Chapter 146
Elara's POV
The first light came through the gaps in the wooden shutters, thin and gray. I hadn't slept. Couldn't. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Lynette's face when she'd grabbed me last night—that raw desperation, the way she'd clung to me like I might disappear.
I sat in the chair beside her bed, watching the rise and fall of her chest. Slower now. Steadier. The ragged, gasping quality from yesterday was gone.
She looked different in this body. My body. The one I'd died in. Her face was thinner than I remembered, cheekbones sharp under pale skin. Dark circles shadowed her eyes. But the breathing—that was better. That mattered.
I leaned forward, keeping my voice low. "Lynette?"
Her eyelids fluttered. Opened. Those amber eyes—exactly like mine—focused on me with effort.
"Hey," I said. "How do you feel?"
She swallowed, winced. "Like I got hit by a truck."
"Close enough." I reached for the cup of water on the bedside table, helped her sit up enough to drink. "The worst is over. You're past the critical stage."
She took a few careful sips, then pulled back. Her hand found mine, squeezed. "You stayed."
"Of course I stayed."
The door creaked open. Martha came in carrying a bowl of something that smelled like herbs and porridge. She stopped when she saw Lynette awake, and something softened in her face.
"Good," Martha said, setting the bowl down. "You can eat on your own. That's a good sign."
Lynette's gaze shifted to her, uncertain. "Thank you. For everything."
Martha waved it off, but I caught the faint color in her cheeks. "You rest. Build your strength." She looked at me. "You too. You look like death."
I almost laughed. "I'm fine."
"You're not." Martha's voice was flat. "But you won't listen anyway." She left, pulling the door shut behind her.
Lynette watched me. "She's right, you know."
"I've been through worse."
"That's not reassuring."
I smiled despite myself. "Eat. We need to talk."
She managed half the bowl before exhaustion pulled at her again. I waited until she set it aside, then leaned in.
"I know you said last night you want to stop running," I said quietly. "And we will. But first, we need to get out of here."
Her face went still. "Wild Hunt."
"They're still looking for you. For that body." I nodded toward her. "The river bought us time, but they'll widen the search eventually. We need to leave before they do."
"How long?"
"A few more days. Just until you can walk without tearing open those wounds."
Lynette looked down at herself, at the bandages wrapped around her torso and arms. "I can manage."
"No." My voice came out sharper than I meant. "You push too hard and you'll bleed out before we make it ten miles. We do this smart."
She met my eyes. Nodded slowly.
"Good." I stood, moved to the small window. Outside, the village was waking up—smoke rising from chimneys, voices calling to each other. Normal. Peaceful. Temporary. "I'll scout the area. Find the safest route out. You focus on healing."
"Elara."
I turned back.
"Thank you," she said. "For coming after me."
My throat tightened. "You're my sister. I wasn't going to leave you out there."
She smiled, small and tired. "I know. But still. Thank you."
The next seven days crawled by. I had no way to contact Cole—no signal in the village, and I couldn't risk exposing our location by trying. The stick signal at the graveyard told me he was alive and moving, but nothing more. I had to trust he was doing what he did best: drawing attention away from us.
Heavy rains had come the day after we arrived, turning the river into a muddy torrent. Whatever tracks we'd left were gone. It was the only stroke of luck we'd had.
I spent the days memorizing every detail of the village—who went where, when, which paths led to the main road. I drew maps on scraps of paper, marking alternate routes in case we needed to run. At night, I sat by Lynette's bed and watched her sleep, one hand always near the knife I kept hidden under my jacket.
Martha noticed. Of course she did. But she didn't say anything. Just brought food, changed bandages, and left us alone.
Lynette healed faster than I expected. Two days later, she could sit up without help. By the eighth, she was walking slowly around the room, testing her balance. I made her practice—short walks at first, then longer ones, always watching for signs of strain.
"You're worse than a drill sergeant," she muttered on day nine, after I made her do another lap.
"You'll thank me when we're running from hired killers."
She didn't argue.
On the tenth morning, Kiki burst through the door, breathless and grinning.
"There's a market tomorrow!" he announced. "Traders coming from the next town. They always give rides if you ask."