Chapter 29 Aftermath
The square had not gone quiet after the attack.
It had gone hollow.
Shattered stalls lay twisted across the cobblestones. Pools of dark blood streaked the stones where the fallen had landed. The distant whine of someone crying from behind a shuttered door made Elara flinch. Smoke drifted low from overturned lanterns, stinging her nose and curling in ribbons toward the gray morning sky. Every sound felt too loud. Every shadow seemed sharper than it should have been. The air was thick with chaos, but it was a muted chaos, stripped of movement, frozen in the echo of violence.
Then came the dragging.
Heavy. Wet.
Elara’s stomach clenched before she even looked. Dread uncoiled inside her like a living thing. Figures emerged from the mouth of a narrow side street. Three bodies were being hauled across the cobblestones by Ronan’s guards. Boots slipped slightly in the blood, dragging along uneven stone. Limbs dangled uselessly, heads lolled, and the scent of fear, pain, and old blood hit her like a wall.
They were barely conscious.
The commanding guard stopped several paces away, dropping to one knee, chest heaving. “Your Majesty,” he said, voice ragged. “We captured three. The rest fled beyond the inner wards.”
Ronan’s gaze cut to the rogues, sharp and unreadable. The wound on his shoulder had already sealed, but blood still darkened his robe. His jaw tightened, and his hands flexed imperceptibly. He nodded once.
“Bind them,” he ordered coldly. “If they wake, break their legs.”
The guards moved instantly, practiced and precise.
Elara’s stomach clenched even harder. She looked away too late. One of the rogues groaned as iron cuffs snapped shut around his wrists. His body jerked weakly against the stone, limbs slack but tense in twitching agony. The sound slid under her skin like a knife, twisting her stomach.
Don’t, she told herself. Don’t remember the woods. Don’t remember the last time bodies fell and blood filled the air.
Ronan shifted her lightly in his arms, holding her close but firm, protective. Fenrir’s presence coiled in his mind, a growl of fury that made the hairs on his neck rise. They had dared to touch her. Today. The thought alone tightened his chest, igniting every instinct to destroy, to hunt, to make every blade pay.
His gaze swept to Liora and Faye. They stood side by side a few steps away, weapons still in hand, chests rising and falling as they steadied their breathing. Blood darkened the hems of their skirts—some theirs, most not. Their faces were composed, but the calm was brittle, like ice over fire. Soldiers who had already done what needed to be done.
Ronan studied them in silence. Long enough for Elara’s pulse to spike, long enough for Lyra to push against her thoughts, sharp and insistent. This is it. Do not falter.
“You two,” he said at last, low and dangerous.
Before he could finish, a tiny, trembling voice cut through.
“No.”
The word came too fast, too sharp. Even she startled at it. Everyone froze.
Elara tightened her grip on Ronan’s sleeve without realizing it and forced herself to speak before fear stole her voice again.
“I asked to come out,” she said quickly, words tumbling over each other. “It was my idea. They didn’t disobey anything. They were protecting me. Please. Please don’t punish them.”
Ronan looked down at her. Not at the blood. Not at the chaos. At her.
Lyra pressed insistently in her mind. "You are trembling. Get a grip."
“I would have been dead if not for them,” Elara whispered. “Whatever rule they broke, I broke it first.”
Ronan’s chest shifted slightly, Fenrir growling beneath the surface. She had survived, and yet she spoke to him willingly, unafraid, clinging only to his presence. Excitement flared inside him, fierce and uncontrollable, at the courage she dared to show.
Faye squared her shoulders, Liora’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. Both were waiting, ready for the storm.
Ronan’s lips curved faintly, just enough for her to catch. He stepped closer to the maids.
“I should be furious,” he said, voice even, low, dangerous.
Faye stiffened.
Elara’s heart hammered in her chest.
“You broke formation,” he continued. “You made judgment calls without clearance.”
Lyra pressed sharper in her mind. Not idle praise. He means every word.
“And yet,” Ronan said, eyes flicking briefly to Elara before returning to them, “she is alive. You reacted fast. Covered her blind spots. Did not hesitate. For that, you did exactly what you were trained to do. Which is why you are still breathing.”
Elara flinched.
Liora inclined her head once. “We exist to protect.”
Faye nodded. “And we would do it again.”
Ronan studied them a moment longer, then turned slightly. “Return to the palace. Both of you. Stay with her at all times.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” they replied together.
The tension only loosened slightly. Elara felt hollow, neither panicked nor calm. Her gaze drifted back to the bound rogues. One twitched slightly, breath rasping. Lyra’s presence was steady but sharp. "They don't look like amateurs. Someone planned this."
Ronan followed her line of sight. “They will talk,” he said flatly.
Elara’s stomach sank. “How?” she asked before she could stop herself.
Ronan did not answer her. He signaled to the guards. “Full restraints. I want names, handlers, routes, everything.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the guards replied, dragging the rogues away.
Only then did Elara realize her hands were still trembling.
A presence pressed in behind them, calm but unmistakable. Queen Arwen.
She stepped forward, her gaze sweeping the square like a blade, landing on the chaos, the rogues, the wounded townsfolk, the overturned stalls. Her presence demanded attention without shouting. The air seemed to tighten around her.
“Send aid to the townsfolk,” Arwen said, voice low and commanding, carrying over the square. “Those who were hurt need immediate attention. Anyone caught in the chaos must be treated. Make it fast. I want no delay.”
Elara looked up at the queen. Arwen’s eyes were sharp, assessing, and protective. They lingered briefly on her and Ronan, taking measure of them, before moving on. She did not intrude, but her presence pressed into the square like a living force, demanding order amidst the ruin.
Ronan adjusted his hold on Elara slightly and nodded. “Yes, Mother.”
Fenrir’s growl vibrated through him, low and simmering. She had survived this. She was safe in his arms. Yet anyone who dared approach her today would have paid.
Elara exhaled softly, allowing herself to be held. Hollow, exhausted, and yet alive.
She did not cling this time. She simply stayed still, letting the calm weight of Ronan’s arms and Arwen’s authoritative presence hold the world steady. For now, that was enough.