Chapter 145
Elara's POV
I found it near the old crooked cross—three twigs crossed at exactly sixty degrees, wedged into a crack between the headstone and the earth.
My breath caught.
It was Cole's signal. The one we'd used in the northern territories when we needed to confirm safe extraction without direct contact.
I knelt down and pulled the twigs free. They were dry, brittle. The moss underneath had already started to reclaim the disturbed earth. At least a day old, maybe more.
He'd been here. He'd made it out of the river alive.
Relief hit me first, sharp and unexpected. Then something harder—he'd left. Alone. Which meant he was either going for supplies or trying to draw Wild Hunt away from this village.
Probably both.
I tucked the twigs into my jacket pocket and stood, scanning the tree line one more time. Nothing moved except the wind through the pines. The river rushed somewhere beyond the graves, constant and indifferent.
If Cole had left a day ago, he could be anywhere by now. But he'd left the signal where only I would recognize it. That meant he knew I'd survived too. He was counting on me to stay put and keep Lynette safe until he could circle back.
Smart. Frustrating, but smart.
I turned and headed back toward the village, my boots crunching over the uneven ground.
---
The path back was darker than I remembered. The trees pressed close on either side, their branches forming a canopy that blocked out most of the moonlight. I kept my pace steady, my hand resting on the knife at my belt out of habit.
When I reached the edge of the village, I slowed.
Something felt off.
Lights flickered in several windows—not the usual dim glow of evening lamps, but brighter. Deliberate. I counted four houses with candles burning in multiple rooms. Shadows moved behind curtains, too many people awake for this hour.
A meeting?
I stayed in the shadow of the nearest building and watched. A man emerged from one of the lit houses, glanced around quickly, then hurried down the dirt path toward another home. His movements were furtive. Nervous.
They were gathering. Talking about something they didn't want outsiders to see.
Talking about me, probably. Or Lynette.
I'd been here five days. Long enough for the initial shock of my arrival to wear off, long enough for questions to start forming. Who was I really? Why was I so insistent on staying? What did I want?
Fair questions. Dangerous ones.
I needed to get Lynette conscious and mobile. The longer we stayed here, the more risk we posed—to ourselves and to these people.
I slipped past the lit windows and made my way back to Martha's house. The front door was dark, quiet. I let myself in as silently as possible and moved through the main room toward the back where Lynette lay.
My hand was on the door handle when I heard it.
A sound. Faint, but unmistakable.
Movement.
I shoved the door open.
Lynette was awake.
---
She was sitting up—or trying to. Her body was angled awkwardly, one hand gripping the edge of the bed frame, the other pressed against her ribs. Her face was pale, slick with sweat, and her breathing came in short, uneven gasps.
She was sliding off the bed.
I crossed the room in three strides and caught her before she hit the floor. My hands closed around her shoulders and back, steadying her weight as I eased her back onto the mattress.
"Easy," I said quietly. "You're safe."
Her head snapped up.
For a second, she just stared at me. Her eyes—those amber eyes that looked exactly like mine—were wide, unfocused. Confused.
Then recognition hit.
Her entire body went rigid. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. She tried again, her voice cracking, barely a whisper.
"Elara?"
The way she said my name—like she couldn't believe it, like she thought she was hallucinating—made my chest tighten.
"Yeah," I said. My voice came out rougher than I intended. "It's me."
Her hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. Her grip was weak, trembling, but desperate.
"You're real," she breathed. "You're really here."
"I'm here."
Her eyes searched my face, frantic, like she was trying to confirm every detail. Then her expression crumpled.
She pulled me down and buried her face against my shoulder, and the sound that came out of her was raw and broken.
She was crying.
Not quiet tears. Full, shaking sobs that wracked her entire body.
I wrapped my arms around her carefully, mindful of the bandages, and held her. She clutched at my jacket like she was afraid I'd disappear if she let go.
"I thought—" Her voice fractured. "I thought I'd never see you again. I thought they'd find me before—before I could get home—"
"They didn't," I said firmly. "You made it. You're alive."
"I tried to lead them away," she choked out. "I went north—I kept running—I didn't want them to follow me back to Mom and Dad—"
Her whole body shook harder.
I tightened my hold on her, my hand moving to the back of her head. "You did good," I told her. "You kept them away from the family. You survived."
"I was so scared." The admission came out small, almost childlike. "Every night I thought—what if they find the house? What if they hurt Ethan? What if—"
"They're safe," I cut in. "I made sure of it."
She pulled back just enough to look at me, her face streaked with tears. "You're sure?"
"I contacted the Council. They've got people watching the house. Mom, Dad, Ethan—they're all safe."
The relief that flooded her face was almost painful to watch. She let out a shuddering breath and slumped against me again, this time not crying, just... holding on.
I let her.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. I could feel her heartbeat against my chest, too fast but steady. Alive.
"How did you find me?" she asked finally, her voice muffled against my shoulder.
"Cole tracked Wild Hunt's movements. We followed the trail north."
She stiffened. "Cole's here?"
"He was. He left a signal at the graveyard. He's probably circling back or getting supplies."
Lynette nodded slowly, processing. Then she pulled back again and looked at me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"You came all this way," she said quietly. "You risked everything to find me."
I met her eyes. "You're my sister. Of course I did."
Her face twisted, and for a second I thought she was going to start crying again. But instead, she just nodded and wiped at her face with the back of her hand.
"I killed one of them," she said suddenly.
I blinked. "What?"
"Fenrir. The one with the scars." Her voice was steadier now, though still hoarse. "I found his body three days north of where I woke up. In a ravine."
I stared at her. "You found Fenrir?"
"He was already dying when I got there." She looked down at her hands. "Looked like he'd been mauled by something big. A bear, maybe. Or another wolf. His leg was torn open, bones showing. He'd lost too much blood."
A bitter smile tugged at her mouth.
"He saw me. Tried to reach for his gun. But he was too weak." She paused. "So I finished it. Took his weapons. Left him there."
I didn't know what to say. Fenrir—one of Wild Hunt's most dangerous hunters—taken down by wildlife and finished off by a desperate girl in an unfamiliar body.
"You did what you had to do," I said finally.
Lynette nodded slowly. Then her expression shifted, something fragile creeping back in.
"I don't want to do this anymore," she whispered. "I don't want to keep running. I just want to go home."
I reached out and took her hand. "We will. I promise. But first, you need to heal. And then—" I squeezed her fingers gently. "—we're going to end this. All of it."
She searched my face. "How?"
"One hunter at a time."