He bent his head and kissed her—gently, as though afraid the moment might fracture if he pressed too hard. Her mouth was cool, her response faint but there, and it was enough. More than enough.
When he lifted his head, his brow rested against hers.
“There is much you must know,” he said quietly. “Much that waits for us.”
“Later,” she whispered.
“Aye,” he agreed at once. “Later.” He shifted her closer. “For now, I only want to hold you.”
A flicker of blue light darted through the trees, catching his attention.
Dar looked up to see Amelia, her wings beating fast, urgency written in every movement. Behind her, his horse emerged from the forest, reins dragging, ears alert. And beyond that?—
Lord Oaken stepped into the clearing, flanked by several men.
Dar looked down at Elara in his arms, wonder and fierce pride filling his chest.
“It’s time,” he said softly, shifting her in his arms, “you meet your grandfather.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Driochmor
Elara’s Grandfather’s Home
* * *
The path wound gently through the garden, pale stone half-hidden by fallen leaves and the creeping reach of late-blooming herbs. Lavender brushed Elara’s skirt, its scent softened by autumn air, while marigold and yarrow caught the low sun in splashes of gold and rust. Beyond them, a large stone manor rose from the land as though it had always belonged there—solid, patient, watching over Driochmor as it had for generations.
Dar slowed without realizing it, his gaze fixed on Elara at his side.
“How do you feel?” he asked and she chuckled softly, the sound still sounding like a miracle to him.
She tilted her head at him as her laughter faded. “Are you ever going to stop asking me that?”
He did not answer because the truth sat too close to the surface. He wasn’t sure he ever would.
She squeezed his hand, hoping to reassure him. “I feel good, strong. Helma has declared me healed, thoroughly and with great authority, I might add.”
Dar released a breath he hadn’t fully released in days. He wanted to believe it completely, wanted to let the word healed settle into his bones the way it once would have. Yet part of him still watched her too closely, listened for a falter in her step, a catch in her breath. Hunters learned the cost of assuming danger had passed, and he would stay ever watchful.
“She also told you to rest,” he reminded her.
“And I did,” Elara said, her smile growing. “I promise. Though she does have a strange idea of rest that involves far too much broth.”
His mouth curved despite himself.
Walking beside her now—alive, warm, teasing him—felt unreal. There were moments when he still half-expected the world to tear her from him again. When he reached for her hand, it was not habit that guided him but need.
Elara felt it too.
She could sense his relief braided tightly with fear, love sharpened by the memory of loss so close it still echoed. She had known death—felt it brushing her skin, pulling her under—and waking to his voice had changed her in ways she was only beginning to understand.
The garden soothed her. The land answered her presence without demand, without urgency. For the first time, she did not feel like a visitor to her own skin.
Yet ahead lay questions she could not outrun.
Her grandfather’s home waited for them, stone walls holding truths about her blood, her past, and the path now opening beneath her feet. She was no longer only Elara of Scotara—herb-scribe, wife of a Hunter. She was something more. Something older.
