Chapter Eighteen

A few weeks had passed since the attack. The once-vibrant Whitmore estate felt empty, overshadowed by the sorrow and destruction that had befallen the kingdom.

Elara sat in the dimly lit parlor, her hands gripping the arms of her chair as her parents stood before her with solemn expressions.

“We’ve made arrangements for you,” her father began, his voice heavy. “You’ll be leaving for the Northern Temple in three days.”

Elara’s brow furrowed. “The Northern Temple? Why?”

Her mother placed a hand on her shoulder. “You’ll be safe there, away from the dangers of war.”

“Safe?” Elara echoed, her stomach twisting. “You’re sending me away? Alone?”

“We’re doing what’s best for you,” her father insisted. “With the war approaching, it’s no longer safe here.”

Elara felt the sting of betrayal settle deep in her chest. They were sending her away. Pushing her aside while Emberlund burned, while her friends—while Sebastian—remained in the heart of the chaos.

She rose abruptly. “I don’t want to go.”

“This is not up for discussion.”

Elara steadied her gaze, hands trembling as she gripped the edge of her seat. “You didn’t even ask me what I wanted,” she snapped, her voice louder than she intended. “You never ask. You just decide—for me.”

“Elara, please,” her mother pleaded. “We only want you to be safe.”

Elara’s fists clenched.

‘Safe. As if that was all that mattered.’

Without another word, she stormed out of the room, her vision blurred with unshed tears. She barely made it to her chambers before the sobs burst out of her. Collapsing onto her bed, she pressed her face into the pillow as frustration and helplessness overwhelmed her.

Her mind raced to the people she loved—

Naomi, who had been injured during the attack and still hadn’t woken up.

And Sebastian…

She hadn’t heard from him in days.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she sat up, her determination hardening.

He needed to know.

If her parents were going to send her away, then Sebastian deserved to hear it from her first.

***

The road to the Northern Temple narrowed, flanked by tall, spindly trees that stood so close together Elara could barely make out the canopy above. Their trunks blurred past the carriage window like shadows. She sat alone inside, her bags tucked neatly beneath her boots.

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Though the journey felt long and quiet, she found a strange comfort in the occasional sound of voices above the carriage—Amelia, her ever-loyal maid, talking softly with the driver.

The wheels groaned softly under their weight as they made their way along the winding northern path. Outside, the trees swayed in the cold breeze, their skeletal branches reaching like fingers toward the pale sky. Inside, Elara sat wrapped in silence, her gaze fixed on the passing scenery, though her eyes didn’t really see it.

Through the thin wooden partition behind the driver’s seat, their conversation drifted in.

“You ask me,” came Gerrit’s gravelly voice, “this whole damn mess was waiting to happen. Valerians never did like how Emberlund flourished after the trade treaties. Saw it as weakness—playing diplomat instead of warrior.”

Amelia scoffed softly. “It still doesn’t make sense, Gerrit. That kind of attack—without warning? Entire towns reduced to rubble? It wasn’t strategy, it was slaughter.”

“War’s never clean,” Gerrit replied gruffly. “But this? This was personal.”

Elara’s hands tightened in her lap. Her eyes fell to the daisy bracelet around her wrist—Sebastian’s gift. That night had felt like the beginning of something. Now, it felt like the end of everything.

Amelia lowered her voice. “They say there was an envoy sent to Valeria months ago, and it never returned. Maybe... maybe this was in motion longer than we knew.”

Gerrit scoffed. “And now the emperor sends the crown prince to the front lines. Madness. That boy’s the future of Emberlund.”

Elara’s breath caught.

“He didn’t send him,” Amelia said. “Prince Sebastian insisted. Said he couldn’t bear to lead a kingdom he wouldn’t bleed for.”

Gerrit grunted. “Noble, maybe. But noble boys die the same as the rest. Maybe quicker.”

“That’s cruel.”

“It’s true.”

Silence followed, thick and heavy.

Inside the carriage, Elara blinked rapidly, her vision blurring—not from tears, but from the ache building in her chest.

He hadn’t written. She hadn’t seen him since the night of the attack. But somewhere beyond these woods, Sebastian was out there. Fighting. Bleeding.

‘You better come back,’ she thought, clutching her bracelet.

‘Because I never got to say goodbye.’

***

The carriage slowed with a low groan as the path opened to a clearing.

Elara leaned toward the window and blinked through the early morning mist. The Northern Temple stood tall and silent, its towering spires etched against the pale sky like jagged shards of ice. Built into the cliffside, the structure looked less like a place of sanctuary and more like a fortress against the world.

The temple’s stone walls were weathered by centuries of storms, the once-white marble now dulled to a cold gray. Snow dusted its roof, and flakes clung stubbornly to the pines that lined the outer courtyard. Even the wind here felt different—sharper, thinner.

Amelia stepped down first and offered a hand, but Elara hesitated at the carriage door. Her eyes lingered on the frost-kissed archways, the distant cloaked figures moving silently across the stone walkways. This wasn’t home. It wasn’t even an exile. It was something in between—a place for the forgotten, the hidden, the gifted.

Or cursed.

“Lady Elara,” Amelia said gently, her voice muffled by the cold. “You’ll freeze.”

Elara descended slowly, her boots crunching on the icy path. The chill hit her immediately, stinging her cheeks and slipping through the seams of her cloak. She tightened it around her shoulders.

A woman stood at the top of the steps, robes of midnight blue flowing around her like shadow. Her brown hair was bound in a single, thick braid down her back. She held no welcoming smile—only a nod of acknowledgment.

“You must be Elara Whitmore,” the woman said. “I am Sister Virelle. The high priestess is expecting you.”

Elara offered a bow, her voice firm despite the nerves gathering in her chest. “Thank you for receiving me.”

“No thanks are necessary,” Sister Virelle replied. “This place does not turn away those sent by the crown. Follow me.”

As they began the slow ascent up the temple stairs, Elara looked back only once—to the carriage, to Amelia, to the road that disappeared into the woods.

Her chest tightened.

‘This is really happening.’

And for the first time since the war began, Elara truly felt alone.