Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Village of Falkrith
Morning
Elara stepped out into the morning air with the quiet certainty of a woman who had slept well and woken better.
The village of Falkrith was already stirring.
Smoke curled from low chimneys, and the scent of freshly baked bread mingled with woodsmoke drifted through the crisp autumn air.
Hunters moved with purpose between cottages, some tightening straps, others checking tack, voices low and efficient. Life here did not dawdle.
She pulled her cloak more securely around her shoulders, though the chill had little to do with the cold.
Dar’s parting kiss lingered with her still.
He had woken her before dawn, not with urgency or command, but with the gentle brush of his lips against her mouth, warm and unhurried.
There had been no need for words, only quiet intimacy, the kind that settled deep rather than stirred haste.
And once again she found herself falling off that ledge only this time her husband tumbled off it with her.
With pleasure satisfied, thoughts had turned toward the day ahead.
He had dressed quickly, efficiently, the Hunter once more, though his gaze lingered on her longer than necessary. He had told her he would take her to Regina himself—wanted to—but she had shaken her head, smiling as she rose and reached for her cloak.
“You have preparations to see to,” she had reminded him. “Point the way. I’ll manage well enough.”
He had studied her then, as if weighing the wisdom of letting her go alone. In the end, he had nodded, brushing a strand of loose hair off her cheek before stepping back.
“I’ll have us ready to leave at first light tomorrow,” he had said. “Do not linger longer than needed.”
“I won’t,” she had promised, and meant it.
Now, as she walked through the village, she followed the path he had described—past the well, along the narrow lane edged with stacked firewood, toward the cottages closer to the tree line.
She felt eyes on her. Not unkind, but curious. Assessing.
Word traveled quickly in villages, and she was not blind to the fact that she was new, and more than that—she was Dar’s wife. The Hunter’s wife. The chieftain’s heir had brought her home, and that alone marked her as someone worth notice.
She kept her head high, a smile on her face, and her pace unhurried.
The village felt different by early light.
Less uncertain than it had upon arrival.
There was order here, discipline, but also a quiet steadiness.
Gardens edged several cottages, modest but well-tended, herbs already dried and bundled beneath eaves.
She recognized some by scent alone and felt a familiar ease settle over her.
Regina’s cottage sat near the edge of the village, half embraced by the woods. Smoke rose from its chimney, thin and steady. A basket of apples rested near the door, and strings of herbs hung beneath the small window—nettle, yarrow, mugwort, and others she could not yet name from this distance.
Relief softened her steps. The woman had what she needed, though she wasn’t sure if it would prove as helpful as her husband expected.
Elara paused only a moment before lifting her hand to knock, aware as she did that this was more than an errand. It was a step forward into Dar’s world, into the life they would share, and into the quiet weaving together of paths that had once run separate.
She knocked and waited.
A pretty woman opened the door, her slim frame round with child, her long, dark hair braided thick and lay over one shoulder. Her belly pressed visibly beneath her apron. One hand rested there instinctively, protective, while the other held the door.
“How may I help you?” the woman asked with a pleasant smile.
Elara dipped her head politely. “Good morn. I am Elara of Leighfeld.” She hesitated only a breath before continuing, aware of the weight of the words as they left her lips. “Dar’s wife… and an herb-scribe.”
The order of her introduction was not lost on her. Nor she suspected, on Regina.
“I am Regina, Gorman’s wife,” she announced, her gaze sliding over Elara with renewed interest. “Well then, hurry in before the chill settles into your bones. Commander Dar’s wife is always welcome here.”
Warmth greeted Elara the moment she crossed the threshold—woodsmoke, baking bread, and the unmistakable scent of herbs drying overhead.
Bundles hung from ceiling beams and along the walls, carefully tied and labeled with neat charcoal marks.
A cradle sat near the hearth, already waiting, and three small stools were tucked beneath the table, their legs scuffed by frequent use.
Regina closed the door and turned, her hand again finding her belly as she moved. “You’ve good timing. The little one has been restless since dawn.” She gave her stomach an affectionate pat. “Five months along now and already ruling the household.”
Elara smiled. “You make it sound familiar.”
“Aye, well, this will be the fourth to do so.” Regina’s eyes gleamed with humor.
“Three daughters already, and another on the way. Gorman swears this one will be a son, but he’s said that every time.
The lasses are with him now, a morning stroll, though more so to give me time to get their breakfast finished without chaos. ”
She stirred a sizeable pot of porridge in the hearth, while a cloth covered a large plate, the mound beneath no doubt freshly baked bread keeping warm.
Elara’s gaze drifted naturally to the hanging bundles. “You keep a fine collection of herbs.”
Regina followed her look and nodded. “Enough to tend scrapes, fevers, and the foolishness of men who think themselves unbreakable.” She snorted softly. “I’m no healer, mind you. I leave that to those trained for it. But when you live with Hunters, you learn what you must.”
Elara moved closer to the wall, careful not to touch without permission. “You have mugwort,” she said, then smiled. “And nettle.”
“I do,” Regina said, “and from the look in your eyes, you’re in need of some.”
“If you would not mind sharing,” Elara said gently. “We are preparing for travel, and there are… protections I wish to put in place.”
Regina studied her a long moment, then nodded once. “Of course.” She reached for a knife and a basket and handed them to Elara. “Take what you need.”
As Elara cut the bundles with practiced ease, she engaged Regina in talk. “The village looks upon the Hunters with such certainty. Fear, respect… both, I think.”
“They live for the hunt,” she said simply. “It is bred into them and taught before first steps are taken. They measure themselves by it.”
“And you?” Elara asked. “How do you live among that?”
Regina glanced up, meeting her gaze squarely. “I was born and raised here. So, it is easy to understand them. Besides, I know what most do not.”
Elara felt a subtle shift in the air, as if a door had cracked open.
“There is a history to the Hunters,” Regina continued, her voice lower now, careful. “One few speak of. Fewer still remember clearly. It’s easier to believe we were always as we are now—the fearful sound of drums, endless hunts, obedience to the king.”
“But that was not always so?” Elara asked, her fingers curling around the handle of the basket.
Regina met her eyes again, something earnest there, something weighing on her. “You should know that truth has many layers… among the Hunters.”
Elara understood that she would not speak of it now. “Perhaps one day you will tell me.”
Regina’s smile returned, softer now. “Perhaps. For now, take what you need, and know this. Whatever else they are, Hunters protect what is theirs.”
Elara thought of Dar, already gone to prepare for their departure, eager and restless, purpose guiding his every step.
“I am beginning to understand that,” she said, and she suspected there was far more yet to learn.
Elara left Regina’s cottage with the basket tucked securely over her arm, but she did not return immediately to Dar’s cottage or to look for him.
How could she, when the woods called to her?
They always had.
The trees stood just beyond Regina’s cottage, their trunks dark and planted deep, their branches lifting like welcoming arms. The moment her boots crossed from packed earth to uneven, leaf-strewn ground, something inside her eased.
Her shoulders relaxed. Her breathing slowed.
The air itself felt different—alive in a way stone walls and hearth smoke never were.
She slipped between the trees without thought, following no path, only instinct.
This was home.
Not the cottage. Not the village. This.
Sunlight filtered through thinning leaves, scattering gold across moss and bark. A bird flitted overhead, its wings whispering. Somewhere deeper in the woods, something small scurried and paused, watching her. She felt it—felt them all—without seeing.
Elara stopped near an old oak whose roots rose like knotted fingers from the earth. She set Regina’s basket down and rested her palm against the bark.
Warm.
Not from sun, but from something older.
“You feel it too.”
The voice was light, lilting—and entirely unexpected.
Elara spun.
A tiny figure hovered just beyond the oak’s trunk, smaller than a young bairn’s hand.
Gossamer wings shimmered behind her, catching the light in impossible hues—blue, silver, green all at once.
Red curls framed a round face dusted with freckles, and sharp, curious eyes studied Elara with open interest.
Elara grinned. “I am so pleased to finally see you and I want to thank you for your help, and your warnings.”
“You can see me,” the little creature said, shocked but delighted.
“Aye, I can see you clearly,” Elara said then thought of what it might mean, the danger of it, having not only visions but the ability to see magical forest creatures. And she wondered over her newfound abilities. “How is it I can see you when others can’t?”
The fairy flitted closer, circling her slowly.
“Most humans can’t see us. Not unless we want them to.
And even then, attempts can prove futile.
Fear prevents most from catching even a small glimpse of us.
” She stopped directly in front of Elara’s face, hovering eye to eye.
“You have an inherent connection with the forest and all in it, and you embrace it, and the forest embraces you.” She smiled wide.
“I am pleased to finally meet you, Elara. I am Amelia.”
“I am pleased to meet you, Amelia. I have felt you near for some time and was hoping to meet you.”
Amelia’s smile softened. “It was inevitable with the forest being your home.”
Elara found her remark more a declaration as if it was fact that the forest was actually her home, as if she was born here among the trees, the foliage, the forest creatures themselves. But that was nonsense, and yet she could not shake the feeling.
“Well, I am an herb-scribe,” Elara said, thinking that might explain it.
Amelia’s wings fluttered once, amused. “That is only a small part of you.” Her expression sobered. “We don’t have much time. Things are stirring.” She glanced deeper into the forest, where shadows layered thickly between trunks. “The old paths are waking and you and others wake with them.”
Elara shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“You will,” Amelia assured her. “You will come to understand it all and I will be there to help you and warn as well. So, pay heed to my words.”
“I am pleased to hear that,” Elara said, Amelia’s words reassuring though she didn’t understand why. Shouldn’t she be skeptical of the fairy? How was it, she trusted her so easily when the fae had been condemned and banished?
Amelia reached out and brushed Elara’s cheek with the lightest touch, cool as morning dew.
Elara gasped, something inside her responding to the touch. Not pain. Not magic as she understood it. Something deeper. Buried. Freed.
Amelia tilted her head slightly, her delicate features sharpening with alertness. “Someone approaches.”
Elara stiffened. “Who?”
The fairy’s gaze slid past her, toward the deeper trees, as though she could see beyond bark and shadow. A knowing smile curved her lips. “The Hunter. Your husband.”
A strange warmth settled in Elara’s chest at the certainty in Amelia’s voice. “You know him?”
“I know his tread,” Amelia replied. “The forest knows him. He walks with purpose.” Her wings fluttered once, catching the light. “He is close now.”
Elara turned, searching the woods, though she heard nothing yet.
Amelia’s expression softened, something almost wistful passing through her bright eyes. “You walk between paths, Elara, and they soon will collide.” She flitted back, already beginning to fade. “I will see you again.”
Before Elara could speak, Amelia shot upward, dissolving into a shimmer of light that vanished among the leaves.
A moment later, footsteps crunched against fallen leaves and branches.
Dar emerged from between the trees, his gaze sharp, already fixed on her. Relief crossed his face so quickly it was gone almost before she caught it.
“There you are,” he said. “Plans have changed.” His eyes narrowed slightly as he looked around. “You should not have gone alone into the woods.”
She frowned. “Why not? This is the home of the Hunters. Surely your woods are the safest place of all.”
He crossed the distance between them and drew her close, his arm settling around her with instinctive ease. “Not today.”
Her heart gave a small jolt. “Why?”
“Word has reached my da. Hunters have heard that a foreigner has entered Driochmor, near Wedderlie. There is good reason to believe the man is an emissary from Drogath, sent by Warlord Tharne. If true, it would be safe to assume that Tharne intends to offer the creatures of Driochmor whatever it takes to fight alongside him and help him conquer Scotara. My da doesn’t trust anyone but me to find out if this is true or nothing more than a whispered tale before he reports it to the king. We leave immediately for Wedderlie.”