Eira
They shouldn't have stayed for that long.
Every second Eira spent breathing the stale air in the cellar felt like a nail being driven into their coffin.
Above them, the apothecary shop was being turned inside out.
The muffled thud of heavy boots was constant now. Eira pressed her back against the cold, her lungs burning as she tried to stifle the sound of her own breathing.
The floorboards shrieked. A heavy piece of furniture was shoved aside with a loud scrape. Then came the voice, sharp and cold as ice.
"Check the floorboards," Kaelen commanded. "He's a dock-worker. He's used to cramped spaces. Look for the seams and salt."
Eira's hand flew to her mouth. Kaelen was directly above them.
She could almost see him through the woods. His silver-trimmed cloak swept the floor, his eyes narrowed as he looked for any sign of the "victim" he claimed to be rescuing.
But he only wanted the violet to power the High-Tier's fading ambitions, and he wanted Eira as the tragic face of his victory.
Beside her, Soren was a statue. His hand was clamped so hard around the handle of his lantern that his knuckles had turned a sickly, ashy white.
Suddenly, the boots stopped.
The silence that followed was more terrifying than any noise.
"Commander!" a scout called out from the back room. "The garden gate was left unlatched. Fresh hoofprints are leading toward the Lower-Tier."
"A distraction," Kaelen snapped, but his footsteps moved away, heading toward the rear exit. "I want every cellar and crawlspace opened. If they aren't there, burn the block."
Eira's breath hitched. Were they setting fire to the homes of innocent people? She felt a gag reach the back of her throat.
As she stole another glance at his piercing gray eyes, a chill ran down her spine.
This was sick.
"How many teams should we send?" The scout's voice was muffled against the floorboards.
Kaelen paused. "Three."
Eira felt a momentary surge of hope, but it was killed instantly when Soren stood up.
Soren moved toward the small wooden door at the back of the cellar that led to the alleyway. "They're clearing the block," he whispered, "If they burn the building, the salt and lead won't save us. They'll find you in the ruins."
"We'll go together," Eira said, reaching for her satchel.
Soren turned, and the look in his eyes stopped her heart. It wasn't fear; it was a final, devastating resolve. "No. Kaelen is focused on the 'kidnapper.' If I lead them toward the West Gate, they'll leave here. You stay here. Mrs. Gable will find a way to get you to the bakery once the scouts move on."
"No!" Eira hissed, lunging forward to grab his sleeve. "Soren, don't you dare. We made a choice. We go together."
"Eira, look at me," he said, taking her face in his hands.
His palms were rough, the smell of brass and woodsmoke clinging to his fingers. "If they catch you, you'll be a prisoner. If I go alone, you're the survivor. You can find Julian. You can finish what your father started. You can heal people beyond these walls."
"I don't want to save people without you!"
The sound of a heavy axe striking wood echoed from down the Great Stair. They were breaking down the doors of the houses in the Lower Tier. The hunt had turned into a purge.
Soren pulled away, heading for the chute. "I have to go. If I stay here any longer, I'm killing you."
Eira's mind went into a tailspin.
She thought of the river. The freezing, green water that had tried to swallow her whole.
She thought of her father, whose yellow light had been snuffed out by a city that didn't care about the man, only about his medicine.
She thought of the long nights in the cellar where Soren had fixed broken gears or fed Pip snacks.
Oakhaven had taken her father.
It had taken Soren's family.
It was trying to take the only thing she had left that felt like a heartbeat.
As Soren reached for the rusted latch of the coal chute, Eira lunged.
She didn't think about the Wardens, or the violet light, or the logic of survival.
She moved with the same desperate instinct that had made her heal a bird's wing as a child.
She grabbed the front of his tunic, her fingers knotting into the rough wool, and yanked him back.
"Eira, stop-"
She didn't let him finish.
She surged upward, her boots scuffing the dirt floor, and pressed her lips against his.
The world stopped.
The roar of the search parties, the splintering of wood, and the cold damp of the cellar all vanished.
In Eira's mind, there was only the heat of him, the scent of rain and mountain air that had clung to his cloak.
The moment their lips met, Eira felt a surge of warmth radiating from Soren's chest, a heat so intense it felt like the sun was being born in the middle of his heart.
Something new.
Soren's hand dropped the lantern.
The glass vial hit the hay-covered floor with a gentle thud.
Inside the casing, the violet light began to boil.
From the center of the wick, a new flame erupted.
It wasn't lemon-yellow, not scarlet, and certainly not the cold purple of a dying heart.
It was white.
A brilliant, blinding white that washed over the lead-lined walls, snuffing out all the shadows.
Soren pulled back, gasping, his dark eyes wide as he looked down at the lantern.
The warmth in the room was absolute.
Eira pulled back just an inch, her breath catching as she watched the transformation.
The violet was gone, replaced by a flame so pure it made her tears look like tiny crystals.
"Soren," she whispered.
He looked down, his face illuminated in the pearlescent glow.
He was something else entirely.
Above them, the heavy boots returned with a vengeance.
The floorboards groaned under a sudden weight. A heavy blow struck the trapdoor, and then another.
Soren's fingers tightened on Eira's as the wood began to split.
The brilliant white light flared, filling every corner of the cellar, as the door splintered open.