“Nothing worth having in this life comes without pain,” she hissed back.
She doubled her efforts, her voice cracking as she chanted to herself. Anything to drown out the taunts that craved to stop her.
The golden threads began to hum. It resonated through the veil. The nothingness of the tear began to shrink, a sliver left unstitched by golden and silver threads.
It lashed out. The tear in the veil was a dying beast, snapping its jaws at the hand that strangled it.
Elara wobbled, the last of her strength waning.
A translucent hue slid along her arms. Her eyes blinked as she rotated her hands.
The longer she spent here, the more her seiðr took from her.
Elara hovered there, like the extinguished wick of a candle.
“I can’t finish it,” she breathed.
Cold breaths caught in her chest. Her shoulders fell.
If she stopped now, it would all have been for naught.
Njáll’s voice would be the last thing she heard.
“I am here, little flame. I have you. Trust me.”
Warmth burst within her, swallowing the cold.
It engulfed her. All at once, the pain in her veins vanished, and the rosy pink color returned to her limbs.
Elara laughed, a sound of pure joy.
With a final surge of her seiðr, she completed the last few stitches.
On her hands and knees, Elara stilled the violent tremor in her muscles. The veil turned quiet. Shadows and voices no longer tormented her.
Despite her body being on the verge of giving out, she was only halfway done. She may have stopped the veil from letting anything else through, but she still needed to handle the draugar in her world.
The creatures who were on the verge of taking everything she loved.
Thirty-Eight
Elara
Sitting upright, Elara called her seiðr back to her. The golden flames settled in her hands, and she stared at them. Her unseeing glare went on for too long. She struggled to focus. Struggled to find the essence that swirled in her magic.
The ones she needed to summon Alruna.
Ignoring the thud in her temple, Elara searched for the hidden threads that swirled within the blaze.
Something iridescent glittered in the center. The combined braid of her and Njáll’s thread anchored the flame, standing like a stone against the storm. Her inky, silver-streaked thread mingled beautifully with his dark coiled one, pulsing with a rhythm all its own.
Still, they needed more. Their bound threads weren’t enough.
Elara needed to do the thing she had never done consciously: conjure Alruna. Her ribs ached as she tirelessly searched the flame, not even knowing what she was looking for.
A gust of wind blew around her feet. The scent of lavender followed.
Hlif’s words echoed in her mind.
