Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
The King’s Castle
The Price of Visions
Elara woke wrapped in warmth. For a moment she didn’t move, didn’t even breathe, unsure if she was in a dream.
A solid arm lay heavy across her waist and the steady rise and fall of breath whispered warm against the back of her neck.
The soft brush of a leg tangled lightly with hers.
And beneath it all, the quiet, rhythmic thud of a heartbeat pulsed against her spine.
Dar.
Memory returned in pieces, fear, the king’s cruelty, Adira’s silent cry, the forced vows, the tense words between husband and wife. Yet here, in the gray hush of dawn, none of that existed. Only his warmth… his strength… his hold around her as though she belonged there.
Her breath hitched.
She should move. She should put distance between them.
But she didn’t, not at once. Because for this brief, fragile moment, she felt safe in a way she shouldn’t. As if the night’s storms, within the keep and within herself, had worn her thin enough that comfort found its way in.
Dar stirred behind her, his breath brushing her ear. His arm tightened instinctively, drawing her closer before he fully woke. Elara felt the slight jolt of awareness go through him, the sudden stillness in his body. A tense beat. A moment suspended.
Then, quietly, low and rough from sleep, he said, “You’re awake.”
“Aye,” she whispered, wishing her voice didn’t tremble so lightly.
He did not release her. If anything, his arm loosened only enough to be gentle… not enough to let her go. He moved his head, his breath warming her shoulder. His chest pressed to her back. And Elara felt her pulse flutter wildly, traitorously.
“This wasn’t my intent,” he murmured, his voice a mix of caution and truth.
“I know,” she said softly. And she did. For all the turmoil between them, last night had been exhaustion and fear, not desire. She had simply fallen asleep… and he had taken his place beside her as he said he would.
Still, now… lying there… it felt far too easy to remain.
He slowly withdrew his arm, giving her the space she hadn’t asked for but needed. Cold rushed in where his warmth left, and she hated how her body noticed.
Before either of them could speak, a sharp pounding struck the chamber door.
“Commander Dar!” a guard’s voice shouted through the wood. “By order of the king, you and your wife are summoned to his chamber at once.”
Dar exhaled and the softness between them shattered. “The king rises early.”
“Perhaps he never sleeps,” Elara murmured, sitting up.
The pounding came again.
“Now, Commander!”
Dar’s jaw tightened, irritation flaring in his eyes as he called out, “A moment.”
He swung out of the bed and crossed to the washbasin, splashing cold water over his face and running his fingers through his hair before reaching for his leather vest lying on a chair and slipping it over his shirt to tie at the sides.
Elara followed, though she straightened her garments, disheveled from sleeping in them before splashing her face with water and wishing she had time to freshen herself properly. Their eyes met for a fleeting, cautious moment, but no words were spoken, and she looked away first.
A sharp, impatient knock sounded.
Dar opened the door to find two guards waiting, their expressions severe.
“The king does not like to be kept waiting,” one said.
“Lead the way,” Dar snapped as if impatient himself.
He reached for Elara’s hand out of instinct. or perhaps duty, and she didn’t hesitate, not even for a heartbeat, before letting her fingers slide into his. His hand closed around hers, warm, strong, comforting in a way she had come to expect and, if she would admit, she looked forward to.
They were escorted through torch-lit corridors where banners hung still, the early dawn yet to stir the air. The closer they drew to the king’s chambers, the colder the stones beneath their boots seemed to grow.
Elara’s pulse quickened. Whatever awaited them beyond those heavy carved doors… it would not be simple, nor kind, nor without consequence.
The guards halted and reached out to open the two doors.
Dar’s grip tightened around her hand, and he whispered, “Whatever happens… stay beside me.”
She nodded once, her breath unsteady.
Then the doors opened, and together they crossed the threshold into the king’s chamber.
King Dravic stood beside Adira, his imposing frame rigid, his dark green brocade catching the morning light that filtered through the tall windows. His icy gaze shifted briefly to Elara and Dar as they entered, but he said nothing, merely waited for them to stand where he pointed.
Adira sat in a carved wooden chair at a small table draped with a deep burgundy cloth.
She hunched slightly, her wounded arm cradled protectively against her chest, her braid falling over her shoulder like a dull flame.
Her wide green eyes darted between those in the chamber, uncertain and frightened, but she remained still, sensing the king’s power.
Feena sat rigid beside her, keeping her old hands folded tightly in her lap and her lips pressed together as though fearing to utter a wrong word. The numerous lines around her mouth and eyes seemed etched deeper this morning, weighted by worry and fear.
Tavish stood off to one side, arms crossed, his expression unreadable, while Muir hovered behind him, shifting restlessly as though awaiting the king’s command.
King Dravic did not speak immediately. His eyes traveled slowly over Elara and Dar, lingering on their joined hands, the sight seeming to both irritate and disinterest him at once. When he finally addressed the room, his voice held the same cold authority that had filled the hall the previous day.
“Feena,” he said, his tone brooking no hesitation, “remove the bandage.”
Feena swallowed hard. Her gaze went to Adira, then to Elara, then back to the king.
At last, she nodded and reached with trembling fingers to unwind the linen strip from Adira’s arm.
Each fold loosened seemed to echo in the oppressive silence of the chamber.
Adira flinched at the first tug, her breath shuddering, though she tried to remain brave.
Elara stood tucked against Dar, his arm a solid anchor around her, a silent command to stay where she was. She could feel the tension in him, tight and coiled, as though preparing for whatever storm the king’s reaction would unleash.
When the last of the linen fell away, Feena drew in a small, sharp breath.
There was only the slightest improvement, not what the king sought.
The wound looked clean, the swelling lessened, the angry redness faded, not as harsh… but it was still an open cut, not the miraculous healing that had spared Muir days of pain.
Dravic leaned down, inspecting the wound with narrowed eyes. His jaw tightened. His fingers drummed once on the edge of the table.
“This,” he said slowly, “has not healed.”
Feena’s hands clenched on her lap. “My lord… I did all I could. Herbs can only do so much. A wound needs time, rest, and proper tending. I am but a simple healer—”
“A simple healer?” the king snapped, cutting her off. “A simple healer does not mend wounds overnight.”
Feena’s breath hitched. “That… I cannot explain. I did nothing with Muir’s wound beyond what I did to Adira’s wound.”
The king’s eyes flared hot with frustration. He wheeled around, his long coat whipping behind him like a dark banner.
“So, you are not the one,” he said sharply, each word falling like a blow. “You are not the healer who defies death. You are not the one I have sought.”
Feena bowed her head, anxious over what the consequences of her failure would mean. “Nay, my king. I never claimed to be.”
The king’s fury simmered just beneath his skin. He turned sharply toward Tavish. “This is a waste of time. They will all remain here in Caerith until I determine their use.”
Tavish nodded, though a faint rise of his brow hinted at disagreement.
Elara felt Dar’s arm tighten around her as though bracing for the king’s next command.
The king’s gaze fell upon the newly wedded pair, cold and calculating. “You two are bound now. You both will remain here until I decide otherwise.”
The words struck like the clamp of a shackle around their wrists.
Elara inched forward before Dar could stop her.
“My king,” she said, her voice steady though her pulse raced. “There may be another way to find this extraordinary healer.”
Dar hissed her name under his breath, a warning, but she ignored him.
The chamber turned silent as all eyes focused on her.
King Dravic tilted his chin ever so slightly and regarded her with a razor-sharp stare. “Speak carefully, herb-scribe. I am not in a forgiving mood.”
Elara met the king’s gaze with a bravery she barely felt. “I offer an alternative.”
She held the king’s interest, her breath steady though her knees wished to tremble. She felt Dar’s presence beside her, solid, simmering with a protectiveness he struggled to contain, since no doubt he thought her foolish for even suggesting she could somehow solve this.
“My king,” she began carefully, “if you allow me to use my visions, I can help you find the healer you seek.”
A murmur rippled through the chamber. Tavish’s brows rose. Muir shifted uneasily. Even Feena’s eyes widened in warning.
“Visions,” the king repeated, his voice low, his interest sharpened. “You offer visions as aid? Explain yourself.”
Elara swallowed, her mouth dry, but she would not falter… too much depended on this.
“My visions come often when something near is about to happen,” she said. “When danger approaches, when a truth is ready to be revealed, when a path is shifting beneath my feet. They do not arrive by my will, but by something… greater.”
The king stepped closer, his eyes narrowing with assessment. “This sounds like the dark craft of Driochmor.”
“I cannot speak for its origin, my king,” she said quickly. “I only know it has never brought harm—only warning. Only guidance.”