“Nay, something stops me from seeing it,” Lord Oaken said with a touch of annoyance.
Dar’s head snapped up as if he heard something, but it was a sudden memory recalled that grabbed hold of him.
“What is it?” Lord Oaken asked anxiously.
“According to a healer Elara spoke to, she predicted that Elara and I would have a happy life together. That would mean Elara is meant to live. So, what am I not doing that I should be doing?” He shook his head. “Instinct had me bringing her here. I thought for sure she would be saved if I brought her here. What am I missing?”
Dar went to sit on bed beside Elara, taking her limp, cool hand in his and placing it against his chest to warm it.
“I won’t fail you. I won’t,” he murmured.
“I will leave you. We will speak tomorrow.”
Dar barely heard what Lord Oaken said, though he did hear the click of the door’s latch.
Lord Oaken returned as the night deepened, Helma at his side. She moved straight to the bed without a word, lifting the lantern just enough to study Elara’s face, her breathing, the color beneath her skin. She touched Elara’s wrist, then her brow, murmuring softly under her breath.
Dar watched every movement, rigid with restraint, his hands clenched at his sides.
“She still clings to life,” Helma said quietly. “No fever. No further bleeding.”
It was not reassurance—but it was not surrender either.
Lord Oaken turned then and inclined his head toward the door. “Come. We should speak.”
Dar hesitated, his gaze fixed on Elara.
“I will not take you far,” Lord Oaken said. “And you will still hear her if she stirs.”
Dar followed him outside.
The night in Driochmor was unlike any he had known. The forest did not recede into darkness—it watched. Leaves whispered though there was no wind. Soft lights pulsed faintly between branches, not lanterns, not stars. Life pressed close without crowding.
Lord Oaken stopped beneath an ancient tree, its bark pale as bone, its branches heavy with age.
“Tell me something, Dar of Venngraith,” he said. “Do you know the true history of your Hunter clan?”
Dar frowned. “I’ve heard tales. Old ones. My da told me to pay them no heed.”
“And did you?”
“Aye, it is imperative that Hunters follow rules. It is why Hunters always catch their prey. The old tales are meant to distract. Hunters deal in what is real. Flesh. Blood. Proof.”
Oaken studied him in the low light. “And yet here you stand—in Driochmor—trusting magic to save your wife.”
Dar stiffened. “I trust nothing but my will to keep her alive.”
Lord Oaken nodded once. “Then it is time you heard the truth of what your da told you to ignore.”
He turned his gaze toward the darkened forest beyond the village.
“The Hunters were not always what your king believes them to be. Before kings ruled Scotara,” Lord Oaken said quietly, “before banners and borders, there were the Hunters.”
Dar’s jaw tightened. “We know that.”
“You know the tale the king allows,” Lord Oaken corrected. “Not the truth.”
A need to hear what he would say kept Dar minding his tongue.
