E L A R A

Someone screams my name again. The crowd twists toward the sound, phones lifting like a thousand tiny moons. My hand is still locked in Adrian’s, hot and steady and terrifying, his thumb pressing once against my knuckles like he’s trying to say an entire sentence without speaking.

The ramp trembles from the surge of bodies. Lanterns drift overhead, soft and glowing, too gentle for a night spiraling out of control. Kai’s voice snaps somewhere behind us — “Back up!” — followed by Selene grabbing at my elbow, her own breath wild. Lucien steps in front of a drone that flies too close, and Marina is yelling something about optics like it matters at all right now. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. All I know is that the world didn’t just look at us,  it lunged.

“Make them speak!” someone shouts.
“Dr. Quinn, look here!”
“Is this the woman behind the forged authorization?!”

The noise cracks like lightning. Then two festival staff rush forward and grab my shoulders, steering me toward the center platform. Toward the podium. Toward the mic waiting in the wash of lanternlight. Oh god. They want me to speak. Right now. In this mess. Adrian’s hand tightens around mine, a silent vow I don’t know how to read.

My pulse ricochets through my ribs as they push me forward. I plant my feet, but it only slows us. The crowd is a living creature now,  roaring, shifting, hungry. Every camera flash feels too bright. Every shout of my name hits an old bruise in my chest.

NYC. The trauma bay. The code blue I still dream about.  Nathan’s voice slicing through the chaos:
“You care too much, Elara. Compassion is the first thing that kills you.”

The metallic taste floods my mouth. Compassion didn’t kill that patient — negligence did. Arrogance did. But the system blamed the one who felt too deeply. The one who tried too hard. The one who refused to let go. For a heartbeat I swear I’m back there  with harsh lights, blood on my hands, my voice cracking as I begged for a crash cart that never came. Then Adrian’s thumb sweeps the back of my hand.

“Elara,” he murmurs, voice low and fierce. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” But the crowd chants my name again, louder, harsher.

“If she stays silent, she admits guilt!”
“Answer for the forged document!”

My throat closes. This isn’t fear. This is a trap snapping shut. And I’m right in the center of it.

The stage manager appears out of nowhere, headset crooked, shirt untucked, sweat gleaming on his temples. He herds me up the glowing steps like I’m a bomb he’s begging not to detonate.

“Dr. Quinn,” he whispers urgently. “Just reassure them. Anything. A sentence. The island needs..”

“I’m not your press release,” I say, but my voice feels paper-thin, swallowed instantly by the roar below.

When I reach the top of the platform, the view knocks the air from my lungs. A sea of faces. Lanterns. Cameras. All waiting for me to either shatter or save them. Adrian climbs the last step beside me, close enough our shoulders brush. The contact grounds me and terrifies me at the same time. He stands at my back, heat radiating off him, his jaw set in a line meant to intimidate gods.

Selene watches from the stairs with clasped hands.  Kai stalks the stage edge like a storm waiting to break.  Lucien scans the crowd, seeing patterns in the chaos the rest of us can’t. The mic stands right in front of me, tall and merciless.

Someone yells, “Did you forge the authorization?”
Another: “Is compassion your excuse?”

The lanterns sway.  The world tilts.  And I realize there’s no stepping backward. I’m already in the fire.

The crowd is a wall of sound, an ocean I’m supposed to calm with nothing but a heartbeat and a voice. Mine. God help me.

“I…”  The mic catches the tremor and throws it across the island. I shut my eyes and try again.

“When I came to Isla Seraphine,” I say, the words shaky at first, “I thought I was running away. From a system that told me compassion was weakness. That caring too much made me dangerous.” Someone scoffs loudly from the crowd.

“Then why are you here now?”
“Answer the scandal!” I lift my chin and look past all of them, out toward the drifting lanterns.

“I’m here because compassion isn’t weakness,” I say, louder. “It’s survival.” The words slam through me like a wave and leave me trembling.

“I’ve seen what happens when people are taught to harden their hearts. When arrogance matters more than lives. I’ve seen what it costs to pretend emotion is the enemy.” The wind shifts. The lanterns flicker.

“And I’m done pretending.” Noise ripples. Then:

“What about the forged authorization?!”
“Did you lie to protect the Valcrosse heir?!”

“I didn’t write it,” I say, voice ringing. “Whatever document is circulating, it wasn’t me.” A low, electric murmur sweeps the crowd.

“But I won’t apologize for caring,” I push on. “I won’t apologize for trying to keep this island safe. I won’t apologize for compassion,  because it’s the only reason any of us survive.” The last sentence leaves me breathless. Then everything explodes.

The crowd erupts. Not with anger but with something fierce, loud, rising from their chests like a storm of sound. Lanterns drift upward in clumsy waves as people release them with shaking hands. Someone starts clapping. Someone else cries.  The platform vibrates under the noise.

I’m reeling, about to step back, about to retreat into myself before the emotion spilling over breaks me open in front of everyone,  when Adrian steps into my line of sight. He catches a lantern drifting too close to the stage. Warm light spills across his face, softening him in a way nothing ever has.

He looks at me. Proud of you, he mouths. My breath breaks, raw and unguarded. I almost reached for him. I almost let myself fall into his warmth, his certainty. But Marina materializes at the foot of the stairs, eyes sharp and glittering. The applause suddenly feels like another kind of danger.

“Public sentiment just flipped,” Marina whispers to a board member. “If she stays popular, the inheritance politics get… interesting.”

My stomach knots. Another investor says, “This shifts the Valcrosse succession optics dramatically.” Lucien hears it. I see the calculation flicker in his eyes like a blade catching sunlight. Kai mutters a curse under his breath. Selene’s brows pinch with worry. I swallow hard. Maybe I didn’t put out a fire tonight. Maybe I lit one.

The lanterns rise higher, and the crowd keeps cheering, but beneath it, something darker stirs. Then the lights above the boardwalk flicker. Once.  A little more than a shiver.

Selene’s head snaps up. “That’s not normal.” The lights flicker again, harder and every muscle in my body tightens. Then, with a sound like the whole island exhaling, everything goes dark.

The only light left is the drifting lanterns, dozens of tiny stars suspended in a sudden, suffocating black. Screams split the air.  Confusion ripples through the crowd.
Someone shouts, “Where are my kids?!”  Another voice curses.

I can’t see anything, not my hands, not the edge of the stage. Then fingers close around my wrist.

“Stay behind me,” Adrian says, voice low and sharp. Something in the darkness shifts, a vibration under the stage like the power grid took a hit. A heavy one. Kai swears nearby. Selene called out my name, panicked. Lucien is already barking orders: “Phones on. Lights up. Move slow..” But before anyone obeys, a second shock rattles the platform.

The crowd surges backward in instinctive terror. The stage groans under the sudden shift of weight.

“Everyone off the ramp!” someone yells. Adrian pulls me closer, shielding me with his body, breath harsh against my ear. My pulse hammers, my skin buzzing with adrenaline. And somewhere deep in the festival grounds, something thuds again, heavy, metallic, deliberate. Not an accident. Not a storm. Not a fuse.

A strike. The island isn’t just dark. It’s under attack.