“It was your fault.”
Elara clenched her fists, pressing them against her knees as she hunched forward. The dim candlelight flickered in her room, casting restless shadows against the wooden walls.
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The thought gnawed at her, sharp and relentless. She had spent the last five years clawing her way to strength, building herself up from nothing. The years after her exile had been brutal—surviving on scraps, working whatever jobs she could find just to keep herself moving forward. And then, her master had taken her in. Under their tutelage, she had pushed herself beyond limits she never thought possible.
All of it had been for one purpose.
Revenge.
For what Isolde and Adrian had done to her. For how they had ripped everything from her and left her to rot. That single drive had kept her going, kept her from falling apart under the weight of everything she had lost.
And in the last battle, she had seen the results of her work. She had felt it.
The ice in her veins had sung as she fought. She had controlled the battlefield, frozen monstrosities in place, held her ground against overwhelming odds. She had improved.
So why—why did she feel so weak?
She squeezed her eyes shut, gritting her teeth. No, she told herself, I am not weak. I have worked too hard for that to be true.
But then, his voice echoed in her mind.
“You’re not ready to play hero just yet.”
Elara’s breath caught in her throat.
It was strange. Luca had only been in her life for a short time. She had met him—what? Three, four times? And yet, on the battlefield, fighting alongside him had felt different.
He had challenged her. Had pushed her, had forced her to keep up, to act without hesitation. Fighting with him had been—dare she even admit it?—thrilling. She had never fought alongside someone like that before. Someone who had treated her as an equal, who had expected her to match his rhythm and had trusted her to do it.
Even her master, despite their harsh training, had always looked at her as a student. And Cedric—Cedric always tried to protect her, always stepped between her and danger. But Luca…
Luca had smiled at the battlefield.
He had smiled at her, not in amusement, not in condescension, but as if he knew she would rise to the occasion. As if he had already decided she could keep up with him.
And she had.
But it wasn’t enough.
Because, in the end, he had been the one to push her away. He had been the one to be swallowed by that void while she was left behind, powerless to stop it.
She lifted her head, her breath shaking.
That was what felt wrong.
Not just the loss itself, but the difference—the contrast between what she had been and what she still was.
On the battlefield, she had felt strong. She had felt like she was finally on the path to becoming what she had worked so hard for. And yet, when it mattered most, when everything was on the line—
She had been left standing, helpless.
Luca had saved her.
And that thought made her sick.
She hated it.
She hated that she had been the one to be protected. Hated that, despite everything, she still wasn’t enough.
And more than anything—she hated that she missed him.
Elara swallowed hard, pressing her palm against her forehead.
What is wrong with me?
Elara’s gaze flickered to the clock on the wall. The hands had crept forward while she had been lost in thought, and now, it was time once again. The expedition was about to begin.
A deep breath. Then another.
She pushed herself up from the chair, her muscles feeling stiff from hours of sitting in brooding silence. Enough. She couldn’t afford to stay in this cycle of self-recrimination. She had a task ahead of her, and whether she liked it or not, time wasn’t waiting for her to catch up.
Moving to the wardrobe, she pulled out her combat attire. It was familiar, well-worn but practical—made for movement, reinforced in all the right places to withstand battle. But she had made a few changes to it. A slight adjustment in layering, some modifications to the sleeves and gloves for better grip. Even though she hadn’t fought in a week, she had spent her time refining her gear, making sure that the next time she stepped onto the battlefield, she would be ready.
As she slipped into her clothes, she caught sight of herself in the mirror.
Her sleek body, toned from years of rigorous training, but still carrying the traces of a malnourished past. She didn’t eat much, never had—not since the years after she had been exiled. It wasn’t intentional, not really, but the habit had stayed with her. And now, with everything that had happened, food had felt even more… irrelevant.
She sighed, pulling on her gloves, securing her belt, adjusting her cloak. The weight of her staff against her back felt grounding. This was who she was. A mage. A warrior. Someone who wouldn’t be left behind again.
Just as she was fastening the last strap, a knock echoed against her door.
She turned, her brows furrowing slightly.
Cedric?
Cedric stood in the doorway, his expression dark and clouded with concern. His usual composed demeanor was absent, replaced by something more raw, something heavier. He looked at her—really looked at her—and the frown on his face deepened.
Elara met his gaze with unwavering resolve, but she knew what he saw. The exhaustion etched beneath her eyes, the faint hollowness in her cheeks, the way her posture, though still straight, carried a weight that hadn’t been there before. She hadn’t slept well, hadn’t eaten properly.
She knew it.
And so did Cedric.
“Lady Elara,” he began, his voice quieter than usual, more careful.
“What is it, Cedric?” she asked, fastening the last strap on her bracer, ignoring the way his eyes flickered with barely concealed frustration.
Cedric stepped further into the room, closing the door behind him. He hesitated for a moment, then exhaled, his voice gaining more force. “You should sit this one out.”
Elara stilled, her fingers pausing against the leather strap before she straightened. She turned to face him fully, her expression unreadable. “I don’t have time for this conversation.”
“You should rest,” he pressed, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “You’ve pushed yourself too far. I can see it. Everyone can see it.”
She let out a slow breath, shaking her head. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” His tone hardened. “You haven’t been fine for the past seven days. You’ve barely slept. You’re barely eating. And now you want to throw yourself back into battle when you—”
“When I what?” Elara interrupted, her voice sharper than intended. She clenched her jaw, frustration flaring. “When I should be sitting in this room doing nothing? Waiting? Hoping someone else will fix this?”
Cedric took a step closer, his blue eyes searching hers. “Lady Elara, I know what you’re doing.”
“You don’t know anything.”
“I do,” he said, his voice quieter now, more careful. “I know you. I know how you are. And I know that right now, you’re pushing yourself not because you want to fight—but because you don’t want to feel.”
Elara’s fingers twitched, but she kept her expression firm.
“You’re exhausted,” Cedric continued. “You’re hurting. And you’re looking for something—anything—to keep yourself from thinking about him.”
Elara’s heart slammed against her ribs.
Him.
She clenched her teeth, but Cedric wasn’t finished. He took another step forward, lowering his voice as he stared at her, frustration laced with something deeper. “Why, Elara?” His voice was tight, his fists still clenched. “Why are you doing this? For a man you barely even know? This—this doesn’t make sense!”
The words cut deep, not because they were wrong, but because they weren’t entirely right either.
Elara felt her breath hitch, her fingers tightening against her staff. She knew Cedric was speaking out of worry, out of care. But even so, the words stung.
Luca.
The thought of him pulled at something in her chest, something she didn’t understand, something that had been gnawing at her since the moment he disappeared.
She hadn’t known him long. Objectively speaking, Cedric was right. She shouldn’t care this much.
But she did.
And she didn’t understand why.
Elara straightened, her voice cold but composed. “Because I owe him.”