“Where exactly are you taking me?”
Rell didn’t answer.
The silence pressed on her and the light of a single lantern mounted on the wall cast flickering shadows ahead of them. The further they descended, the more memories surfaced in Elora’s mind.
The cold stone of the Institute’s dungeons. The sting of restraints biting into her wrists. Thorn’s voice echoing in the hollow space as he loomed over her, stealing her blood.
The attempt to breathe froze in her chest, bordering on panic. She pressed her thumb against her hand, the familiar pressure grounding her as she forced her heartbeat to steady.
“Rell,” she uttered, her voice lower now, almost a whisper. “If this is some kind of…”
He moved past her as they got to the bottom of the stairs and turned to face her. His raised eyebrow was equal parts amused and exasperated.
“Dungeon? Torture chamber?” he asked, his lips quirking into a faint smirk. “You’ve got quite the imagination, Elora.”
Her scowl deepened, and she opened her mouth to respond, but Rell had already turned back to the door at the bottom of the stairs. The heavy wood looked ancient, the iron hinges rusted but sturdy. He pulled another key from his belt and unlocked it.
The door swung inward and Elora couldn’t stop herself from gasping. The room beyond was nothing like she expected.
Warm light spilled out, casting a golden glow over the space. Lanterns hung from the walls, their soft flicker dancing with the steady warmth of a fire crackling in the stone hearth. Cozy, mismatched furniture was scattered throughout: a worn armchair near the fire, a long wooden table buried under papers and books, and shelves crammed with trinkets and supplies.
The air was tinged with the familiar scent of wood smoke and herbs, but it wasn’t oppressive, it was almost... inviting.
Elora stood frozen in the doorway, her gaze sweeping over the room. For a moment, she was transported back to the wards’ common room at the Institute, where the firelight had once seemed comforting instead of foreboding. The ache of that memory caught her off guard. It made her think of Amara, the friend she had left behind, and a pang of guilt twisted in her chest.
“Well?” Rell’s voice broke through her thoughts. He glanced back at her. “Not quite a dungeon, is it?”
Elora tore her gaze from the room and grimaced at him, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she stepped hesitantly inside, her boots muffled against a navy carpet.
The warmth of the fire brushed against her face, but it did little to thaw the suspicion knotting her shoulders. She swept her gaze over the room again, taking in every detail, every shadow. It was too inviting, too carefully arranged. She didn’t trust it.
"Rell? That you?" A woman’s voice called from the hallway beyond the room.
“Yeah, Violette,” he called back. “Come out here!” Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he added quickly, “Without the rook!”
Elora frowned. “Rook?”
“Slang,” Rell said with a shrug, his expression giving nothing away. He didn’t elaborate, instead turning toward the hallway just as a woman stepped into view.
Tall and slender, Violette moved with an air of sharp, practiced grace, her posture upright and confident. Her blonde hair, streaked faintly with silver, was pulled back into a loose braid that fell over her shoulder. The braid framed her angular features, her high cheekbones and strong jawline accentuated by the warm, flickering light of the room. She wore a fitted bodice of worn leather over a cream blouse with rolled sleeves, the fabric smudged faintly with what looked like ash or dust. She had on dark gray pants that hugged her figure and a utility belt with empty loops for weapons or potions.
Her sharp, sage-colored eyes flickered between Rell and Elora with a cool intensity. The lines of her face hardened as her gaze settled on Elora, her suspicion etched plainly into her expression.
“Who’s this?” Violette asked, her voice low and controlled, though there was no mistaking the edge in her tone.
Rell leaned against the arm of a worn lounger, his casual demeanor clashing with the tension in the room. He gave Violette an easy grin, his gray eyes glinting. “Relax, Vye. I found us an alchemist.”
“An alchemist?” she repeated flatly, her tone dripping with skepticism. “Right. Let me guess, she’s another one of those ‘prodigies’ who knows how to mix a few herbs and thinks it makes her special? How lucky for us.”
Elora bristled, her nerves sparking at the insult.
Rell snorted, shaking his head. “Don’t be so rude, Vye. She’s better thanmostof the amateurs we’ve had to deal with. Willdefinitely be better than Malcom. Mason? Fuck.” He smirked as he added, “Though I’m betting on a nice, dramaticfizzlebefore anything remotely useful happens.”
Elora’s glare snapped at him, her anger flaring. “Oh, I assure you, the only thing that will combust will be my patience,” she said coldly.
Rell shot her a smug shrug while Violette’s mouth almost turned up into a smile.
“You didn’t answer my question, Rell. What’s she doing here?”
