The stronghold seemed to hold its breath. Elara could feel the shift in the air even through the sealed door of her prison—a sudden, sharp tension that hummed through the stone and wood. The Commander had returned.
She had spent the last two days in a state of suspended animation, rehearsing her defense, her list of facts a mantra in her mind. Lyra had been unable to visit, the guard outside her door unyielding. The only thing that had sustained her was the brittle, burning resolve of her gambit.
Now, the moment was here. She heard the heavy tread of boots outside, the murmur of voices, and then the sound of the crossbar being lifted. The door swung open to reveal not Lyra, not a servant, but Kaelen himself.
He filled the doorway, still clad in his travel-stained armor, the scent of cold wind and distant snow clinging to him. His face was a mask of hard planes and controlled fury, his stormy eyes burning with a cold fire that promised a reckoning. Seraphine stood just behind his shoulder, her marble-like features arranged in an expression of solemn vindication.
"Out," Kaelen commanded, his voice low and dangerously even.
Elara rose from the chair where she had been waiting. She willed her legs to be steady, her chin to remain level. She met his gaze and said nothing, simply walking forward to stand before him.
His eyes raked over her, from her simply braided hair to her plain grey dress, as if assessing the damage she had wrought in her confinement. He saw none of the fear she felt; she had locked it away in a deep, hidden part of herself.
"The Echo-Stone," he said, the words clipped. "You will explain."
"I touched it," Elara said, her voice clear in the tense silence. "It showed me the history of this place. It was… overwhelming."
"It was not yours to touch!" Seraphine hissed from behind him. "Your human filth, your chaotic light, has damaged a sacred relic!"
Kaelen held up a hand, silencing her without looking away from Elara. "Overwhelming," he repeated, a dangerous skepticism in his tone. "And so you broke it."
"I did not break it," Elara countered, her heart thundering. This was the precipice. "My magic reacted to the violent surge of its memories. The stone was already flawed. My light merely revealed the crack that was already there."
Seraphine let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. "A convenient lie! The stone has stood for a millennium. You expect us to believe it chose this moment to fail?"
"I expect you to believe the truth," Elara said, her gaze still locked with Kaelen's. She could see the history she had witnessed reflected in the hard lines of his face—the grief of the young Fae kneeling in the blight. She slowly drew the folded parchment from her sleeve. "I recorded what the stone showed me. Before it cracked. The death of the guardian. The true origin of the blight."
She held it out to him.
Kaelen's eyes dropped to the parchment, his expression unchanging. For a long, suspended moment, he did not move. The air in the corridor was frozen. Seraphine stared at the parchment as if it were a viper.
"Do not entertain this heresy, my lord," she urged, her voice tight. "She seeks to poison you with her lies, to excuse her violation."
"Are you afraid of what it says, Lady Seraphine?" Elara asked softly, turning her head slightly to meet the other woman's golden gaze. "Are you afraid he will see that the war he fights is based on a wound, not a conquest?"
Seraphine's lips peeled back from her teeth in a silent snarl.
Finally, Kaelen reached out and took the parchment. His movements were deliberate, controlled. He unfolded it, his eyes scanning the short, stark list. Elara watched his face, searching for any flicker of reaction—a flinch, a twitch of the eye, a softening of the jaw.
There was nothing. His expression remained as impassive as carved stone. He read it once, then again. The silence stretched, becoming a physical pressure in the confined space.
When he looked up, his eyes were chips of glacial ice. "You believe this… list… changes anything?"
"It changes the truth," Elara said, her resolve beginning to waver under his utter lack of reaction.
"The truth," he echoed, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "The truth is that your people murdered the heart of this forest. The truth is that my people have fought for generations to survive the sickness that yours unleashed. The truth is that you, the daughter of the line that started this, have now laid hands on one of the last vessels of our pure history." He crumpled the parchment in his gauntleted fist. "Your 'truth' is just a collection of facts that I have lived with every day of my life. It does not excuse your actions. It condemns you further."
The bottom dropped out of Elara's world. Her gambit had failed. He had not been ready to hear it. The history was too personal, the wound too fresh, even after centuries.
"What is to be my punishment, then?" she asked, her voice hollow.
Kaelen's eyes were merciless. "You are confined to these chambers indefinitely. You will no longer have the freedom of the stronghold. Your servant will be questioned. And you…" He took a final step forward, looming over her, his presence a wall of cold, implacable authority. "You will come with me now. You will look upon what you have done."
He turned on his heel and strode away, expecting her to follow. Seraphine shot her a look of pure, unadulterated triumph before sweeping after him.
The guard gestured for her to move. Numb, her mind reeling from the catastrophic failure, Elara followed Kaelen through the corridors. They did not go to the Heartwood Chamber. Instead, he led her to the entrance of the stronghold, to the main gates.
He pointed out, towards the Fellwood. "Look."
The sight stole the breath from her lungs. The blight, which had been a creeping menace at the edges of the forest, had advanced. The trees closest to the stronghold, which had merely been dark and twisted, were now graying, their leaves falling in a silent, sad rain. The air itself smelled thicker, more sour.
"The stone was a anchor, Princess," Kaelen said, his voice cold and flat. "A focus for the remnants of this land's spirit. With it damaged, the blight accelerates. Your 'accident' is killing what little remains of my home. Faster than your father's armies ever could."
He turned his stormy gaze on her, and for the first time, she saw not just anger, but a profound, weary despair.
"That is your punishment. The knowledge that your existence, your very magic, brings only destruction to my people. You are not a savior. You are a scourge."
He left her there, standing at the gates, watching the forest die because of her. The Hawk had returned, and with a few ruthless words, he had not just confined her body. He had shattered the last of her hope.