Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Caerith
The King’s Castle
King Dravic did not simply walk into the Great Hall—he claimed it with every step.
He wore no crown, yet there was no mistaking him.
His garments marked him as king long before his gaze reached them.
A long coat of deep black, sleeveless and trimmed in silver thread, swept behind him like shadow given form.
Beneath it stretched a richly tailored brocade tunic of dark green, the fabric catching the torchlight in subtle glints.
It molded to his broad shoulders and powerful chest, the cut elegant yet unmistakably made for a man accustomed to command more than courtly life.
But it was his face—striking, immaculate, almost too perfectly carved—that stole breath.
High cheekbones, a strong jaw framed by neatly trimmed dark hair, a mouth that could charm or cut depending on how it chose to shape a word.
Women in any village would whisper about such a man, and maidens would imagine him in their dreams.
Yet none of that held true danger.
It was his eyes.
A piercing, dark blue, cold as winter lochs, deep enough to swallow secrets whole.
One look was enough to still the breath in a chest, enough to warn any heart with sense to look away.
Those eyes scanned the hall with a composure sharpened by years of power, pausing only briefly on Dar before fixing upon Elara.
The moment his gaze found her, Elara felt her pulse jolt.
It was not attraction. It was more like his presence striking something ancient stirring in the marrow. A king carved by legacy and danger, a man who commanded fear as easily as another man might command loyalty.
Beside her, Feena drew a shaky breath and drew Adira closer to her.
Adira stared openly, her green eyes wide, fear trembling through her slight frame.
Dar stood straighter, his posture shifting subtly, taut, ready for battle.
King Dravic stopped several paces before them, the sweep of his long black vest-coat settling around him like the folding of great shadowed wings. His dark blue eyes, cold and discerning, passed over each of them in turn before narrowing on Dar.
“Report,” he commanded.
Dar’s voice carried the calm authority of a seasoned Hunter.
“Aye, my king. I am sure my father has informed you that word reached him of a healer with silver hair and amethyst eyes hidden in Leighfeld. My father sent me to find her and bring her to you. But she is no healer. She is an herb-scribe.”
Dravic’s gaze drifted over her hair, her eyes, her every breath as though measuring the truth of her blood.
“Are you sure she does not mislead you?” King Dravic asked.
“Aye, my king,” Dar replied. “She is no legendary healer. But she has visions. They come without warning, tied to danger. They have proven… useful.”
Elara felt yet another sting of betrayal carving its way toward her heart. He had given his word that he would say nothing, and he broke it.
Dravic lifted his chin slightly, considering her. “The gift of sight. A dangerous thing left behind with the evil magic of the forbidden land.” His eyes narrowed on her. “So, how was it born to an herb-scribe?”
Elara fought to keep her voice strong and free of fear. “I do not know, my king. But I assure you I was not born of evil.”
“So say you,” he said dismissively, then turned his attention to Adira.
The lass clung to Feena’s sleeve, her green eyes wide with fear.
“Adira is a mute, my king.” Feena hurried to explain. “She has little skill, but she has a kind and caring soul.”
“A mute,” the king said curiously, circling her like a wolf scenting something unusual.
“An uncommon condition.” He paused, the corner of his mouth lifting, not in kindness, but in thought.
“A lass who cannot speak dangerous truths, nor hear what she should not. Such a one might serve me very well.”
Feena blanched, her arm tightening around Adira in silent warning.
Adira pressed herself closer to Feena, trembling.
Elara’s stomach twisted. She felt the danger forming, delicate but deadly, like frost beginning to spider across glass.
The king turned back to Dar. “I heard that you traveled more than a week with the silver-haired one. What did you learn about her besides her having visions?”
“I learned that Elara is a good and caring soul.”
“You expect me to take your word?” the king snapped.
Dar’s tone turned firm. “Hunters do not lie to their king. Besides—” He paused for a heartbeat. “Elara is my wife, and I will not allow her to be harmed.”
Silence struck the entire hall.
Elara went still, her breath catching.
The king studied Dar’s face for a long, heavy moment. Then his gaze slid to Elara again, cold and discerning. “Wife,” he said, as if tasting the word. “A convenient bond?”
Dar didn’t flinch. “A necessary one.”
“A permanent one,” the king said, “since I know a Hunter would never speak the word allow to his king unless it was one of their own, one who belonged to them, one they sought to protect. Does Elara belong to you, Dar?”
Dar held the king’s gaze. “Aye, my king, she does.”
The words barely left his lips when King Dravic stepped forward, the air in the Great Hall drawing tight as if the stone itself braced for what would come next.
“Then I will see your marriage made legal, a binding agreement,” the king said, his voice so powerful it reverberated through the hall. “Here. Now. I will seal your marriage with my authority so none may question it.”
Elara’s blood went cold. It wasn’t a choice, not a request, nor a command.
The king’s dark blue eyes narrowed, as if daring either of them to object.
Elara had no choice but to hold her tongue. Otherwise, she would face torture to prove she was nothing more than an herb-scribe. She now understood what Dar meant in following his lead and why he continued to call her wife… he was protecting her. And he committed himself to her for life to do so.
“My king!”
The shout interrupted her thoughts, and she turned to see Muir step forward, his chest puffed, and his arm raised like a banner.
“Forget the silver-haired woman, my king. I believe the one you seek is here.” He pulled back his sleeve with dramatic flair. “My wound, sire, the old woman, Feena, tended it yesterday, and today it’s nearly mended, barely nothing left of the wound!”
The king’s gaze turned upon the arm with sharp interest. He stepped closer, his eyes intent on the wound that appeared completely healed.
“The wound was an angry red and spewing pus.” Muir rubbed the area. “Now there is barely anything there.”
“Impossible,” the king claimed and turned to cast a sharp glance at Feena. “Did you do this by mere touch, or did you use herbs?”
Feena bowed her head, though she trembled under his scrutiny. “I treated the wound with herbs as any healer would, my king. Nothing more.”
“Nothing more?” his voice deepened dangerously. “How can that be with how remarkable Muir healed?”
Feena shrugged. “I don’t know why Muir’s wound healed as it did, my lord. I only know that I possess no remarkable healing touch.”
Elara’s stomach twisted and her heart pounded so hard she thought the king might hear it. Her vision from the night before—the dark figure, the healing touch—rose to the surface of her mind.
Tell him, whispered fear.
Tell him everything, whispered dread.
Say nothing, whispered instinct.
If she spoke of the ethereal figure, of the healing that came from something beyond the mortal world, or perhaps from the forbidden land, what then would the king do?
She pressed her tongue hard to keep it still.
“We will see about that, but right now—” the king turned back to Dar. “The silver-haired woman is yours. You claim her. You bind with her. You control whatever she carries in her heart and mind.” He looked around as he shouted, “Tavish, bring the book of records and two iron bands.”
Elara’s heart felt as if it… shattered.
Control.
Not protect. No mention of cherish, only control and… forever.
The king’s stare pinned her like a spear. “And you, silver-haired one…” His gaze slid slowly over her, taking measure of her fear, her anger, her confusion. “You will be bound to the Hunter. Bound to the throne. Bound by vow and law. Your destiny is no longer your own.”
She lifted her chin despite the trembling in her chest. “I belong to no man’s control.”
A spark of amusement flared in the king’s eyes. “You are your husband’s servant.”
Anger mounted in Elara and the hall felt as if it tightened around her. The air thickened. Even Feena’s breath sounded ragged beside her.
Elara held herself steady though she trembled inside. “I am no one’s servant, not now, not ever.”
Anger knotted the king’s brow. “You defy me?”
Dar tugged at Elara’s hand, forcing her against him. “Nay, my lord, Elara will be a good wife.”
“Obedient,” the king corrected. “She will be an obedient wife.”
Dar actually smiled, to Elara’s dismay.
“Elara knows well about obedience, my king.”
The king turned to Elara and snapped, “Do you, Elara? Do you know how to be obedient to your husband?”
Elara opened her mouth to snap back but feeling a squeeze to her hand was warning enough to give a second thought to her words.
Dar never said she was obedient. He said she knew well about obedience and with a smile, which meant he knew full well she would never be an obedient wife, blind to all else but her husband.
He also knew the wisdom of not openly defying the king.
“Aye, my lord… though with reluctance,” she quickly added.
“A truthful wife, a rarity for sure,” the king said, staring at her intensely in silence for a moment before turning away.
Elara thought then how difficult it must be for him to trust anyone, everyone wanting to remain in his favor out of fear or sheer greed for what he could give them. It had to be a lonely existence.
Tavish stepped forward with a leather-bound book in hand, its thick pages worn with years of recorded unions, births, and deaths.
He set it on one of the tables and opened it, then let two iron bands with the symbol X, that claimed a couple as husband and wife, embedded into it, spill from his hand onto the table.
A quill and ink pot were laid by him, and he looked at the king and gave a nod.
“Step forward,” the king commanded.
Elara hesitated, a breath too long, but it didn’t matter since Dar brought her along with him as he did as ordered, keeping her hand firmly in his.
She was trying to comprehend what was happening, but it all felt too surreal like a vision when she wasn’t sure what she was seeing. She suddenly understood her vision of the iron band on her finger, knowing they were wed, and feeling upset about it. It wasn’t her choice.
“Raise your joined hands,” the king ordered once they stood in front of them and Dar didn’t hesitate to offer their joined hands.
He placed his hand briefly atop theirs, sealing the hold with a cold weight.
“By my word as King of Scotara, you are wed—bound before throne, law, and fate itself. No claim shall challenge this union.” His hand lifted and took the iron bands Tavish handed to him.
“Slip these on each other’s fingers,” he ordered, handing one to each of them, “binding you together for life.”
Dar slipped the iron band on Elara’s finger first, then Elara slipped one on his finger and briefly, a mere flash in her mind, saw them smiling, hugging, content, and she wondered if it was a vision to let her know all would be well or was it simply what she hoped would be their future together?
“Record it, Tavish,” the king commanded.
Tavish lowered his quill to the book, scratching swiftly.
Elara felt the moment fix itself in ink, irreversible, final, and her eyes met Dar’s. She saw no regret, only relief. He had kept his word to her to keep her safe.
“NOW,” the king called out, the word striking like a hammer, “we will see whether this healer”—his gaze went to Feena—“possesses skill worthy of my interest.”
Feena’s breath hitched and fear widened her eyes.
Adira froze, seeing Feena’s frightened expression and clung more tightly to her arm.
The king moved before anyone could speak and seized Adira by the arm and ripped her away from the old woman.
Feena cried out, “My king, nay! Please, nay!” She rushed forward, reaching out to grab Adira away from him, but Muir caught her arm roughly, dragging her back.
“Nay!” Elara lunged forward, tearing her hand out of Dar’s, but his arm shot out, catching her around the middle and pulling her firmly against him.
“Don’t, Elara,” he warned, his voice low but urgent.
His hold was too tight to break free, and Elara froze when she saw the blade, a sharp, gleaming curve of steel drawn from the king’s belt with slow deliberation.
Adira’s eyes went wide, so wide the whites showed all around the trembling green. She opened her mouth in a silent scream.
“Nay!” Feena sobbed.
The king ignored her.
With a swift, practiced motion, he sliced Adira’s forearm. Blood welled instantly, bright and terrible against her pale skin.
Adira’s knees buckled. She would have collapsed if the king hadn’t held her upright, his grip solid around her waist.
Elara’s heart slammed painfully against her ribs, and she went limp against her husband, sickened by such cruelty.
The king glared at Feena, who trembled against Muir’s firm hold, and he commanded, “Heal her.”