at the note, only for her gaze to catch on three vials floating in front of her—Stonebrew. Pyrewarmth. Sleeping draught. Her fingers trembled as they closed around the glass. Relief hit her so hard she almost sobbed. She didn’t think. Just uncorked and swallowed them all in rapid succession.
The Stonebrew worked its magic first, sliding through her veins, calming the violent tremors in her limbs. The Pyrewarmth followed, sending a rush of heat from her core, radiating to her fingertips, her toes—gods, she could actually feel them again. And the sleeping draught was a gentle tug, a sweet lull that dragged at her eyelids.
Her breath steadied, chest no longer tight, and she scribbled a hasty response on the note,“Arrogant prick.”With a flick of her wrist, she shoved it back through the rip in reality, already feeling the pull of sleep as her body hit the cot.
Warmth. Strength. Comfort. Things she hadn’t felt in… gods, how long had it been?
As she curled into the blankets, sleep already pulling her under, something like laughter echoed in her mind—a low rumble that might’ve been real, might’ve been imagined. It didn’t matter.
For once, everything was quiet.
Chapter 34
Elara flexed her legs, rolling her ankles.
Stretch, release. Again. And again. Her muscles screamed in protest at first, stiff and uncooperative, but she kept at it, refusing to let the ache control her. A light sheen of sweat had formed on her skin by the time she heard the distant shuffle of the early morning shift change outside. Blood was finally flowing again, her limbs loosening, waking up like the rest of her body.
She hadn’t expected it—the vials of Stonebrew, sitting there at the foot of her cot, almost innocent in their placement. Just waiting. She’d stared at them for longer than she cared to admit, mind spinning in a thousand directions. What did it mean? Was it an act of kindness? Did he care? Or was it just self-preservation because he was tired of suffering through her injuries? She didn’t know. She couldn’tknow. And that was the problem. Her thoughts always tangled up like this, second-guessing every damn thing.
Elara wanted to believe it was something good. That it wasn’t just obligation. But gods, she’d made that mistake before—thinking people cared when they hadn’t. Not really. Not when it counted. She couldn’t afford to make that mistake again. Couldn't bear it.
Going through the motions, Elara stretched and tested her legs until she was sure they wouldn’t give out beneath her. Then a slow shuffle carried her to the door, where a sad excuse for breakfast awaited. A piece of stale bread, barely a scrap of cheese, and a cup of something that looked like broth but tasted like water. Still, she forced it down. She needed the strength, the energy to heal. Eat, sleep, stretch. That’s what Saria had drilled into her head. Keep going, even when it felt pointless.
She wondered about Saria now, wondered if the healer would come check on her or if she was even allowed to. Her gaze drifted, almost unwillingly, to Reynnar’s cell. Still empty. Still no sign of him. No amber eyes watching her from across the way, no scrape of his breakfast tray being pushed into her space. Her heart clenched painfully at the absence. She hadn’t realized how much she’d come to rely on the small, silent moments with him—just knowing he was there.
Blood rushed through her, a dark wrongness coiling inside her. She knew—knew—whatever was happening to him was happening now, and it was bad. Her teeth sank into her bottom lip, biting harder until the coppery taste flooded her mouth. She had to act.
But what could she do?
Her heartbeat pounded in her chest, erratic, loud, drowning out the distant sounds of the prison. And then, like a hammer to the skull, the thought struck her.
The pill.
