Page 23 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Elara sat apart by the hearth in the common room, hands clenched in her lap, lips moving in fervent prayer—to the moons, to the Dark Brother, to anything willing to grant a sign or ease the ache of not knowing whether her dearest friend was safe or suffering alone.

Tears stung her eyes as she thought of Lorrain, the only person who had ever made space for her in a world that rarely did. She remembered Lorrain’s bright laughter, gentle fingers threading through her hair as they traded secrets deep into the night—until Elara fell asleep, curled deeper in the chair.

At dawn, the common room stirred her awake with the smell of stale bread, thin broth, and whispers carrying the same dread that had gripped Jarovina the morning before.

“Two of them,” a farmhand murmured into his bowl, eyes darting toward the window. “Vanished.”

“The moons have cursed us for those who give honor to the Dark Brother,” an old woman rasped from a nearby table, hands shaking around her cup. “I feel it in my bones.”

A flicker of guilt passed through Elara at that, but urgency swept it aside. She pushed to her feet and turned sharply, finding Leonid already reaching for a tankard of ale.

“We must go,” she said, batting his hand aside. “If these disappearances happened last night, they must be connected to Lorrain’s. She cannot be far.”

“Now?” Leonid blinked, disbelief clouding bleary eyes. “Elara, you can’t possibly—”

She did not wait for him to finish. Gripping his arm, she pulled him upright and marched him toward the door.

Morning air bit through their clothes as she dragged him into the forest, where the remnants of night still lingered among the brush. Again, Elara searched with feverish purpose, each breath pulled through clenched teeth.

By afternoon they came upon a stretch where the trees thinned and the undergrowth gave way to open ground. It was there that they heard the low groan of timber under strain, the drag of wheels over roots and stone.

Elara caught Leonid by the sleeve and shoved him into the shadow of a laurel. An indignant protest rose to his lips, but her glare silenced it. She lifted a finger in warning, then dropped to her hands and knees. Cold earth seeped through her skirts as she crawled toward the sound.

A wagon rolled into view, its sides barred like a cage beneath a canopy. Eleven—perhaps twelve—figures huddled inside, bundled low against the floor. Amid the gloom, a glint of gold appeared. Hair, tangled and grimy, but familiar enough that Elara’s heart lurched.

Lorrain.

Unmistakably Lorrain.

Elara twitched, instinct urging her toward the wagon. Then her heart sank as she counted three massive, cloaked figures moving with the creaking cage.

One hauled the wagon by a rope slung over his shoulder, the effort requiring no visible exertion. Another lingered behind, his free hand lifted as though feeling the air. The third kept pace at the side, two short swords crossed at the back, dark hilts rising like wings. They moved with assured ease, their attention periodically combing the shadows.

Leonid stumbled up behind her, took in the scene, and made a sound—not quite a cry, but an intake of breath that wanted to become one and failed. Then he bolted in the opposite direction, branches lashing his face as he crashed through the brush.

Elara’s hand shot out, then fell. The instant she turned from the wagon, she risked losing it altogether. And if the cloaked guards marked a shout, the rescue would fail before it began. She let the coward flee and, heart hammering, dropped closer to the ground.

When she was certain Leonid’s outburst had not given her away, Elara slipped after the wagon, placing her feet on soft earth between the guards’ strides, watching for any opening—

A hand clamped over her mouth.

An arm locked around her ribs.

She was lifted clean off the ground, as though she weighed no more than a pack of feathers.

Her eyes darted to the wagon.

Only two cloaked figures remained.

Cursed moons. How had she not seen the third slip away?

Elara kicked backward, her heel connecting hard with a shin that felt more like stone than flesh. There was a crack and a grunt, but the hand over her mouth did not loosen.

“Stop,” a deep voice murmured near her ear. “You’ll alert the others.”

Elara bit down hard, tasting leather.

“Enough.”