Chapter 57 The Shadow of the Fang
Elara stayed indoors for the rest of the day, the heavy oak doors of her chamber acting as a barrier between her and the suffocating whispers of the court. After the duel with Pandora, the very air in the palace seemed to vibrate with her name. She hadn't stepped out to have lunch or dinner, requesting instead that her meals be brought up. She wasn't hungry; she was restless.
As night fell, she stood by the window, staring out at a moonless sky that offered no comfort. A profound sense of helplessness settled over her, a weight in her chest that made it hard to draw a full breath.
"I need a breather," she muttered to the empty room.
Spinning on her heels, she moved to the closet. She bypassed the elaborate silks, settling for a simple, sturdy dress and a heavy, dark cloak. Without summoning Liora or Faye, she slipped out of the chambers, moving through the shadows of the corridors like a ghost until she reached the open expanse of the training grounds.
The field was vast, lit only by flickering torches that cast long, dancing shadows against the stone walls. Elara walked to the weapon rack, her boots crunching on the sand. "I haven't done any serious hand-to-hand training," she whispered to the wind. "Not with a real weapon."
"You haven't held anything that could be called a weapon." Lyra snorted earning an eye roll from Elara. She picked up a wooden practice sword, feeling its weight. She swung it experimentally, the whistle of the wood cutting through the air.
In that moment, a prickle of alarm raced down her spine. The sensation of being watched clawed at her, sharp and undeniable. She spun on her heels, the sword raised.
"Is someone there?" she whispered. No response. The torches sputtered in the wind. She gripped the hilt tighter, her knuckles white. "Maybe I'm just being paranoid."
“No,” Lyra’s voice stirred in the back of her mind, low and alert. “Someone is here. We are not alone.”
Before Elara could draw another breath, a cold presence brushed past her with impossible speed. A hand caught the edge of her cloak, tearing it off her shoulder and exposing the jagged scar she had gained from the incident in the town square.
"Who is there? Show your face!" Elara yelled, her hand reaching to cover the bruise.
She aimed the wooden sword at the darkness, her heart hammering. Where were the guards? The perimeter should have been crawling with them.
"You aren't holding the sword properly," a voice whispered directly against her ear.
Elara snapped around, swinging the wood with all her might, but the space behind her was empty. The person had vanished into thin air.
"Don't be a coward!" she cried out, her voice echoing off the stone. "Show yourself!" As she aimlessly flung the sword around.
A low, melodic snicker drifted from the shadows. "You reek of power and fear at the same time, little one. One would think you were a mad person, talking to the dark."
Elara opened her mouth to retort, but the figure blurred past her again. This time, the cloak was ripped away completely, and a pair of hands. They were cold and hard as stone. They grabbed her from behind, pinning her arms. The wooden sword clattered to the sand as she clawed at the person's grip. A shriek threatened to escape her lips at the sensation of those bony, freezing fingers against her skin.
"Who are you? What do you want?" she gasped, struggling against the iron-like hold. She was terrified, but she refused to let her voice tremble.
The figure ignored her question, their breath ice-cold against the nape of her neck. "The seal won't do you any good," the voice murmured.
Panic flared in her gut. No one knew about the seal Morrigan had placed on her except Ronan, the Queen, the doctor, and the witch herself.
"How do you know about that? Who are you?"
In response, a sharp, localized pain surged in her neck. The figure dug a long, pointed fingernail into the skin right over the seal, and a low, guttural chant began—words she didn't recognize, sounding like dead leaves skittering over a grave.
Suddenly, a wave of white-hot energy coursed through her veins. It wasn't the warm fire of her witch-light; it was a searing, predatory burn that made her knees buckle.
The figure released her, and Elara collapsed onto the sand, clutching her neck as her vision swam.
"There, there," the figure whispered, sounding amused. "I have helped you."
Elara weakly raised her head, trying to catch a glimpse of her attacker. The torches flickered, illuminating a pale, sharp-boned face for a fraction of a second. She saw it then—a single, sharp point of a fang protruding from the corner of the figure's mouth.
Her heart skipped a beat. A vampire.
"You..." she started, but the figure cut her off.
"See you some other time, little one."
With a sudden swirl of black smoke and the frantic flapping of leathery wings, the figure vanished.
In that same instant, the heavy gates of the training ground burst open. Ronan charged in, his face a mask of fury and fear, flanked by a dozen guards.
"Elara!" He reached her in seconds, extending a hand to help her up, his eyes searching for a wound.
"Don't!" she barked, flinching away from his touch. "Don't touch me. I'm fine."
"Fine?" Ronan’s voice thundered, his golden eyes bleeding into a lethal red. "You are reeking of the scent of another being! What happened?"
Elara stayed on the ground, her hand subconsciously moving to her neck where the vampire had poked her. She expected to feel the wetness of blood, but her skin was dry, only the burning sensation remained. She gulped, her chest heaving.
“Elara,” Lyra’s voice finally broke through the static, sounding shaken. “The seal... I can feel it. It’s weakened. That creature... he did something to the lock.”