Page 168

Chapter 78

Elara

Every flicker of hallway torchlight, every tight bend, every creak of masonry under the wind sent Elara’s pulse climbing as they crossed the narrow catwalk from the oraivane storehouse toward the main body of Celestine. When the laboratory door shut behind them with a muted click, disbelief and dread collided so hard in Elara’s chest she had to take a deep breath.

Kalaetzu began sweeping vials from racks with economical movements, gathering dried sprigs and bundled roots in tight fists before stowing them in his satchel. Njall remained near the door, spine straight, stance angled as though he were both barricade and watchtower. At the smallest sound beyond the walls, his fingers drifted toward the hilts at his back.

Gavriel looked worse than either of them. His complexion had leached to ash. He stared at the shelves as if the glass and stone might collapse around him.

The chamber felt both chaotic and meticulously purposeful. Terror still thrummed through Elara’s veins, yet wonder threaded through it. Every shimmering vial and sharp tang called to her. She imagined what this place might have been, untwisted from its current purpose—a space of discovery, a sanctuary of healing, a crucible for insight rather than conquest.

She wandered about, tracing the chilled curve of a flask here, lifting a clipped sprig that smelled of crushed mint there, then paused before a row of etched glass vials. The glass was so thin it seemed spun rather than blown. Within, blue vapor coiled in unhurried spirals, as though the air inside it dreamed. She lifted one, captivated.

When she eased the cork free, a gentle sweetness bloomed toward her, floral and warm, like citrus and honey borne on a summer breeze. Njall recoiled abruptly where he stood. His expression twisted and he covered his face with one hand.

“Seal it!” Kalaetzu was beside her almost before she registered his movement, a flash of speed betraying the restraint he usually kept in place. He grabbed the vial from her and drove the cork home so sternly the glass quivered.

Elara stared at him, startled.

“That,” he said, voice roughened to a rasp, “is ashvael root vapor.”

“It smelled…” She faltered. “Pleasant.”

“To you.” He shuddered. “To us, it reeks. Where oraivane magnifies fae ability, ashvael stands close to iron in its effect. It saps strength. Suppresses magic. Breathing it burns.”

Guilt struck her with cold clarity. She imagined the vapor brushing Njall’s lungs, seeping into Kalaetzu’s blood, and her chest tightened with shame. She lowered her eyes.

Kalaetzu swallowed, lowering his voice. “If even a trace of this mingled improperly with oraivane…” His fingers tightened around the vial. “The reaction is violent. A breath’s worth can ignite hot enough to strip flesh from bone. Even fae would struggle to mend from it.”

Her pulse quickened. “Why keep it here?”

His gaze turned heavy with regret. “I used it,” he said quietly, “to sabotage early experiments. Minor inconsistencies. Subtle failures. The overseers blamed tainted samples or careless handling.” His mouth curved faintly, humorless. “It was the only rebellion available to me. Every small disruption slowed them. Bought time.”

He studied her a moment, then placed the vial back into her palm. “You should carry it.” Before Elara could protest, he pressed a second into her other hand. The glass felt colder now, no longer delicate but dangerous. “For protection,” he added. “It will not kill a fae outright, but if they inhale it…” He paused. “It may disorient them long enough for you to escape.”

Elara slid the vials into a hidden pocket sewn into the lining of her dress, easing them in, as though they were living creatures, beside Lorrain’s violet ribbon.

“Take care,” Kalaetzu reiterated softly. “Release it too near oraivane, and you doom yourself as surely as your enemy.”

She swallowed, then nodded.

Kalaetzu brushed her back in brief reassurance, then returned to his task.

“What potions are you gathering?” Njall asked at last, breaking his silent vigil. His violet gaze tracked Kalaetzu’s swift movements from shelf to shelf.

“Rejuvenation,” Kalaetzu replied without pausing. “And a few that turn the air to smoke.” His voice carried the clipped strain of someone counting dwindling time by the second. “I do not have any of the concealment draught ready here, unfortunately.”

“Oh,” Elara said absently, drifting toward another rack of glass. “Do you have more of the one you used in Niverna that can explode—”

The inner door swung open.

A young guard stood framed in the threshold, scarcely more than a boy. His uniform hung loose on narrow shoulders. Violet eyes swept the room, then locked on them. “I heard something in here,” he declared. The bravado in his voice felt brittle, ready to splinter.

Elara’s stomach dropped. She searched the room in a flash for anything useful. Njall went still, poised between action and restraint. Kalaetzu froze in the middle of reaching.

Gavriel, oddly, lurched forward with startling disorder, arms flailing with wild panic. “Please. Please don’t make me take it again!” he cried, voice pitched high. He widened his eyes and stumbled toward Njall. “I’ll do anything. Just don’t make me take it again, Champion sir.”

Understanding sparked through Elara. She clutched at her throat and staggered after him. “No, I won’t take it again. I can’t. Please. Please—”