Tears blurred her vision as her chest tightened, one hand pressing against her heart. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice cracking.
The Sidhe's eyes softened. He placed his hand on his own chest, dipping his chin in a small, respectful nod. "Caelion."
Oh, curse it all, she’d done itagain.
A strange, misplaced bubble of laughter almost escaped her at the absurdity of the situation. She made a mental note to remember Caelion, to tell him her true name once she helped free him. But now wasn’t the time. She gave him a small nod of thanks, then slipped further up the line, weaving through the Sidhe.
More eyes turned to her, curious, wary, but none gave her away. They only watched. It was as if they recognized her—remembered the human who had touched the stones, who had run through these tunnels in sheer madness. And now, without a word, they shifted, moving subtly to let her pass.
"Eilíara."
Reynnar's voice cut through the murmur of the tunnel, rough and low, carrying over the heads of those in line.
Elara's breath hitched, and for a moment, everything stopped. Time, the world around her, her own heartbeat—it all hung suspended between that single word and the reality crashing back in. Her name. Spoken byhim.
Slowly, her heart began to pound again, a mix of relief, and dread twisting in her chest as she pushed forward.
It wasn’t until Reynnar’s form finally came into view that Elara let herself breathe, slow and controlled, in and out through her nose. Her hands clenched into fists, gripping the fabric of her gown just to stop them from trembling. He had been watching her the entire time, she could feel it—the weight of his gaze pulling her closer. But when their eyes met, the relief she’d felt at seeing him drained away. His entire body had gone rigid, muscles tensing in a way that made her pulse quicken for all the wrong reasons.
Elara's brow furrowed, a question forming in her eyes and a flicker of something—fear, frustration—passed across his features. And then it hit her. He didn’t want her here. Not in this line, not in the midst of this mess. Whatever was happening, he wanted her far from it. Far fromhim.
Elara lifted her chin, meeting his gaze head-on, daring him to challenge her. She wasn’t about to run, wasn’t going to cower, or hide. They were in thistogether, and he knew it. He’d been there for her from the start—sucking the venom from her veins that first day, keeping her grounded, feeding her when she couldn’t manage on her own. Did he really believe she wouldn’t do the same for him now? That she’d stand by and let him face this alone?
His eyes darkened, a flicker of something dangerous flashing there. Then, the tips of his fangs slid into view as he smiled, slow and sharp, his chin dipping in acknowledgment—acceptance.
“Move!” A guard’s voice cracked through the air like a whip, and the Sidhe around her, who had slowed ever so slightly, resumed their pace.
Reynnar moved with them, but there was something different in his posture. His back was straight, shoulders pulled tight with tension. Elara’s took him in—the tangled mess of his dark hair, matted with dirt, the braids once so carefully woven now frayed and half-undone. His pointed ears were nicked, fresh cuts standing out against the bruised and bloodied skin of his back and sides. Yet, despite the wounds, despite the exhaustion etched into every line of his body, he still carried himself with that quiet, unyielding strength. The warrior she had always known him to be. Even now, even after all of this, he hadn’t broken. He stood tall, bruised but unbowed, and that resilience—that quiet strength, only solidified what she already knew.
He would not die here.
Not like this.
And she vowed, with every fiber of her being, that she would make sure of it.
They reached the tunnel's end, and Elara instinctively ducked her head, letting her hair fall like a veil around her face. The guards moved in, their heavy boots thudding against the stone floor, the metallic clink of weapons echoing as they swarmed around the group. She kept her movements small, shrinking into herself, hoping to go unnoticed as they herded the Sidhe forward.
The tunnel gave way to a vast chamber, its stone walls stretching high, casting shadows that swallowed the weak torchlight. The air inside was thick, carrying the scent of damp rock and the faint metallic tang of old blood. One by one, theywere funneled into the space, the press of bodies tightening with every step. Fifty—maybe more—stood shoulder to shoulder, the tension in the air palpable. Then, without warning, a group of guards halted the influx, redirecting the remainder down another tunnel.
"Strip!" The command thundered from the entrance.
Elara froze, her mind reeling, disbelief rooting her in place as the Sidhe around her began to obey. She scanned the space again, taking in the details she had missed in her initial panic. The vast chamber was lined with deep stone basins, low troughs carved into the ground, water trickling through channels along the edges. This wasn’t an alchemical lab, wasn’t some twisted medical trial. No, this place—this place looked like a washroom. Whatever extraction had been done to them, it was already over. And now, they were being washed? As a collective group?
Rage boiled through her, hot and blinding, her body trembling under its force. She wanted to scream, to fight—but her hands moved on their own, shaking as they slipped her necklace free and shoved it into her brassiere. She peeled the worn gown from her body, fingers numb as the fabric slid from her skin, then tossed it onto the growing pile of discarded clothes.
At least they hadn’t been made to strip their underthings. Not yet, anyway. A bitter mercy—but a mercy all the same.
Without warning, water blasted from the guards’ outstretched hands, a vicious torrent that hit with a force that knocked the air from her lungs. Elara’s hands flew up trying to shield her face, but it did little against the onslaught. The glacial water cut into her, relentless, each drop feeling like a thousand knives stabbing into her flesh.
Around her, the others staggered, their once-powerful forms shrinking under the sheet of water pouring over them. Elara looked for Reynnar, but she could barely make out any facethrough the deluge. But as if on a whim, the flood halted. The world around her stilled, caught in a breathless pause.
"Get yourselves cleaned up, or it's goodbye to your cozy cells and hello to the dirt nap. Move it!" growled the pockmarked guard, his voice booming through the stone halls as he tossed chunks of soap across the ground like he was feeding chickens.
Around her, the Sidhe moved with quiet resignation, reaching for the broken shards of soap. The soft sounds of scrubbing and trickling water filled the chamber, as Elara’s eyes swept over the room before landing on Reynnar. He was crouched low, his dark, damp hair hanging around his face as he gathered a few fragments. When he felt her eyes on him, he looked up, meeting her gaze before walking over to her.
Without a word, he held out a small piece of soap, his expression soft, nodding gently as if to offer some silent reassurance. Then, just as calmly, he turned and handed another piece to the Sidhe female nearby. She accepted it, but her gaze shot straight to Elara, eyes narrowing with suspicion and something else—recognition. Elara remembered her too—this was the same Sidhe who had warned her about the wards.
Elara’s gaze lingered on the way their hands met. There was something in the subtle brush of their fingers—more than just the shared bond of captivity. It was familiarity. A connection. The tension between them hummed like a taut string, visible in the way their eyes met and lingered before the silver-haired Sidhe murmured something in Reynnar's ear. Then, almost as if in unison, both turned their attention toward her.
