Chapter 13

Karys

I fought the urge to reach for the scar near my heart.

My stomach twisted more violently.

Move , I silently commanded myself. You have to keep moving.

I'd known there was a good chance I would find him here if this truly was the heart of the elven rebellion. It shouldn't have been such a shock to my system.

But it was, it so painfully was , and the storm of emotions that roared through me nearly knocked me off my feet. I tasted bile in the back of my throat but swallowed it down. I tried—and failed—to follow this with a deep breath. Dizziness threatened.

Suddenly, warmth blossomed in my chest, right below the scar, spilling through my veins and somehow making it easier to breathe. To move.

I couldn't say if it was Dravyn—his magic reaching across the space between us and wrapping protectively around me when I needed it most. But I wanted it to be him. I needed it to be him.

I needed to know I wasn't alone in this place, if only for a moment.

I steadied myself in that warmth for the span of a few breaths before reminding myself that, even if Dravyn could catch glimpses of my thoughts and feelings, he wasn't coming in here to rescue me.

That wasn't the plan.

It was up to me to make something of this mission. To prove myself to the divine courts.

And Andrel presented an opportunity, loathe as I was to get closer to him.

I leaned casually against the closest building, out of sight, but still near enough to catch snippets of the conversation he was having.

That conversation was already drawing to a close, however. As it trailed off, I chanced a quick look around the corner. The men he'd been ordering around were giving quick salutes before leaving in the opposite direction. Andrel walked toward me, coming uncomfortably close to where I stood, before turning down the main street and heading toward the barracks.

I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he made his way into that set of buildings. He was one of several coming and going without any fuss—it was a low-security, residential establishment, as I'd suspected. And it was the only place that didn't appear entirely locked down.

There was nothing to do except follow him.

Inside was a maze of doors and hallways. I lost sight of Andrel almost instantly. But I knew his scent better than most, even if every part of me wanted to forget it. I could follow it with little effort, too, given that my godly senses were even stronger than my elvish ones had been.

My tracking skills only got me so far, however; I eventually came to a locked door—one he was clearly on the other side of.

Luckily, no one saw me pulling on it in vain, nor heard the curse I let out before I turned around and ducked into the nearest open room to calculate my next step.

There were no lights nor windows in this room, and I was so distracted by racing thoughts of Andrel that, at first, I didn't realize I wasn't alone.

A young elven woman sat by an unlit fireplace in the corner. She held a small glass orb in her hands—a bomb of some sort. Five more lay beside her in a neat row. I could smell sulphur and charcoal, and I saw that little flecks of a crushed red… something coated the floor around her.

Corpseroot powder, I thought; I'd seen Cillian make explosives with similar ingredients.

The woman glanced my way but said nothing. She seemed to be hoping I'd realize I was in the wrong place and leave.

Maybe I should have. But something about those bombs—and the pang of familiarity they caused—made me stay put.

"You're a new face," the woman eventually said without looking up.

"Sorry to interrupt you."

She waved a hand as if she was unbothered by my hovering, though her expression suggested otherwise.

Despite her obvious annoyance, I still didn't budge. I'd seen Andrel. Did that mean Cillian was here as well? What had happened between the two of them since my messy exit from the former home we'd all shared?

"Is there something I can help you with?" the woman mumbled.

"No," I said quickly. "Just the bombs you're working on there…they caught my eye. The root powder that's used to make them is quite rare, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"I've only seen it in a region far south of here."

"It's called corpseroot," she said, still mostly ignoring me, her fingers working deftly on twisting the bomb's fuse together.

"Yes. I know. I…I know someone who is a master at making these bombs—an old friend of mine. From that same southern region, actually."

She kept working without comment.

I looked back toward the hallway, making certain the two of us were still alone before I said, "His name is Cillian."

Her fingers stilled against the bomb. "I know who you're talking about. Used to live in the old Morethian Manor for a time, I believe."

My stomach heaved. "That's right."

Her gaze lifted to my face, though the rest of her remained perfectly still. She studied me for a long, uncomfortable beat before she went back to fiddling with the weapon and said, "It's been weeks since I saw him around here."

He was here .

The revelation made my pulse quicken, but I stopped myself from commenting on it and revealing my ignorance.

"I haven't seen him lately, either," I said, calmly. "I've been wondering where he was."

She gave me a puzzled look. "You're a friend of his. Surely you know he couldn't pass up an opportunity like the one in Stillwind."

Stillwind?

I was desperate to know more, but before I could think of a way to pry information out of her without seeming suspiciously clueless, she swept her unfinished bombs and ingredients into a bag, slung it over her shoulder, and got to her feet. "Sorry to run," she said, "but I've got people expecting me elsewhere."

With a casual wave, she was gone.

I stood alone in the room for a few minutes, staring at the shining remnants of corpseroot powder on the floor. Memories of Cillian flooded the space, threatening to drown me. Memories I didn't have time for.

I had a confirmation that he was alive now, at least.

No matter what else happened, that alone made this risky venture worth it to me.

I doubted most of the gods and goddesses waiting for me would agree with this sentiment, however. Clenching my fists at the thought, I hurried back to the hallway—

And nearly collided with Andrel as he emerged from the locked room.

"Watch yourself," he growled, snatching my arm and pushing me aside.

" You watch it," I growled back.

I knew it was a mistake the instant the words left my lips. I also didn't care. All of the loss and confusion and anger I'd carried into this city was winding up so tightly inside of me that I was going to violently, irrevocably snap if I didn't release something .

Andrel's fingers remained tightly wrapped around my arm. He watched me without speaking for a long moment.

Too long.

Why was he studying me so closely?

Was my disguise wearing thin?

I'd made sure to change the sound of my voice—but had I not done enough?

"Who are you?" he asked. "I don't think we've had the pleasure of meeting before." His expression softened, a corner of his lips quirking and a touch of curiosity lighting in his bright hazel eyes. To someone who didn't know him like I did, he would have seemed friendly. Charming.

"Elora Estel."

"Estel?" He considered the false name. "From the Calan region, I'm guessing?"

I nodded.

"I wasn't aware our message had gotten through to any of your clan. The lord of your people has been rather… stubborn in all our dealings thus far."

I forced myself to adopt a tone I knew would flatter his ego. "Some of us are able to see as clearly as you can, despite what our leaders want us to believe."

He smiled. "Happy to hear it."

He finally released my arm, though he remained entirely too close. Every second of that closeness was making my nausea worsen. My mind kept attempting to shut down, to somehow protect me from the visceral memories of everything he'd done to me.

Just as the urge to back away from him became nearly unbearable, a rope of heat snaked through my body. It felt the same as earlier, and I was almost certain of it, now: Dravyn could sense my fear, my panic, my disgust…and his magic was responding to it, subtly but surely.

I stood taller, willing my expression into something blank, unreadable, just as a soldier rounded the corner and headed straight toward Andrel.

"We have a situation in the square that Captain Raegel thought you'd want to be present for," the soldier said. "Spies from Galizur. Four of them."

Andrel no longer seemed interested in who I was or why I was here, for better or worse.

"They're apprehended?"

The soldier nodded. "And we've sent for… her to deal with them, as she requested. The required ones are gathering to hold trial."

"Good," Andrel said. "Let it be quick, so that we might send a message to the ones hoping for their safe return."

He sneered the last two words with such cruelty that it took all the restraint I had not to whip the knife from my hip and plunge it straight into his stomach.

After a few more brief words, the messenger left.

Andrel lingered, tilting his head toward me and studying me once more. "You'll join us at this exciting event, I hope? And then feel free to write to your lord back home with all the details later; perhaps we can enlighten him, yet."

"Of course," I replied, still fighting the urge to reach for my knife.

Maybe I imagined it, but it seemed as though his lips parted in a slight, mocking smile—almost as though he could sense my violent desires and was daring me to act on them.

I kept still.

Somehow, I kept still.

He said nothing else before turning and walking away.

I watched him leave, heading in the same direction as the messenger. He was nearly out of sight before I managed to make my feet move.

I stepped outside, shielding my gaze against a sun that had grown brighter during my absence. As I moved through the city, following Andrel at a safe distance, I kept an eye out for potential escape routes I could take.

I would see what I needed to see of this trial, and then I would be gone before Andrel could look my way again—that would be enough for now.

It would have to be.

It was much quieter in the streets than before, even once I passed back into the more residential area of the city. Although, if I strained, I could hear the roar of a crowd building far in the distance—most of the city was gathering toward the square the soldier had mentioned, I assumed.

Somewhat reluctantly, I kept moving toward that sound. I was looking more and more closely at potential getaway routes as I drew nearer—which is what led to me staring down a narrow, winding path lined with blue flowers.

On the other end of it, I could just make out the edge of what looked to be a monument made of white stone.

The stone was so massive, and shining so beautifully in the sun, that curiosity got the better of me.

I followed the path and found myself facing a wide open, natural space that seemed completely at odds with the city behind me. I forgot about the stone monument for a moment as I kneeled, pressing a hand into impossibly lush grass. Hills of that grass rolled in all directions, dotted with more blue flowers that shivered in the slight breeze.

Trees bursting with blossoms were spaced evenly along the edge of the space, blocking out much of the noise from the city. The quiet made the place feel oddly solemn, maybe even sacred, and I wondered again what the monument at the front of it stood for.

Only as I started to make my way back to the street did I pause long enough to study that stone more closely, and what I saw sent chills racing through my entire body.

It was covered in names.

Hundreds of names.

I didn't count them all. I didn't have to. Dravyn had already told me the exact number months ago. And the reason for the lush, fertile grass and the strange, solemn air of this place suddenly became clear.

It was a mass grave.

I backed away slowly, not stopping until I was surrounded by grey streets and buildings once more. The city reeled around me. I resumed my original path with shaky legs, only this time I kept my eyes straight ahead and didn't stop until I reached the crowd at the square.

It was even more massive than I'd expected.

I disappeared among the shifting, jostling bodies for several minutes, grateful for the noise that drowned out my thoughts along with my pained, uneven breaths.

Once I'd somewhat collected myself, I moved to a clearer space and stretched taller, surveying the area, still determined to finish what I'd set out to do.

There were four humans standing upon a small platform I hadn't noticed during my earlier walk through this part of the city. An elven soldier stood between them with a roll of paper in his hands, reading the charges against them. The noise around me made it hard to hear what he was saying, but whispers carried through the crowd quickly enough, repeating his words with increasing fervor.

Spying, trespassing, thievery—all the things I was also guilty of, but which I'd gotten away with merely because I looked like I could belong here.

My gaze dropped to my boots. I didn't need to watch any of these executions. It was enough to know they were happening.

I didn't need to look.

Why, why, why did I look?

I didn't know why, but as several members of the crowd inhaled sharply, I lifted my head. I looked toward the platform just in time to catch a sword gleaming in the daylight.

Just in time to see the executioner's face before she turned her back to me.

Everything seemed to crash to a stop.

Because the one holding the blade was my sister.

And before I could even whisper her name, she swung.