And she would make them pay.
In the weeks that passed since returning from Luminaria with Kit, Elyria had plenty of time to pick apart her every interaction with Zephyr, her every defense of her. She recalled the reprimand she’d shoveddown Cedric’s throat after the first trial. Now, the thought of the sylvan Elyria had once protected, hadcared for, working for the man who had ruined Evander and nearly taken Kit from this world left Elyria nauseated. She hadn’t even been able to continue using the healing balm Zephyr had gifted Elyria for her scars, despite how well it worked.
The scars were somewhat faded now, an etched checkerboard of puckered pink skin that would always look slightlyoff, but not the grotesque tableau of pain they’d once been. It was enough. Elyria wore them like a badge of honor now—a testament to what she’d survived.
“Ellie?” One blue and one green eye peered out from a bronze face as Kit walked through the balcony doors, a breeze ruffling her shaggy moonlight hair. “Lost in thought again, are we?”
“Just wondering what a little bit of color might do to brighten up the stark streets of the city,” Elyria said with a shrug. “Think your uncle would be open to it?”
Kit laughed. “I can have my mother float the idea to him, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. The king likes what he likes.”
“Don’t we all.” Elyria said it under her breath, though from the knowing look Kit was directing at her, she was certain she’d heard her.
An ever-present restlessness mixed with the nostalgia of being back in Kit’s family home. Kit’s recovery had been slower than Elyria would’ve liked, whether the result of whatever darkness had seeped into her through the injury made by Evander’s darksteel blade, or...deeper wounds.
Sometimes, Elyria caught Kit staring at nothing, the light in her beautiful, mismatched eyes dimming, her hand going to her chest as if remembering the feel of that blade cutting through her. As if reliving the sting of that betrayal.
It was a feeling Elyria knew well, and it was clear the Crucible had left them all with scars that would never fade.
“Perhaps I’ll attempt it anyway,” Elyria said, eager to distance her thoughts from the dark feelings that arose whenever she thought about just how close Kit had come to death. She drew her hand to her chin and feigned contemplation. “Better to beg forgiveness than ask for permission, and I’m feeling...artistic.” She grinned at Kit. “What do you say? You whip up a few water orbs, I mix in a little paint, and we go to town.What’s the king going to do about it?”
Kit shook her head, her expression settling somewhere between exasperated and entertained. “You may have the freedom to exercise your boredom in the form of vigilante art installations, but not all of us have that luxury. While the king might hesitate to throw theVictor of Nyrundelle”—Elyria shuddered at the reminder of her newest moniker, as if she didn’t have enough of them already—“in prison, those same reservations hardly extend to me.”
“You’re his niece,” Elyria deadpanned. “Somehow, I doubt that.”
Kit skipped over to the balcony and placed a hand on the bone-white railing. The ease of her movement helped loosen some of the unrest in Elyria’s soul—she was so, so much improved.
“Family’s complicated,” Kit said. “You know that better than most. Besides, don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten what the wrath of Duchess Laeliana Ravenswing feels like. My mother’s gratitude for you rescuing me has a limitsomewhere, and in her overprotective current state, I doubt she would take too kindly to you riling up the king.”
“Spoilsport.” Elyria smothered the instinct to stick out her tongue. “Was there a particular reason you came here, aside from dashing my hopes for an entertaining evening?”
“You received another letter,” Kit said, handing over a roll of parchment.
Elyria offered a wan smile as she pocketed the missive. “Artie again?” She’d long since given up on the stupid hope that she’d be receiving messages from anyone in Havensreach. She hated that she’d ever hoped at all.
Communication between kingdoms was reserved for the kings and their council. That was it. And even if Cedric had been able to figure out a way to communicate, why would he? They said their goodbyes before they left the Celestial Sanctum. This was what Elyria had prepared for before she even took that first step back through the Gate. She had taken her feelings about everything that happened between the two of them during the Trial of Concord—throughout the entire Crucible, if she was being honest—and had placed it in a neat little box that she buried in the deepest part of herself. Deeper even than the knot of shadows curled in her chest.
A knot that had not loosened since she left the Lost City.
Kit nodded. “Sounds like your escapades in the Sanctum have made Tartanis’ desire to speak with you swell to new heights. His men have been back to The Sweltering Pig several times over the past few weeks. Evidently, they haven’t caused any trouble, but Artie recommends you continue keeping your distance from Coralith for now.” She grinned. “He also offers his apologies that you will have to continue drinking, how did he put it, ‘capital swill,’ and says he’ll endeavor to send a barrel of cider just for you at his earliest convenience.”
Elyria’s jaw went slack, her lips rounded in a perfect, shocked “oh.” “What the fuck, Katerina? You read my letter?”
“Don’t blame me, it fell open. Tell the dwarf to get better sealing wax. It’s just as well, anyway.Someonehad to start reading your messages.” Kit cast a pointed look over her shoulder at the small pile of unopened letters sitting on a table just inside the room. Then, with a shrug and a final look that seemed to say more than Elyria was ready to hear, she waltzed off.
Elyria wanderedthe city streets with no particular destination in mind, as she did most nights. Now that Kit had recovered, Elyria wanted nothing more than to act withpurposeagain. She was antsy, aimless. Even the magic thrumming in her veins, knotted in her chest, felt foreign. Her shadows tugged at her, restless, as if drawn toward something always just out of sight and beyond her reach.
She wanted to fly straight across both Chasms and search every dark corner of every dingy tavern in Havensreach until she got a lead on Varyth Malchior’s whereabouts. She wanted to hunt down members of the Cult of Malakar and put her woefully underutilized interrogation skills to use. She wanted to storm into Verdentia and demand that the sylvans help her figure out where Zephyr had gone.
But she couldn’t do any of that. Not yet. Not without earning the true ire of the king and risking derailing his diplomatic efforts. She’d made her desires clear enough when she gave her report to King Lachlandris on what happened during the Arcane Crucible. She’d offeredher platitudes and promises that she would find the crown for him, would win it back for Nyrundelle, so long as he allowed her to be among those seeking it.
In short, she lied.
It worked. He agreed. And then came the hardest part, the part she was the worst at—waiting.
Elyria had never been a patient woman. Had never dealt with boredom well. Unfortunately, the tried-and-true ways she used to kill time before she’d entered the Sanctum no longer held any appeal. She didn’t want to spend her nights drinking and performing and fucking. She didn’t particularly want to analyzewhythose things were of such little interest to her now, either.
And so, she walked.
