Elara's POV
The crash was the detonation. The moment the fragile membrane between outside and inside was obliterated.
Shouting erupted in a chaotic, overlapping roar of angry, male voices that bled together into a single beast of sound. I couldn't make out words, only tones: aggression, command, panic, fury. Then, cutting through the din, I heard Kaelan's men. Their voices were different, clipped, sharp, devoid of wasted energy. "Flank left!" "Cover the hall!" "Don't let them past the bar!" They were coordinates in a deadly game. Then came the sounds that turned the blood in my veins to solid ice, that stopped my heart for two long, painful beats: the distinctive, chillingly efficient click-clack-clack of handgun slides being racked, one after another, a metallic chorus loading finality into chambers. A symphony of lethal intent, now fully loaded and ready to play.
A war was raging in the room just beyond my thin wooden prison wall. The vibration of heavy footsteps, of bodies hitting the floor, thudded through the structure. And I was the casus belli. The cause. The spark that had lit this powder keg. My breath hitched in my throat, a ragged, loud, traitorous sound in the absolute dark. I was sure they could hear it through the bookshelf, that my panting was a beacon. I pressed my back against the cold, unyielding concrete wall, squeezing my eyes shut as if that could make me smaller, could dissolve me into the atoms of the building itself. I am not here. I am part of the wall. I am dust.
A gunshot.
It was so much louder inside, confined by the walls of the bar. It wasn't the bang of television; it was a concussive BLAM that slammed against my eardrums, a physical pressure wave in the tiny, dark space. I flinched so hard my head snapped back and hit the concrete with a dull crack. Bright stars exploded in the darkness behind my eyelids. The coppery taste of my own blood from a bitten tongue mixed with the taste of dust and concrete and fear. Oh god. Was that Kaelan? Was it Marcus who pushed me in here? Had one of the men who followed his silent orders just had his life ended by a piece of lead, all because I ran through the wrong door? The guilt was a sudden, suffocating weight, heavier than the darkness. I was a poison. I infected places with violence.
More shouts. A cry of pain, short, guttural, animalistic, then abruptly cut off. The sound of heavy furniture being violently overturned, wood cracking like bones, more glass exploding in a high, sad tinkle. A bottle of something ancient and expensive shattering on the floor, releasing the ghost of its aroma even here. The sounds painted a violent, desperate mural in the darkness behind my eyelids. I could see the beautiful room being torn apart, men becoming shapes of struggle, the air thick with cordite and rage.
"Find the girl!" Vance's voice, closer now, raw with fury and frustration. He was inside the bar. In Kaelan's domain. "Tear this place apart! She's here somewhere! Check the walls!"
Check the walls. The words were a spike of pure terror driven straight into my spine. Tears, hot and shameful, streamed down my face, cutting tracks through the grime and dust. They were going to find me. It was inevitable. They would run their hands along these bookshelves, feel for a draft, for a seam, and they would rip this door open. And Kaelan's protection, his "vault," would mean nothing against a dozen armed, desperate men who had just broken a sacred rule. I was going to die in a secret room, in total, absolute darkness, for the crime of being in the wrong alley at the wrong time. My life with its quiet dreams of tenure, of a better apartment, of maybe one day understanding the precise mechanics of a thunderstorm would end here, in a place called Nero's Gate, for a reason that felt cosmically stupid and insignificant. The unfairness of it was a physical ache, a cramp in my soul.
I heard the thud of heavy boots running past my hiding spot. My whole body went rigid, every muscle locked in a rigor of terror. They were right there. I could hear their harsh, adrenaline-fueled breathing, the rustle of their tactical jackets, the clink of equipment on their belts. I could smell their sweat, cheap aftershave, the oily scent of gunmetal. I stopped breathing altogether, drawing my knees up to my chest, making myself a tight, fetal ball, praying to a god I hadn't spoken to since childhood. Don't see me. Don't feel me. Let me be stone.
Suddenly, the entire wall I was leaning against shuddered violently, the impact so close and personal it felt like being struck in the back. A heavy body was slammed into the other side with a sickening, meaty thud, followed by a grunt of pain. A picture frame or a heavy crystal decanter fell from a shelf just outside and hit the wooden floor with a crash of glass and a final, solid thump. The violence was inches away, separated only by a thin panel of wood and a row of fake, leather-bound books. The impact vibrated through my bones. I stuffed my fist into my mouth, biting down on my knuckles hard enough to break the skin, the new, sharp pain a welcome distraction from the terror, trapping the scream that fought to tear its way out of my throat. They were right on the other side of the wall. If they leaned against the bookshelf, would they feel it give? Would they hear the frantic, thunderous beating of my heart?