Chapter 73: The Fire Returns
The Seance Chamber smelled of candle wax, spilled honey-mead, and the ozone-tang of wasted magic. Music—a pulsing, rhythmic thrum of enchanted crystals—vibrated through the floorboards and up into Elara’s bones. She clung to Lysander’s arm as he shouldered a path through the crowd, Rowan a solid, shadowy presence at her back, his hand a steady anchor on her shoulder.
“This is insane,” she shouted over the din, her eyes wide. Everywhere she looked, students were draped over velvet chaise lounges, their reflections in the gilded mirrors twisting into beautiful, impossible versions of themselves—wings of flame, crowns of shadow, extra limbs that danced in the flicker. A mirror to her left showed her own reflection with her wings unfurled, glorious and free. She quickly looked away, a familiar ache tightening her chest.
“It’s Tuesday!” Lysander laughed, guiding her toward a table laden with dark bottles and iridescent glasses. “The best night for bad decisions.”
Rowan’s thumb stroked the nape of her neck. “Just stick close. And don’t drink anything handed to you by a nymph. They don’t believe in measurements.”
Lysander poured three glasses of something that swirled like liquid amethyst. “Elf wine. Smooth. Deceptively strong.” He winked at Elara. “Sip it.”
She took the glass. The first sip was cool and tasted of blackberries and frost. The second was warmer. The third made the edges of the room soften, the music sink into her skin. The constant, vigilant magic holding her illusion—the one that hid the painful bindings beneath her blouse—seemed to relax its grip. A luxurious, dangerous feeling.
She lost track of her glass. Someone refilled it. The room became a kaleidoscope of laughter and shifting light. The tension in her shoulders, the permanent knot between her wings, began to dissolve. A deep, forgotten part of her unfurled.
When Rowan and Lysander got pulled into a debate about portal mechanics with a loud group from the Alchemy track, Elara drifted. She found a quieter corner behind a heavy drape, a half-full bottle in her hand. The world was soft and wonderful. She took another drink. And another.
The bindings hurt. They always hurt. But right now, the pain was a distant echo. She reached behind her, fingers fumbling with the hidden, complex clasps of her harness. Her illusion shimmered and died. With a series of soft clicks, the leather and silk constraints gave way.
Her wings erupted.
A sigh, raw and full of relief, tore from her throat. They stretched, trembling, into the dim space, brushing against the velvet curtains. The iridescent membranes caught the stray candlelight and fractured it into rainbows on the walls. They ached from disuse, but it was a sweet, releasing ache. She slumped against the wall, a hiccup escaping her lips, a wide, unburdened grin spreading across her face.
This is what Lysander and Rowan found twenty minutes later.
They’d turned around and she was gone. A spike of pure alarm had shot through Rowan. Lysander’s fire had flashed hot under his skin, making the air around him waver.
They found her in her niche. The empty bottle lay on its side. Her wings were fully extended, one curled around her like a shield, the other draped across the floor, magnificent and utterly exposed. She was hiccupping softly, smiling at nothing.
“Oh, little star,” Lysander breathed, his worry melting into sheer, captivated affection. He crouched in front of her. “You went and got yourself absolutely pissed, didn’t you?”
Elara’s glassy gaze focused on him. Her grin widened. “Lyssss. Your hair is shiny.” She reached out and petted it, her movements loose and clumsy. “Like a fire. A nice fire. Not a burny fire.”
Rowan knelt too, his eyes scanning her, the room, the exits. “Elara, can you stand?”
“Mmmmaybe.” She leaned forward, bracing her hands on his shoulders. Her wings gave a mighty flap, disturbing dust and candle smoke. “Rowan. You’re very solid. Like a tree. A sexy, broody tree.” She pressed her nose against his neck and inhaled dramatically. “You smell like outside. And secrets.”
Lysander snorted, covering his mouth.
“We need to get her home,” Rowan said, but a small smile touched his lips despite his concern. She was a mess. A gorgeous, vulnerable, unhidden mess.
“Home is boring,” Elara announced, pulling back. Her eyes, hazy but bright, darted between them. She swayed. “You two should kiss.”
Lysander blinked. “What?”
“Kiss. Right now.” She nodded, as if it were the most logical request in the world. “I want to watch. I like watching you. Your faces do this… thing. It’s a good thing.” She slumped back against the wall, her wings rustling contentedly. “C’mon. Do it.”
Rowan arched a brow at Lysander, who was turning pink. “She’s not wrong,” Rowan murmured, a low, intimate challenge in his voice.
“We’re in public,” Lysander hissed, though he was already leaning in.
“She’s asking nicely.”
With a sigh of mock exasperation, Lysander closed the distance. He kissed Rowan, a deep, familiar kiss that spoke of years and ease and private fire. Elara made a soft, happy sound, hugging herself. When they parted, she clapped her hands quietly.
“Again,” she demanded, her words slurring just a bit.
“You’re a menace,” Lysander told her, his voice fond.
“Your menace,” she corrected him happily. She reached out and tugged on Rowan’s sleeve. “Your turn. Kiss him.”
Rowan didn’t need to be told twice. He captured Lysander’s mouth again, this time with a possessive edge that made Lysander melt against him. Elara watched, utterly entranced, her earlier anxiety burned away by the elf wine and the sheer, overwhelming rightness of the sight.
When they broke apart, breathing a little uneven, Elara sighed. “Perfect.” Then her expression turned contemplative. “You know… your scars are pretty, Lys. Like lightning. I want to see them again later. And Rowan… your hands are very big. I have thoughts about that.”
Lysander choked on air. Rowan’s dark eyes flashed with heat, his protective instinct seamlessly blending with something far more predatory. “Do you now.”
“Mhm.” She pushed herself upright, stumbling. Both of them shot to their feet to steady her. She ended up pressed between them, her wings fluttering around their legs. She looked up, her gaze suddenly losing some of its haze, filling with a drunken, profound honesty. “I feel… untied. Is this what it’s like? To not be hiding?”
The raw question hung in the smoky air. The party raged beyond the curtain.
Rowan smoothed her hair back. “For tonight, yeah. It is.”
She nodded, solemn. Then she wrapped an arm around each of their waists, her touch bold and sure. “Good. I’m keeping my wings out. And I’m keeping you. Let’s go somewhere. Not home. Somewhere… smaller.”
The look that passed between Rowan and Lysander was a whole conversation. It was agreement, concern, and a sharp, shared want.
“Our room is smaller than this,” Lysander offered, his voice rough.
“Yes. There.” Elara started walking, pulling them with her, a determined, wobbly force of nature. Her wings, finally free, swept through the crowded chamber, drawing stunned, admiring glances. She didn’t seem to notice or care. She had her fire and her shadow. And for the first time in her life, she had nothing to conceal.