Page 67 of To Scale the Emerald Mountain

Striding over to the desk, I throw back the remaining contents of my drink, then Mhaylene’s immediately after. She follows me and plops down in the desk chair, watching me with worry as I refill a glass. I hastily toss it back as well before I place my hands on the desk and lean forward. My eyes close while I take a moment to compose myself the best I can, trying to quell the darkness that churns within and aches to be let loose.

Again, Mhaylene was right. We should have spoken more—turned over possibilities—and prepared better for this moment.

But here we are.

Returning to the windows, I put my back to the door. The party is just visible from this vantage point as the convoy disappears under the porte cochere. My fists clench, and I place them behind my back, holding a wrist in one hand to keep from punching a hole through the glass of the arched window in front of me.

We spend the next few minutes in silence waiting for them to come through the house. My heart races, and my stomach roils.I have been waiting for this day for months, but now that it has arrived, I am terrified.

I hear them approaching in the hall. Ellya’s gasping breaths slice through me like daggers. The whisper of the door being pushed open reaches me, and I squeeze my eyes shut while they enter the room, allowing myself another few seconds to drown before pulling in my composure.

“Oh, Ellya.”

Mhaylene’s tone and following sobs tell me all I need to know about the state Ellya has returned to us in. I swallow thickly, one more time, attempting to push down my own overflowing emotions. My head turns just a fraction, catching a glance out of the corner of my eye—as if the action could ease me into what I was to face.

It did not matter.

Ellya’s erratic sobs increase. I turn to her fully and fail to hide my anguish. She is but a shadow of herself. She is thin—so thin. Her collarbones jut out sharply, the skin stretched over them as if they will puncture through at any moment. The ever-present rosy color of her cheeks is absent, and the areas surrounding her eyes are dark and shadowed. Ellya’s long, chestnut hair lacks its normal luster, and it appears the texture of straw at the ends. The blood dried beneath her nose and coating the top of her head adds to the alarming picture.

Ellya’s aura is bruised—jaded.

She wears complete shock, as if she was unaware until this moment who she would be brought forth to. Certainly not the identical brother of the man she has been secluded with for these moons. But even the lack of recognition is not the worst part.

The worst part is the confusion and fear that Ellya exudes. It coats the room so thickly that I can taste it in the back of my throat. Her mind has obviously been altered in ways we did not anticipate.

She does not know who she is.

Our eyes meet and finally, the recognition is there. My hope dares to reignite with the spark of Ellya’s light in my chest coming back with a flare. The flame is small and barely flickering; but it is there. I reach up and place my hand over the spot on my chest when the force of our bond barrels through the walls of Locane’s magic. I am overtaken by Ellya’s memory of the first time we met as she relives it, reminding her of what we are.

When it fades, I rub my hand over my chest, and she begins to cry harder, subconsciously mirroring my action. My composure begins to fold with the last vestiges of hers, and my sorrow shines through heavily. Suddenly, I am aware of the guards in the room holding the person responsible for the crashing of our lives.

I am on the verge of turning murderous, and I need them all gone—now.

“I will deal with him later,” I tell Kraeston as calmly as I can, taking in the steel chains around Locane’s wrists. “Use the irons now.”

Kraeston nods at me once, and they leave swiftly. My gaze trails back to Ellya being cradled by Mhaylene.

“Are you hurt?” I ask her, and my words are her undoing.

Ellya hangs her head, closes her eyes, and begins to shake. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

My feet move towards them slowly while Ellya tries to choke the anxiety threatening to drag her under, pulling in stuttering breaths. I fight my overwhelming urge to close the distance and hold her against me—feel her skin alive and warm against mine.

Mhaylene is holding Ellya the same way she used to when these same fits would take hold of her in the days of her Sight gaining in strength. When she would wake from her visions unsure of her reality, whispering to her calming words of assurance.

Ellya has steadied herself by the time I come level with her face, but she refuses to look at me. I cannot stop myself from reaching out to her. My fingers gently lift her face under her chin, making as little contact as possible while our pulsing bond screams at me to comfort her. She closes her eyes tighter, tears still managing to leak out.

“Look at me, my clove.”

I will not breathe properly until her eyes meet mine—until she sees that I am here. I will always be here.

When Ellya opens her eyes with reluctance, her green eyes meet my gaze.

“May I touch you?”

Holding my breath, that second stretches beyond infinity. When she nods at me, all the tension and fear I have been retaining for excruciating months vanishes. The absence of that crushing weight from Ellya’s simple consent dissolves my restraint when Mhaylene passes her weary weight to me. I selfishly grab her into my arms tight, crushing her against my chest and breathing her in—trying to pull her as close to me as I can.

Mhaylene walks towards the door to give us privacy, and I send her a silent request to make sure Ellya’s room is ready for her. She nods and wipes away her tears before leaving us alone.