CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
ELYSSARA
The limited educationwe received on the streets of the Virellin slums spoke nothing of what lived beyond the Frael Forest and Mount Lyssar. Only the Starborn received true learning behind The Lightborne Barrier. For the rest of us—the Earthbound, and me—knowledge was stolen, overheard, or wrestled from forbidden books. That’s how I became a frequent visitor to The Underbelly—smuggling texts that hinted at a wider world but spoke little of its thriving heart beyond the mountains.
The people of Virellin know very little about life before King Thalmyr usurped the throne—fragmented snippets, moments of lucidity punctuated by hazy details, but nothing solid. Nothing certain. Even those old enough to remember life before his reign seem to have forgotten exactly what it was like.Were we a happy people? Did we laugh? Were we always this hungry?Were the Earthbound and Starborn always so at odds?We already know that Thalmyr keeps a tight leash on knowledge, but it’s truly as ifheis our history. Pages torn from our books, stories stolen from our lips, memories taken from our minds—all of it selective, and all of it hidden. How, I’ve not a clue. Where, I do not know.
But I do know.
Revryn told me of Galreth once, of its artisans and villages, but his words were dull compared to the colorful life that greets me now. Perhaps he wanted me to see it with my own eyes. Or perhaps no words could ever do it justice.
Nestled on the northern outskirts of Mount Lyssar, where the rugged cliffs give way to rolling hills, lies the peaceful village of Galreth. The town is a vibrant tapestry of life, its terracotta-roofed buildings clustered together—neighbors within arm’s reach. The air is tinged with the sweet aroma of wildflowers that grow along the pathways. Sunlight bathes the cobblestone streets, casting soft, golden light on to the bustling market stalls and quaint artisan shops.
The market square, the heart of Galreth, is a lively hub of activity. Merchants peddle their wares from wooden carts laden with handwoven textiles, polished trinkets, and fresh produce. The scent of baked bread wafts from a small bakery tucked into the corner of the square, its chimney releasing thin wisps of smoke into the clear blue sky.
A merchant’s deep voice booms as he haggles with a customer over the price of handwoven blankets. Nearby, a woman laughs brightly, holding up a necklace that catches the sunlight. The clinking of coins and the rustle of fabric blend into a symphony of life that feels foreign to me.
Children dart between the stalls, laughing and playing, their carefree joy a stark contrast to the tense, purposeful energy of our group. More poignantly, it is a stark contrast to the streets of the slums, where children could be heard crying of hunger, the heat, or the absence of a parent. It’s strange, unsettling even, to see so many carefree children. Their laughter is light and easy, unburdened by hunger or fear. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a sound like it in the slums. For a moment, I’m gripped by an unfamiliar ache—jealousy, perhaps? Or grief for something I never had and never will.
A well-trodden path lined with flower boxes leads us to a modest tavern near the edge of the village center, its weathered sign swinging gently with the wind;The Twilight Hearth. The sound ofdistant laughter and the clinking of mugs creates an inviting warmth, a stark reprieve from the chaos of the temple.
The peace here feels almost unnatural, as though the storm we left behind at the temple might find its way to us again. I try to shake the thought, but it lingers like a shadow in the back of my mind.
Here, I realize, there is no magic—or at least, none that I can see or sense. The people are unmarked by the burdens of power or prophecy, their lives defined by simple rhythms and shared moments. There’s a tranquility to Galreth, a fleeting sense of safety that wraps around me like a fragile shield.
The Twilight Hearth seems to be the pride of the village, with locals crowded around the entrance, spilling in and out in a rhythm. Inside, it’s warm and inviting, with low timber ceilings, a roaring fireplace, and long tables where villagers and travelers have gathered to share stories. Handwoven tapestries depicting ancient myths hang on the walls, the scent of roasted meat and spiced cider wraps around me, and for the first time in years, I feel my body relax. It’s strange, this warmth, this sense of belonging that isn’t mine. I’ve spent so long surviving on the edges of existence that I’m not sure how to let myself sink into it.
Young suitors sit at a table near the window, their heads bent close together as they share a bowl of stew. The man brushes a strand of hair from the woman’s face, and she laughs softly, the sound warm and free. I glance away, a strange pang twisting in my chest.What would it be like, I wonder, to laugh like that? To belong like that?The barkeep approaches us with a broad smile, but his eyes linger on Ronyn’s weapon. His grin falters, just for a moment, before he places a tray of full-to-the-brim mugs on the table. “Welcome to Galreth,” he says, his voice even but cautious. “It’s rare to see new faces this time of year.”
Therion gives the barkeep a curt nod, and turns back towards us, cutting short any further conversation with the burly man behind the bar.
“I don’t know who’s paying, but I want one of everything!”Ronyn pierces the heaviness of my thoughts with his usual levity, and I huff a laugh.
Therion strides towards Ronyn and places gold coins into his hand. “It’s the least I can do. Fill your bellies, we’ll be back soon—we have some things to take care of.”
Even as warmth seeps into my muscles, my mind refuses to follow. Years of surviving the streets have taught me that peace this complete rarely lasts, and the mention of ‘things to take care of’ is all it takes for my guard to snap back into place.
The spell of Galreth is broken. I’m watching for the blade behind the smile. Always looking for ways I will be crossed or stabbed in the back—literally or metaphorically. Gellesk has taught me to always be sceptical of those offering help—usually because he was the one fucking me over.
“What things?” My gaze flicks between Therion and Kael, searching their faces for deception. “Therion? Kael? What are you doing?” I try to school my voice into cool indifference, but the rising octave of my voice betrays me.
Kael chuckles gently, “We’re just going to acquire rooms for the evening—we all need a good night’s rest. And, Therion and I have a couple of friends here—we just need to check in with them. Let them know we’re okay.”
Kael brushes his hand down my arm, leaning close enough that his breath is a caress against my skin. “Will you miss me, Duskae?” he whispers, his voice rough and low, curling down my spine. Heat blooms in my chest, unwanted and unrelenting, and I force my gaze to the hearth, to the flames licking at the charred logs. Even they fail to chase away the smirk I can feel etched into my skin.
Gods help me, I hate him. And gods help me, I’m a fucking liar.
Something about Kael’s tone feels too casual, too easy. My instincts bristle, a sharp tug at the back of my mind, as though the air here carries more than just baked goods and wildflowers. The peace of Galreth is fragile. Like glass, it waits for the first crack to shatter, and so does this alliance, I realize. A small part of me—quiet, buried—wants to believe him. Wants to lean into the warmthhe exudes so carelessly. But the streets taught me that warmth is often the prelude to a blade in the back.
“Ugh. No, I will not miss you, Kael,” I snarl, imbuing my words with more bite than I feel. “But don’t fuck us over. Or you’ll realize that what I did to those duskprowlers was childplay.”
Kael chuckles again, “So mouthy when you’re hungry, El. You should eat. I hear this tavern has the best ale in town—it’s brewed with local honey. And the roasted pork is god-sent.”
“I, for one,loveroasted pork... and ale! Right, gents, go get us a room. We’ll order!” Ronyn has always had a one-track mind, especially when it comes to food.
Kael winks at me. He fuckingwinksat me. The audacity and arrogance he wears like a mask snaps firmly back in place, and I’m not sure if I’m grateful for the distraction from everything—the prophecy, the flirting, or the unsettling sense of foreboding—or if I miss the small parts of him he’s started to reveal to me. Kael’s charm is a weapon, honed and precise. I tell myself it’s no different from the daggers at my side—sharp and dangerous. But the version of me that hasn’t been hardened by years of distrust wonders if it’s something else entirely.
“If you’re finished bickering like children, we’ll see you back here shortly,” Therion says, his tone as dry as the wind brushing through the tavern door. He claps Ronyn on the shoulder, his nod conveying far more than words ever could.
