To her surprise, Olyndor stepped aside, holding the cell door open and gesturing for her to walk through it.
“What’s going on?” Elyria asked, truly puzzled. Despite the affection she held for the guard, she’d gone through this process enough times to know better than to think she’d be getting out of here so soon. Zaric hadn’t even returned to question her yet.
Ollie shrugged. “You’re free to go. Unless you’d rather stay here, of course. I enjoy your company well enough, but I think we both know you’ve better places to be.”
Elyria frowned. “Why would you do this?”
He chuckled. “As much as I would like to take credit, it’s not an act of kindness. Your release has been requested.”
“By whom?”
He shrugged. “Word’s out that the Gate will open soon. Perhaps someone hopes to persuade you to take on the Crucible.”
She snorted. “A fool’s hope.” Elyria stretched her arms as she strode through the open door.
With a shake of his head, Ollie led her out of the cellblock and up a winding stairway. Elyria didn’t miss the way her name shot out of the other prisoners’ mouths as soon as she was out of sight.
They exited the stairway and made it halfway down the jailhouse’s long vestibule before Ollie resumed speaking.
“It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, you know. If you entered. For you to become a champion of Nyrundelle.”
“There are plenty of Arcanians clamoring to enter the Sanctum on the kingdom’s behalf.”
“None like you.”
Elyria shifted, discomfort rolling through her gut. She did not like the fact that they were talking about this. “Are you that eager to be rid of me?” she teased, trying to get their friendly banter back on track.
He didn’t take the bait. “If anyone could get through the trials, it’s you, Elle. Folk are on edge. They want the Chasm filled. Battles over territory in the Midlands have only gotten worse—the humans continue fighting dirtier and dirtier. Securing the crown for King Lachlandris could finally put an end to it all.” His tawny eyes locked onto hers. “You’d be giving hope to so many.”
“Enough, Ollie.”
“The morning star’s already been spotted. It was burning so bright, the poor farmer who saw it thought a second sun had appeared. It’s never been like that before,” he continued, failing to notice the way Elyria’s shoulders began to sag. Or perhaps he did notice, and he just didn’t care. “The Crucible’s magic will take effect soon. All fighting in the Midlands will be forced to cease and dozens will make the trek to the Lost City.”
“Olyndor.”
He ignored her, rambling now. Like so many others, he was clearly caught up in the hysteria and glamor of the Crucible. As if it were anything more than a guaranteed means to a violent end for all who attempted it.
“And rumors say the aurora’s expected to bloom brighter than ever before too. Some say it’s a sign from Lunara, that it means it’s time. You know the prophecy, don’t you?”
Elyria clenched her fists, her head starting to throb again.
“From shadow and fire, champions rise, forged in the Crucible of fate.” Ollie clamped his hand over his heart as he recited the ancient words. “Strength, spirit, magic, and concord test the trials beyond the Gate. Frombitterest rivals?—”
“I said, that’senough.” Rage sparked in Elyria’s veins, compelling her body into movement. Before she realized what she was doing, she had the guard pinned against the wall, her forearm on his throat.
Elyria gasped, pulling back almost as quickly as she had struck. “I’m sorry, Ollie. I didn’t?—”
“Tsk, tsk.” A familiar, disappointed clucking came from behind Elyria. “Still so quick to violence. I see some things truly never change.”
And Elyria spun around to find herself face to face with Duchess Laeliana Ravenswing.
She looked justas Elyria remembered. Statuesque. Grace taken fae form. Long white hair that flowed over mahogany skin. Deep-set golden eyes—her son’s eyes.
Elyria could barely stand to look at them.
“What are you doing here?” she blurted.
“I think the better question, darling, is what in Lunara’s name areyoudoing here? Honestly, Elle, I fear this is becoming a pattern.”
