Her claws sank into his arm, raking deep furrows into his skin, but his grip was unrelenting—like iron bands crushing around her neck. He lifted her effortlessly, her feet kicking uselessly in the air.
“You’re tougher than I thought,” he mused, his voice thick with amusement despite the gashes in his skin. “But that just makes this more fun.”
Before she could react, he hurled her across the room.
Elora crashed into the wall by the shattered doorway, the impact jolting through her spine. A cry tore from her throat as she crumpled onto the cold floor, pain blooming across her back and shoulders. The breath had been ripped from her lungs, leaving her gasping, her vision blurred.
Move.Move.
She forced her shaking limbs to obey, dragging herself toward the hallway. Her fingers scraped against the floor, splinters biting into her skin as she crawled forward.
Behind her, Fane’s boots struck the ground with slow, deliberate force, each step measured, confident. He wasn’t in a rush—heknewshe had nowhere to go.
Chapter 16
Rell
Rell strode through the dark streets with Violette and Symond at his sides, the cool night air biting at his skin. For the first time in weeks, his shoulders didn’t feel like they were carrying the weight of a dying world. The job was done. Trinton was dead.
And with him, a piece of the betrayal that had gnawed at Rell’s gut like a festering wound since their best alchemist had been killed.
She had been like a mother to him, that woman. Not his real mother—gods,neverhis real mother. That wretched woman could rot for all he cared. ButAnalise? She had been different. She had shown him care, discipline, and something close to love in the chaotic mess of his life.
And Trinton had ripped her away.
He exhaled slowly, letting the familiar, worn-down sight of their shop pull him back to the present. The wooden sign above the entrance swayed gently in the night breeze, its hinges creaking.
The street was quiet. Too quiet. No drunkards muddling about, no rats scurrying toward the shadows. Something was wrong. Rell’s instincts flared, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.His fingers drifted toward his dagger. Next to him, Symond stiffened, his hand twitching near his belt.
Violette reached the door first, stepping inside cautiously.
And that’s when hefeltit. The weight in the air. Thick. Heavy.Wrong.
The scent hit him next—metallic and sharp.
Blood.
“Dierck?” Violette inched her way toward the counter.
Rell followed her gaze, his breath catching. A pool of blood had begun to creep across the wooden floor, dark and glistening under the lamp light.
Violette gasped as she rounded the corner.
Rell didn’t need to ask. He alreadyknew.
Still, he forced himself to round the counter, his stomach twisting.
Dierck lay there, crumpled and lifeless, his body twisted at an unnatural angle. A pool of dark, sticky blood spread beneath him, seeping into the cracks of the worn wooden floor.Shit.No wounds from a blade. No signs of a struggle. Just brute, raw force—someone hadcrushedhim.
Violette turned to him, her eyes sharp, wide. “This wasn’t random,” she whispered.
Rell’s chest tightened. She didn’t need to say it. He already knew.
“Fane,” he muttered, the name like bile on his tongue.
Symond hissed under his breath, his posture stiffening. He gestured toward the door leading to the hidden outpost at the back of the shop. The heavy wooden frame was barely hanging onto itshinges, deep gouges carved into the grain where something—or someone—had forced their way through.
Rell’s stomach dropped. The air in the shop felt suffocating, thick with the scent of blood and something worse—failure.
