Chapter 103 Fragile thread
Elara dropped onto her bed and let out a long, heavy groan. The ceiling blurred as she stared upward, her mind a mess of anger and lingering affection.
"I'm so petty," she muttered, rubbing her temples. "He didn't even know I existed back then. How can I be this mad?"
Lyra huffed in her head. "Because he kept it a secret, Elara."
"True," Elara whispered, closing her eyes. "But I shouldn't have screamed like that. Not after everything."
She tried to settle into the pillows, but her heart wouldn't stop racing. Then, without warning, a sensation like a hot iron rod being driven through her lungs made her bolt upright. She gasped, clutching her chest, her vision white-spotted with agony.
Ronan.
The name wasn't a thought; it was a scream in her soul.
She didn't grab her shoes. She didn't grab a robe. Elara threw her chamber doors open so hard the wood groaned. Liora and Faye jumped in fright, trailing after her as she skidded to a halt in the hallway.
"My Lady! Where are you--" Faye's question got cut off as dread etched into her face.
There, crumpled right outside her door, was the King.
"Ronan?" Elara’s voice was a shaky, terrified whisper.
He looked like a fallen statue. She dropped to her knees, her hands trembling as she reached for him. Liora and Faye let out synchronized gasps behind her, their faces turning pale.
"Your Majesty!" Faye cried out, but Elara was already touching his skin.
He was still warm, but a sickly, unnatural heat was radiating from his chest. Elara pulled back his collar, and the breath died in her throat.
Dark, ink-black veins that looked like twisted thorns had crawled up his neck and were spreading across the left side of his face. His skin looked bruised and necrotic, the patterns pulsing with a faint, oily light. When she grabbed his left hand, it was cold as a corpse, the fingers stained a deep, midnight black.
"No," Elara choked out, her tears hitting his cheek. "No, Ronan, look at me! Open your eyes!"
He didn't move.
"Call the healers!" Elara shrieked, turning her head toward the frozen maids. "Now! Get Matthew! Get anyone!"
Liora and Faye scrambled forward, their faces sheet-white. Together, the three women struggled to lift the King, dragging his heavy frame into Elara’s chambers. They managed to heave him onto the bed, his head lolling back against the pillows. Liora immediately closed her eyes, her hand pressed to her temple as she sent a high-priority mindlink to Matthew and Morrigan.
Ronan let out a low, guttural groan that made Elara flinch. His skin was burning, but the heat felt wrong.
"Lyra, what is happening to him?" Elara cried out internally. "Why does he look like he’s rotting?"
Lyra’s voice was sharp with alarm. "Goddess, the smell is putrid. It’s the Lunar Rot. I thought the poison was cleared, but it’s still in his blood."
Elara froze. The night of the forced red moon flashed before her eyes—the bloodied blade, the Nosferu’s jagged strike, and the way Ronan had bled for her. Before she could process the memory, the door swung open with a violent crash.
Arwen, Morrigan, and Matthew rushed in. Arwen let out a horrendous shriek, darting past the others to fall at the side of the bed. "Ronan!"
Ronan groaned again, thick beads of sweat popping out across his forehead and chest. The black, thorn-like veins were now crawling visibly toward his jawline.
"Quick! Get rid of his shirt!" Morrigan hissed, her eyes glowing with a dark green light as she moved to the other side of the bed.
Elara didn't wait for the maids. She reached out and tore the fine silk of Ronan’s shirt down the middle, baring his chest. She gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. The scar where he had been stabbed weeks ago had turned an eerie, necrotic black. The thorn-like veins were radiating out from the wound like a spiderweb of ink.
"Why?" Elara stuttered, turning to Morrigan. "I thought he was cured! You said the poison was gone!"
Morrigan’s brow furrowed as she hovered her hands over the black scar. She didn't answer immediately, her lips moving in a silent diagnostic chant. Suddenly, she gasped, recoiling as if she had been burned.
"The rot never fully left," Morrigan said, her voice tight. "The Shadow King is still present within him, and it has been secretly leeching onto Ronan's soul."
"That bastard," Elara hissed, her fists clenching until her knuckles turned white.
"I knew that old hag of a mantle shouldn't be trusted," Lyra snarled.
Arwen looked up at Morrigan, her eyes red with unshed tears. "Have you found a way to break the connection? Can you separate them?"
Morrigan shook her head slowly. "I am sorry, Your Majesty. I have reached out to other Covens for assistance, but for now, we are out of time. He is burning from the inside."
"Then do something!" Elara shouted, her panic reaching a breaking point. "Look at him! He’s dying right in front of us! Help him!"
Morrigan hummed, her fingers dancing through the air. She conjured a floating grimoire that pulsed with green and black energy. She began to draw complex runes in the air, the glowing symbols hanging in the stagnant heat of the room. When the circle was complete, she turned to Elara.
"I need your blood," Morrigan said solemnly. "You were tied to the Shadow King when you saved Ronan before. Your blood is the only catalyst strong enough to force the rot out of his system."
"Fine," Elara said, thrusting her arm forward without a second thought. "Take it. Take whatever you need."
"Elara..." Arwen whispered, her voice full of dread.
"My Lady," Morrigan interrupted, her gaze heavy. "It is not a vein I must tap. It is the heart’s blood."
Arwen snapped her head toward the witch. "No! There must be another way. Ronan would lose his mind if he knew. It is too risky!"
"She’s right," Matthew added, his face grim. "If the ritual falters, you could both die."
"It is the only way," Morrigan insisted.
Elara looked down at Ronan. The image of him and Pandora flashed in her mind, a sharp sting of jealousy still lingering in her gut. But as she watched a line of black blood trickle from his ear, none of that mattered. He was her mate. He had taken that blade for her.
"Do it," Elara said, her voice resolute.
"No!" Arwen cried, grabbing Elara’s hands. "You don't have to do this, child."
"Please, Your Majesty," Elara said, gently squeezing Arwen’s fingers. "He is your son, and he is my mate. He got stabbed because of me. I won't be able to stay angry at him if he’s dead. I have to save him."
Arwen exhaled a broken breath and released her. Elara nodded at Morrigan.
The witch began to chant in a language that sounded like cracking bone. The glowing green circle in the air shifted, bleeding into a deep, violent black and red. A rift appeared in the center of the symbols, humming with a terrifying vacuum.
"I am with you," Lyra purred, her strength flowing into Elara’s limbs. "We take the pain together. But he better act right when he wakes up."
Suddenly, tiny black spikes glided out of the rift. They slithered through the air like snakes, hovering before Elara’s chest for a heartbeat. Then, they struck.
Elara threw her head back, a raw, agonizing howl of pain tearing from her throat as the spikes pierced through skin and bone, heading straight for her heart. She felt her life force being pulled, a searing heat radiating from her core as her pure, Sovereign blood began to flow through the spikes and back into the rift.
The blood didn't stay in the circle. It was instantly redirected, shot through a second set of spikes that slammed into Ronan’s chest wound.
The reaction was violent. Black, turgid blood began to pour from Ronan’s eyes, nose, and ears. Arwen sobbed, attempting to lung forward, but Matthew held her back with all his strength.
"Don't touch him!" Morrigan shouted over the roar of the spell. "The rot is exiting!"
Elara’s skin went deathly pale. Her legs trembled, and she felt the world beginning to tilt. But as her blood filled him, Ronan’s color began to return. The black veins on his face retracted, fading into the gray of his natural skin.
With a final, booming incantation, Morrigan closed the grimoire. The spikes vanished. Elara collapsed, caught instantly by Liora and Faye who lowered her into a chair.
"It is done," Morrigan panted, wiping sweat from her brow. "The rot is purged completely. And the Shadow King... I have forced it into a temporary slumber. He will be himself when he wakes."
Elara forced herself to stand, her hands leaning on Liora’s shoulders for support. She hobbled to the bed and looked down. The black scar on his chest had vanished, replaced by a clean, shimmering silver mark.
"You better wake up, Ronan," she whispered, her hand resting on his cool, healthy skin.
Northwood – The Forgotten Cells
Far to the north, where the snow never melted, Rylan stood in the damp darkness of the dungeon. He looked through the iron bars at the man sitting in the corner, his eyes devoid of their usual warmth.
"How long do you plan to keep me alive?" the man asked, his voice a raspy ghost of what it once was. "It’s been nine years, Rylan. Just kill me and be done with it."
Rylan shook his head. "I am not like my brother, Dad. I am a coward, but I am not a murderer." He stepped closer to the bars. "I am sorry. I’m sorry for letting Draven do this to you."
Hector ignored the apology, his unkempt beard twitching. "Is Elara well? I heard the guards... they said she is with the Lycan King now. My little princess..."
Rylan gritted his teeth. "She is doing well. She ran away, and honestly, I’m glad. Draven is a monster."
Hector gripped the heavy chains binding his wrists but said nothing. He reeked of filth and years of isolation.
"I’ll send someone to get you cleaned up," Rylan said, turning to leave.
Minutes later, the sound of the heavy dungeon gate clanking open echoed through the hall. Hector frowned, leaning his head against the cold stone. "That was fast," he thought.
But as the door opened fully, a strange, cloyingly sweet smell swept into the cell. It wasn't the scent of a servant. Hector’s vision began to blur as he squinted at the intruder.
A figure in a scarlet robe moved with predatory grace, appearing silently in front of the bars. The hood was deep, hiding any features.
"Here you are," a cold, melodic voice whispered.
That was the last thing Hector heard before the world went black.