Page 62 of Elas (Mate’s Mark #2)

Elas

Stunned silence permeates the room, our scuffle forgotten for the moment as we all stare at Nyx. Ninety-one years as a prisoner. Panic clenches my stomach at the mere thought, and it makes his malnourished, bone-thin limbs and the exhausted circles beneath his eyes more devastating.

Claustrophobia and fear make my vision swim as those nights in a cage resurface. The cold metal against my skin and the never-ending darkness seem like a walk in the park compared to what Nyx has endured.

How does he do it?

How do you emerge from such an experience without being irreparably broken?

The strength he must possess to even be standing is staggering.

A thought hits me in the profound silence. “Does that mean he has a mate?” I ask out loud, and Nyx cocks his head at me, blinking his owlish, sad eyes. I repeat the question in our language, and his lip trembles as he gives a single shake of his head.

“Not anymore,” he responds in his breathy voice, and my heart shatters all over again.

Everyone is silent in the aftermath of that statement.

The humans don’t need to interpret his words to read his body language, and August swallows roughly beside me.

Reyes takes a few cautious steps forward, speaking with a gentleness I didn’t realize he possessed.

“What sort of flowers were they?” he asks, and Nyx’s eyes drift up to meet his.

“The ones you saw when you crossed over?” We all wait for Nyx to change his mind—to dart from the doorway and run into the safety of the forest. He stands his ground, though, shaken but firm.

After a few breaths, his gaze flicks to Ronan to interpret, and then his brows pinch as he gets a faraway look in his eyes.

“They were… purple,” he gestures at Ronan absentmindedly, and a small smile tugs at my lips. “But dark. Yellow centers on the petals. Thick stems.”

Ronan repeats the description to Reyes, who takes another careful step closer. Nyx and Ronan both tense, but Nyx meets Reyes’s eyes without fear. “Iris.”

“Eye-riss?” Nyx attempts, a slight hiss to the word.

“Yes. I could help you find some,” Reyes offers gently. “Since you never got the chance to properly look at them. We could plant some here.” Ronan translates, voice thick once again. “They might make you… happy,” Reyes adds, and Ronan hesitates before repeating the words.

“Happy?” Nyx whispers, slowly blinking as his head tilts, like the meaning is beyond his grasp.

His next words come out stilted, ghosts from some long-buried tomb deep in his chest that fight to find the light of day.

“Happy is… far away. Out of reach. I… forgot. For a long time, I forgot.” Boomerang nuzzles his leg like she can sense his distress and his eyes grow distant. “I would like to be happy.”

Ronan translates shakily, and Reyes offers Nyx another cautious, reassuring smile. “I’d like to help.”

“D’raste,” Nyx whispers, before correcting in English. “Thank you.” Reyes smiles then, his entire face lighting up with it. He seems to understand that Nyx needs space, and nods at him before taking a few steps backward. Sniffles and shaky breaths punctuate the silence as we collect ourselves.

August clears his throat, his eyes glassy as he glances between me and Ronan. “Could one of you take notes as we talk? I don’t want him to have to repeat himself.”

“Good luck reading his chicken scratch.” Ronan’s teasing can’t hide the heaviness inside his voice, though his snark takes the edge off the tension in the room. “I’ll save the trouble and do it myself.”

“Thank you, Ronan,” August says, and Ronan pauses, gnawing on his lip as he glances between August and Nyx. The small Drüinae rarely shows his face and speaks even less, but I know the lengths Ronan would take to protect him… just like he protected me from Khors all those years ago.

Suddenly, those anonymous faces trapped inside Ljómur are familiar. Any of them could be Nyx, starved of their hope. Dead in all the ways that matter.

Waiting a lifetime for help that never comes.

“August,” Ronan says, taking a step closer and glancing at me before focusing on my mate. He licks his lips, stubborn pride making him hesitate. “I shouldn’t have been so harsh.”

It’s as close to an apology as Ronan ever gets.

“It’s alright,” August says with a sad smile. “You love him, too.”

Ronan scoffs, his haughty attitude snapping back into place.

In that moment, all I see is the scrawny teenager that invaded the training ground all those years ago.

Nose lifted, tails restless behind him, and an air about him that tells you he has no patience for your nonsense.

I chuckle and grip Ronan’s shoulder fondly.

He shoots me a glare, but we all see right through it.

The tough-guy image he spent a lifetime projecting is gone.

“Would you be more comfortable talking outside?” August asks Nyx, and after a quick translation from Ronan, Nyx nods and steps back from the doorframe. Bright morning sun bathes him in its glow and highlights the sharp angles of his face.

According to Ronan, he’s putting on weight at the village, but he’s still severely malnourished.

His cheekbones are prominent and the skin is sunken underneath, turning his cheeks hollow.

His nose and chin are delicate points, and there’s very little muscle on his arms and legs.

A lifetime locked away has turned him into a shadow.

We form a circle in the shade outside, both Ronan and I taking notes as Nyx answers our questions to the best of his ability.

He can’t tell us the purpose behind the experiments, and unless it’s necessary, we avoid asking anything that might upset him.

Instead, we discuss the layout and routine, and how many employees are there.

Soldiers and scientists occupy the facility in equal measure, but their numbers are much lower than Glaston.

From the descriptions of the buildings and grounds, the base itself is quite small.

My artistic abilities are questionable at best, but I sketch a rough map.

Certain areas were more familiar to Nyx, especially between the labs and the living quarters.

They lived in rooms that were essentially jail cells, with barred doors and bare-bones necessities.

Zero privacy and endless time to dwell on the reality of their hell.

Nyx continues, explaining what he knows about the base outside his cell. He was frequently caged and driven to different locations, so he’s familiar with the main exit to the compound.

“Where did they take you?” Ronan asks carefully.

“Sometimes, we drove for hours, sometimes days.” Nyx shakes his head, pursing his lips. “Places with power… nature,” he tries to explain, his brows pinching in frustration as he pats his chest. “I could feel it here. They wanted me to…” He hesitates, searching for the words. “ Change it.”

“Change what?” I ask, but he becomes agitated, shaking his head as his long fingers grip at the ground beneath him.

“I don’t know,” he whispers, burying his fingertips in the soil, and the grass seems to get thicker, more lush, underneath him.

“They didn’t tell you what to change?” I press, and a frustrated sound rips from his chest as his head shakes back and forth .

“Do it, they said. Change it. Fix it! They wouldn’t tell me.

They would never tell me what I was doing.

Just make it right. Do it… always do it .

I couldn’t… didn’t know how. And they…” A whimper leaves his throat as his hands clamp around his neck, trails of dirt following his fingers.

“I didn’t understand, and they wouldn’t…

wouldn’t tell me.” His palms press against his temples, squeezing as his head thrashes. “I don’t know… I don’t know .”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Ronan tries to soothe. Panic stretches his eyes wide as he fights with indecision, unsure whether to get closer or give him space. “Nyx, how can I help?” There’s no answer, only a mournful whine forming in his throat.

Cameron clutches August’s arm as Ronan turns to me, helpless, then everyone stares as Reyes walks past us. He stops a few feet from Nyx, and the grass crunches under his weight as he kneels. Nyx doesn’t seem to notice his presence.

“Have you seen these?” Reyes asks in that same gentle tone from earlier. An odd plant is in his hand, with a clump of dirt hanging from the shallow roots. It looks more like a curled up leaf than a flower, with maroon and white stripes on a bright green background and a thick stem.

Nyx’s eyes dart over and his head stops shaking, though his chest still heaves in puffing breaths.

Finally, he nods, and Reyes gives him a reassuring smile.

“They’re called Jack-In-The-Pulpits, but I don’t really know why.

” He lets out a soft chuckle, completely relaxed.

Nyx’s hands drop from his face, leaving brown streaks of dirt to litter his mossy skin .

“I like them because they’re different,” Reyes continues.

“Everyone else was always drawn to the colorful flowers. The pinks and yellows that stood out and demanded attention. This one was quiet, though—sitting in the shade of the forest and waiting to be seen.” He twirls the flower in his fingers, but Nyx isn’t looking at it anymore. His unwavering focus is fixed on Reyes.

“We could name them something else, if you want,” Reyes says. “Something just for us.”

Ronan reluctantly translates for Nyx, whose eyes still haven’t left Reyes. Carefully, Nyx nods, and Reyes flashes him another blinding smile. “What would you like to call them?”

“K-kat… katsurrel,” he whispers, his gaze flicking up to Reyes's hair and back to the flower.

“That’s beautiful,” Reyes says. “What does it mean?”

Ronan huffs a quiet laugh as we share a glance. “Curls. It means curls.”