Seamus's heart hammered as he descended the same secret stairs moments later, stormwater trailing off his boots. His coat was half undone, hair soaked, eyes frantic.
This is the only place I can think of where they might ride out the hurakan, he thought, nearly slipping on the slick stone.
He rushed through the cavernous market below, ignoring the few returning vendors quietly reassembling their stalls. His boots clapped against the flagstone as he approached the heavy door, rapped the secret code, and waited.
THUNK. The door opened.
Nothing.
The room was empty.
The air still clung with the scent of smoke and rum. A used glass, a faint curl of ash in a tray.
Seamus froze.
Then panic surged through him like a second storm. He stumbled backward, letting the metal door swing shut.
She was here.
"But then… where-?"
His breath hitched. His eyes widened.
A memory struck like lightning: a cloaked figures with black boots with a bone anklet peeking out.
"Shit, oh no-!"
He turned and ran, boots slapping hard against stone, heart a wild, desperate thing in his chest. He burst out of the market alcove and flew up the cliffside trail, calling her name. Wind howled, salt spray stung his eyes, but he didn't care.
He reached the overlook.
Nobody.
Nothing but sea mist and ghosts.
Seamus collapsed to his knees, panting, hands in his hair. A wordless cry tore out of him, raw and helpless.
Further down the trail, unseen, Elena stood cloaked in silence.
The invisibility spell held firm.
She didn't know it was Seamus. Only that it was a man, distraught, undone. She watched the way his shoulders shook. The way he fell apart under the empty sky.
She didn't feel smug. She didn't feel angry.
Just… tired.
"Poor sod," she murmured, then turned away.
The estate wasn't far. She slipped quietly along the stone path, into the woods, and through the servant's gate of WindSwept. The spell dissolved the moment her hand touched the worn brass handle.
She was inside. No guards. No fanfare.
"Too easy," she muttered to herself.
She crept through the manor's dim halls, the mana lights flickering low for the night. Aurora would be asleep. Elena didn't want to wake her.
She reached her chambers in silence, closed the door behind her, and leaned against it.
For the first time all day, she exhaled.
She stripped out of her travel-stained clothes and glanced toward the vanity mirror—and stopped.
Her eyes widened.
The angry red welts from her last encounter with the Church were… gone.
No more red, angry stitches. No yellowing bruises, barely even slivers of flat scars remained.
That's when she understood; Niegal had healed her. Truly healed her.
She touched the spot near her ribs, eyes wide with quiet awe.
"No wonder I felt so incredible," she whispered.
She slipped into a nightdress and moved to the bed. Her limbs felt like stone, her mind soft with exhaustion.
She held the folded page in her hands—the one that held the answer. A promise. A possibility.
"You said I don't owe you," she whispered to the paper, brushing it with her thumb. "But I wish you'd said goodbye."
She pressed it to her heart and curled beneath the blankets.
The wind howled outside. But inside, all was still.
She fell into sleep before the storm could find her again.