A small sylvan girl in ragged clothing that revealed patches of green skin along her arms and legs stared wide-eyed from the cell to Elyria’s left. Two fae men shared a large cell next to her. The three of them were locked in their continued discussion of the Revenant’s ancient exploits.
Opposite them, a nocterrian with skin the color of the midnight sky sat alone, legs crossed. Their eyes were on Elyria, but they had a vacant look to them, lost in thought as they absently stroked one of the majestic, curved horns protruding from beneath their pitch-black hair. The darkness inside her stirred slightly. She shoved it back down.
A sign hung on the wall next to the nocterrian’s cell, directly across from Elyria. “NO MAGIC,” it said in large, red letters. Below the words was a crude drawing of a stick figure being struck by lightning.
Alas, Elyria didn’t think that being zapped with a counterspell would do much to improve the state of her pounding head. With a sigh, she sat up, delighting in the terrified squeals of her gossiping neighbors as they realized she was awake. Perhaps there wassomebenefit to the persistent myth of the Revenant.
Sadly, it wasn’t enough to keep her fellow detainees from starting up their conversation again after a few minutes—in harsh whispers this time, though Elyria stopped listening anyway. She had more pressing concerns.
Where were Raefe and his men? Had they already been questioned? Released? Though the thought made smoke erupt from her ears, it would hardly surprise her. Tartanis had a lot of influence in Coralith. Beyond it, too. A well-placed bribe—or a better-placed threat—and his men would be back on the streets to terrorize at their leisure once more.
Elyria rubbed her temples, assessing herself. She noted with frustration she still wore her shredded leathers. Which was to say, she wore barely anything at all.
No wonder everyone was staring.
Peeling back a few scraps of scorched leather, Elyria took stock of the mess that was her legs. The long, puckered lines that ran up the side of each limb were already well on their way to healing. In time,she thought that they might fade to near nothing. But it was the map of scars emblazoned upon her thighs that had her sucking in air through her teeth.
The bubbling blisters that had crisscrossed her skin had hidden the majority of the damage when she checked herself in the tavern, so she hadn’t noticed then. But Raefe had burned her deep. And when Elyria had thrown that weak bit of healing magic over her legs to take the edge off the pain, she hadn’t realized she was setting the marks in place.
Now, with the blisters gone and the burns partially healed, these scars were part of her. Getting rid of them would entail flaying the very flesh from her legs and having a healer regrow it from scratch.
Elyria found herself wishing she had done a lot more to Raefe than shove a few vines down his gullet.
Slowly, the voices around her rose in volume, though her fellow detainees had wisely stopped discussing her so openly now that she was upright. Elyria began to pace. She wondered how long she would be down here this time. She felt it unusual that no one had come to speak to or check on her yet.
On the one hand, she had attacked a member of the city guard.
On the other, the guard in question wasTaryn.
The woman was horrid. Elyria hadn’t missed the glances exchanged between the rest of the guards as Taryn railed at her. Disapproval. Judgment. Irritation. She wasn’t sure if it was aimed at herself or at Taryn, who, by their captain’s own admission, was hardly behaving as an honorable member of the city guard should.
A wave of pity washed over Elyria as she spared a thought for the rest of the guard, putting up with Taryn and her sanctimonious bullshit day in, day out. Then she wondered how they would feel if they knew what Elyria had been saving them all from by taking Taryn’s bait.
Humming quietly, she paced the length of her cell, making a song out of counting each pass she made. Finally—just as her count reached one hundred and seventy-three—a guard approached.
“About damn time,” Elyria said with a sing-songy flourish, her mental tune spilling out.
The guard chuckled as he unlocked her cell. “I think it’s time to find a new hobby, Elle. This is becoming a bad habit.”
4
NO ONE’S MESSENGER
ELYRIA
Elyria grinnedat Olyndor Oleander as the guard held out a mug of water and a corner of bread. She snatched the items from his hands, her thirst and hunger hitting her in a sudden wave. She hadn’t given either much thought until this moment, but she was ravenous.
A choked sound rumbled from the cell next to her. She glanced at the sylvan girl sitting against the wall, green-skinned knees gathered to her chest. She was viscerally focused on the bread in Elyria’s hands.
With a sigh, Elyria tossed the loaf through the bars. The girl squeaked in surprise as it landed in her hands.
“It’s good to see you too, Ollie,” Elyria said. It was true. She might’ve been under lock and key, but it didn’t mean she wasn’tpleased to have the opportunity to catch up with the guard. They’d befriended each other during one of her early visits to the jailhouse, after Elyria had made the move to Coralith. She was uncharacteristically fond of him, in no small part due to his name, which she found endlessly amusing for what she felt were obvious reasons.
“I was going to bring food for the others after, you know,” he said defensively, eying the sylvan girl as she scarfed down the piece of bread.
Taking a hefty drag from the mug, Elyria let her gaze roam over Olyndor’s turquoise hair, warm brown eyes, and the tanned skin covering thick muscles beneath his uniform. He arched a brow at her leering. She grinned. She was well-aware of his preference for the company of men, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy the way his presence improved the atmosphere significantly. And she appreciated the physical reminder that there were still handsome men out there who were alsogood—unlike Raefe.
“After what?” she asked.
