Fated

"Did Sam die still pining after you, or did you finally stop treating him like filth?" Rolfe says, Elara's eyes snap to him; to the way Aelin's expression changes when he speaks those words. The room falls silent for only a moment, Rowan shifts, but it is not him that takes hold of the captain.

Elara stares in unnerving calm as Rolfe crashes into his chair, suddenly unable to breath. Two bands of water slither around his neck, tightening as he grips the armrests of his chair; it scrapes backward across the floor until it strikes the stone wall with a dull thud. The movement is controlled, nothing out of place as Elara's eyes boar into him, her hands still draped across her crossed legs. Everyone in the room shifts their eyes to her, yet her face still remains calm; even if her eyes say something else.

"Do not speak of the dead so carelessly." Elara finally says; her voice quiet, unwavering. Dorian and Rowan stare at her in disbelief, they are not surprised to see her grow angry, it is the precision that gnaws at them. She does not lash out, she does not crash through the room until she is upon him, she simply stares so deeply into him. Rowan, in his time with her beside the river, had taught her to embrace her magic, to control it; yet he never had to teach her restraint, she already mastered it years ago.

Fenrys and Gavriel look to her in surprise; for days they have watched a gentle, harmless girl, if a bit strange. They have watched her do nothing but heal children, help the maids, walk the shores; yet now they have realized the truth. Her kindness was not weakness, it was merely restraint. The water melts away from Rolfe, he coughs and stares at Elara in disbelief; she merely directs her attention back to Aelin, leaning back into her chair; her sister grinning at her.

"Continue." Elara tells them.