Chapter 47 The Echo of Red
The stone floor of the training courtyard was etched with ancient, silver-inlaid runes that hummed whenever Elara’s boots moved over them. These were the Ley-Threads, unique to the Lycan palace, designed to ground the volatile energy of the moon-blessed. But today, the threads weren't just humming; they were screaming.
Elara wiped a trickle of sweat from her brow with her sleeve, her chest heaving. Before her, a massive, iron-bound grimoire floated in mid-air, its pages fluttering as if caught in a phantom gale. The ink on the pages was shifting, the letters rearranging themselves into the archaic script of the First Coven.
"Focus, My Lady," Liora whispered from the sidelines. She stood with Faye, both of them clutching their tunics in suspense. "You would make a magnificent witch. The way the light bends around you... it’s like the stars themselves are bowing."
"She would," Faye murmured, though her eyes were fixed on the shadow Elara cast, a shadow that seemed to flicker and grow longer than it should. "But I think her wolf will be the one to truly shake the mountains. I feel she is just waiting for the right moment to roar."
Elara didn't hear them. She was deep in the Aether-Flow, reciting a jagged, guttural spell from the book.
"Ignis lunae, glacies cordis... sweep the filth from the path!"
As she chanted, a sphere of violet-white light condensed between her palms. It crackled with the sound of breaking bone. Her mind was a chaotic storm of Pandora’s chiming gold coins and the way Ronan’s eyes had softened when the Southern Princess touched his brow. The jealousy was a physical heat, a poison that Lyra was happily stirring.
“She thinks she can just touch him,” Lyra snapped, her voice a predatory echo in Elara's mind. “I want to show her that the future belongs to the one with the sharpest teeth.”
"I just want to wipe that smirk off her face!" Elara groaned, her concentration slipping into the black hole of her rage.
In that moment of fractured focus, the spell destabilized. The sphere didn't dissipate; it detonated outward in a jagged bolt of kinetic force.
Morrigan, Faye, and Liora all threw themselves to the ground with collective gasps. The bolt hissed through the air, shearing the top off a stone gargoyle and missing Ronan’s shoulder by a mere hair’s breadth as he stepped into the courtyard.
Ronan froze. The air around him shimmered with the sheer heat of the near-miss.
“She is definitely still angry,” Fenrir noted, his voice sounding oddly impressed rather than threatened. The wolf wasn't snarling; he was practically wagging his tail at the display of raw power. “Our mate has a lethal aim, Ronan. We should be careful what we say next.”
Elara hadn't realized he was there. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her fingers clawing at the air as she tried to force the mana back into the grimoire. Morrigan gritted her teeth, sensing the runaway energy.
"Elara! Stop!" the witch hissed, but Elara was too far gone.
"Whose face, Elara?" Ronan asked, his voice low and steady behind her.
The sudden vibration of his voice—so close, so familiar—jolted her. Her heart hammered against her ribs, and the shock caused the remaining energy in her hands to discharge in a violent, reflexive burst.
The silver-violet flare slammed directly into Ronan’s chest.
A collective shriek went up from the maids. "Your Highness!"
Elara blinked, the world rushing back into focus. The smell of ozone was thick. She stared, horrified, at the jagged tear in Ronan’s dark tunic. A thin line of crimson was beginning to seep through the fabric, staining the black wool.
Blood.
The image of the forest—the bodies, the smell of iron and wet earth, the feeling of life draining out under her hands—rushed back with the force of a tidal wave. The courtyard seemed to tilt.
"Blood..." she whispered, her face turning a ghostly shade of gray. "Blood... I didn't mean to... I hurt you..."
"Elara, I'm fine," Ronan said quickly. He ignored the sting in his chest, stepping toward her with his hands raised, trying to ground her. "It’s just a graze. It was an accident, Elara. Look at me."
But she couldn't look. The red stain on his chest was growing, and in her mind, it was the blood of every person she had ever failed. The Ley-Threads beneath her feet flared one last time, draining the last of her strength. Her knees buckled.
"Elara!" Ronan roared, moving with a blur of Alpha speed to catch her before she hit the stone.
She was dead weight in his arms, her eyes rolled back into her head. Ronan’s face twisted into a mask of pure, protective fury as he pulled her against his chest, heedless of his own wound.
“Matthew!” Ronan’s voice thundered through the mindlink, vibrating with a command that made every wolf in the palace stop in their tracks. “Elara has collapsed. Bring the healers to the Royal Wing immediately. And Matthew—if Draven so much as breathes the air near her block, kill him. That is a Sovereign's order.”
“Understood, Alpha,” Matthew’s voice returned, tight and lethal.
On the high promenade overlooking the courtyard, Lady Pandora paused in her walk. She leaned against the marble railing, watching as the King carried the unconscious girl away as if she were the most precious jewel in the world.
Pandora let out a soft, mocking chuckle. She adjusted the emerald silk of her sleeve, her eyes cold.
"If that fragile, fainting creature is truly the Mate of the Lycan King," Pandora whispered to the wind, "then this kingdom is already doomed. A Queen who fears the sight of her King’s blood is no Queen at all."
She turned away, the gold coins in her hair chiming like a funeral knell, while in the Royal Wing, the ancient stones began to hum with a dark, protective power they hadn't felt in a thousand years.