And Rell didn’t want to see what losing that would do to her.
He angled west, toward a set of lower rooftops that edged closer to the crowd gathering at the arena’s eastern gate. If Elora had made it out of the Scholastic District by now, that’s where she’d be—where the common folk funneled in, unaware they were walking into a show of control, not justice.
If she was there, he’d find her. If she wasn’t...
Then he’d tear the city apart until he knew where they had taken her.
He ducked under a broken chimney stack, the rooftops narrowing, his gaze scanning every cloak and scarf in the crowd below.
Come on, Sunshine,he thought, blood roaring in his ears.Don’t make me fight the whole damned Empire to get you back.
Chapter 45
Elora
She hadn’t believed it at first. The words on parchment—execution today, Tehvan Thorn—smudged in her mind. The letters disconnected, floating around the perimeters of her vision. But as the crowd filed out of the Scholastic District, blending into the mob of cheerful city dwellers headed toward the arena, she knew it was real.
Elora moved with them, head down, shoulders hunched like the rest of them. Just another face swallowed in the churn of voices and boots on stone. But every step closer to the arena tightened something in her chest.
She kept her pace steady, her fingers pressed hard against her palm, feeling for a heartbeat that she could calm into submission. She imagined him there: defiant, maybe a little bruised, but alive. If Thorn wanted him dead, he wouldn’t be wasting time with a public spectacle. It was bait. And she was running straight for it. She knew. But she couldn’t let Tehvan die. She wouldn’t. She was stronger now. She’d beat Thorn at his own damn game.
She ducked beneath a guard’s bored gaze, slipped through the press of bodies, and reached under her cloak. The faint jolt of electricity rippled through her skin as she shocked herself, the shiftresponding to her desperation. Her claws elongated, her pupils narrowed, and everything else sharpened—scent, sound, instinct.
Breathless by the time she reached the arena’s towering gates, Elora let herself get carried inside by the eager throng. The smell of dirt and sweat hit her first, followed by the dull roar of anticipation reverberating through wooden beams and metal grates. In the stands above the arena floor, the stage came into view.
She saw him instantly.
Master Thorn.
Standing tall, hands folded in front of him, dressed in his usual black suit, trimmed in arrogant gold.
Beside him—shackled, kneeling—was Tehvan.
She forced her legs to keep climbing, her fingers brushing the strap of her potion harness, checking what she had. Not much. A flash shard, a few decoys, a whisperwind shard, and—
A fire elemental.
Her eyes flicked to the brazier midway through the stands. A perfect ignition point. She started toward it, trying to move casually like she was looking for a seat closer to the action.
Then—
“Elora.”
The whisper kissed her ear like breath, low and sharp. Not a thought. Not a hallucination.
A voice. His voice.
She froze. Slowly, she turned her head, scanning the opposite stands.
And there he was.
Rell.
One knee propped on the railing, gaze locked on her like a tether.
She could almost see it in his face—pleading, angry, afraid.
He was using his own whisperwind potion. Only she could hear him.
