Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Village of Ancrum
A Regional Chieftain
Elara entered Ancrum on foot, just as she intended.
She knew this village.
The packed earth path curved gently into familiar ground, and the sounds of life met her like remembered music—hammer against wood, a woman’s laughter, the low murmur of conversation carried on the air. Chickens scattered at her approach, and somewhere a child squealed in delight.
Ancrum was thriving.
That had always been true, but today the sight eased something tight in her chest.
The cottages were well kept, stone walls fitted tight and clean, roofs mended, smoke rising from chimneys in steady plumes.
Gardens bordered nearly every home—late-season greens, bundles of drying herbs tied beneath eaves, baskets set out to air.
This was a village that worked with the land, not against it.
She felt eyes on her, curious, then recognizing.
A woman paused in her sweeping. A man straightened from stacking wood. A pair of children whispered before one pointed openly.
“Elara?” someone called, uncertain at first.
She turned, a small smile lifting her lips. “Aye.”
Relief followed recognition, easy and unguarded and a call of welcome reached her.
She moved deeper into the village, no longer a stranger but a familiar presence returning after too long an absence. She had come here before—shared work, traded knowledge, walked these paths with healers whose hands bore the same stains as her own.
Near a wide table set outside the low stone cottage, she remembered well, three women worked together, sorting bundles of plants—comfrey, tansy, yarrow.
One of them looked up sharply, then broke into a knowing smile.
“Well,” the older woman said, setting aside a bundle. “If it isn’t the herb-scribe who listens more than she speaks.”
Elara felt warmth bloom in her chest, and she smiled at the old healer. “Vanessa, it is good to see you again.”
The work at the table continued, hands moving as they spoke, the rhythm familiar and grounding. Elara welcomed it—the sorting, the quiet decisions of leaf and stem, the shared understanding that came without explanation.
“It eases the heart, knowing the healers are being returned,” the younger woman said at last, tying a bundle with practiced ease. “We feared the worst when they were taken.”
“Aye,” another agreed. “Old wounds were reopened. Too many still remember what it cost us the last time fear ruled the king’s hand.”
“The road has felt lighter since the word spread,” Vanessa added. “As if the land itself breathed easier.”
Elara nodded. “It has been much the same elsewhere.”
They worked a while longer, the sun climbing higher, shadows shifting across the stones. Time passed easily—long enough that Elara felt the gentle pull of it, the sense that she should soon move on.
“Talk of war still lingers,” one of the women said quietly. “Drogath does not sharpen blades to leave them to rust.”
“Nay,” Elara said. “Nor do kings search for what they believe will save them without cause.”
“You’ve heard more than most,” Vanessa said.
Elara hesitated, then said carefully, “On the road, a wanderer spoke of something… strange. He claimed to have seen fae folk in the woods.”
Silence fell so suddenly it felt heavy. Hands stilled. Faces paled.
“That is not a tale you should repeat,” Vanessa cautioned, her voice low but firm.
“Not here,” another added quickly. “Nor anywhere.”
“But you’ve heard nothing of it?” Elara asked.
The women exchanged looks.
“Nay,” Vanessa said. “And if such talk spreads, it will bring nothing but trouble. Best let old stories sleep.”
Elara inclined her head, understanding more than they said. “Then I’ll keep it to myself.”
A moment later, she rose. “I should stretch my legs before I leave. It’s been good to see you all.”
“And you,” Vanessa replied. “May your travels be safe, Elara.”
She walked on through the village, letting the hum of life surround her. She passed gardens she remembered tending, doorways she’d once paused beneath, places that felt unchanged and yet something beneath it all felt… unsettled.
Then it happened.
A soft flutter brushed her cheek, light as a moth’s wing.
Her breath caught.
Leave now.
The whisper threaded through her mind, urgent and unmistakable.
Hurry.
Elara did not hesitate.
She gathered her skirt and turned at once, heart pounding as she moved quickly toward the road. She could already feel it, the tightening air, the forest’s warning reaching out to her.
She was nearly there when hoofbeats sounded.
A mounted figure entered the village square, followed by six men. They rode with authority, armor catching the light, eyes sharp and searching.
The man at their head reined in abruptly.
His gaze locked on her. Not with recognition but with interest.
Elara felt it instantly, the way his dark eyes lingered too long, the way his attention sharpened as though he had found something unexpected and worth claiming. His mount slowed beneath him, then stopped altogether.
“Well,” he said, dismounting with an ease born of command. “You are a sight I did not expect to find, yet pleased that I did.”
His men spread out behind him without a word, their presence threatening. Elara’s skin prickled. This was not curiosity alone, it was assessment. Ownership weighed in his stare.
She had been seen. Not as someone known… but as someone noticed. And that, she knew, could be far worse.
He approached at an unhurried pace, his eyes never leaving her face, tracing her as if committing her to memory. He was of good size with a sharp chin and even sharper nose and long dark hair braided at the sides.
Elara held her ground, though every instinct urged her to move, to flee, to vanish back into the trees.
Hurry, Amelia had warned.
She understood now why.
The man stopped a few paces away, his gaze flicking briefly over her garments, her posture, the confidence with which she stood alone. A faint smile touched his mouth, not kind, not cruel, but aggressive.
“You walk this village as though it is known to you,” he said. “Yet I do not recall seeing you here.”
Her heart pounded. The village women had warned her about Regional Chieftain Pratus upon her first visit here, but he had not shown himself in the village in the short time she had spent there. Now, seeing his predatory nature, she was glad she hadn’t met him.
“I have stopped here before,” she said.
Where was Dar? Surely, he’d arrive soon. She lifted her chin, steadying herself, buying time, and sent a silent message to the trees to hurry Dar along.
People began to drift away.
Not all at once, but subtly, one woman stepping back into a doorway, a man turning as if he’d forgotten an errand, a pair of lads slipping behind a cart. The space around Elara widened, leaving her suddenly, unmistakably alone.
“Do not be alarmed,” he said, stepping closer. “You’ve done nothing wrong.” His eyes traveled her face again, slower now. “In fact, I would like to speak with you. My castle is nearby. You will come stay a day or two as my guest.”
Elara felt the trap close. “I thank you, but I have business elsewhere. I must decline.”
His smile thinned. “That was not an invitation but rather an offer of protection.”
“I require none,” she said.
The air sharpened.
“I think,” he said, irritation slipping through now, “you mistake your position. You walk alone. No kin at your side. No escort. And I am chieftain here.”
“That does not give you claim to me,” she said, her voice steady though her pulse thundered.
His gaze hardened. “It does give me authority to keep those on my land safe.”
She took a step back and quickly decided it would be wise if he knew she was wed. “I wait for my husband. He is not far off.”
He took two steps forward, closing the space between them. “How convenient you suddenly remember that.”
“Something I didn’t think would prove a necessity after making it known after I politely declined your invitation.”
“It is not an invitation,” he snapped, annoyed. “You will come with me.”
She heard it then, the distant thunder of hooves.
Hope flared bright and dangerous.
She stepped back, starting to retreat, but his hand shot out, fingers clamping around her arm. Pain bit as he twisted, forcing her back toward him.
A cry tore from her throat.
“GET YOUR HANDS OFF HER.”
The command cracked through the village like a blade striking stone.
Chieftain Pratus froze.
Dar rode straight at them, fury written in every line of him, his horse skidding to a halt so close dust flew. His men fanned out behind him, silent and lethal.
He dismounted, his hand going to his sword, not drawing it, but ready.
“I will not warn you again,” he said, his voice low, deadly calm. “Release her.”
Chieftain Pratus sneered, tightening his grip. “She is on my—”
Dar moved.
Steel flashed, not striking flesh, but close enough to kiss skin. The chieftain hissed and released her with a curse, stumbling back as Dar stepped between them, one arm going around Elara, pulling her hard against him.
“Touch her again,” Dar said softly, “and you’ll taste blood.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Elara felt Dar’s heart hammering beneath her cheek, his hold unyielding, protective in a way that left no doubt—no question of who claimed her, or why.
And every man watching knew it too.
Chieftain Pratus straightened, masking his momentary surprise with a sneer and spoke loudly. “You overstep. This is my land. You have no authority here, Hunter.”
Dar did not move, did not loosen his hold on Elara.
Instead, he lifted his head and let his voice carry—measured, clear, and sharp enough to cut. “I have every authority when you dare touch… my wife.”
The word struck the air like a blow.
A murmur rolled through the villagers, sharp intakes of breath, startled whispers.
Dar went on, his gaze never leaving the chieftain. “And you forget yourself. This is not your land. All land in Scotara belongs to King Dravic. You rule Ancrum at his pleasure.”
“And Hunters are nothing more than mere servants of the king,” Chieftain Pratus said with a raised voice.
“Loyal servants,” Dar corrected sternly, “who the king rewards well. I am a proud Hunter and heir to Chieftain Cadmus of Venngraith.”
Pratus’s color drained from his face.
“I would be more than willing to escort you to Caerith,” he continued with authority, “so you may explain to the king why you saw fit to lay hands on the future Chieftain of Venngraith’s wife.”
Pratus’s jaw ground in anger, pride warring with survival, and survival won.
“I want no trouble with the king,” he said stiffly.
“Wise choice,” Dar replied.
Chieftain Pratus took a step back, then another, his eyes flicking to the Hunters standing behind Dar, to the villagers watching from doorways and windows. His authority here had cracked, if not broken.
“This matter is ended,” he said curtly, as if declaring it so could make it true.
Dar corrected him once again. “Until King Dravic hears about it and decides differently.”
With a sharp gesture to his men, Pratus turned away.
They followed, retreating and leaving behind a village exhaling all at once.
Dar did not move until they were gone.
Only then did he lower his voice and bend his head to Elara. “Are you hurt?”
Worry mixed with anger in his gray eyes, and she shook her head, still feeling the imprint of his grip, not the chieftain’s, but Dar’s. Steady and firm.
“Nay,” she said softly. “But I am very glad you got here when you did.”
“You should never have been touched,” Dar said, his voice low and lethal.
He turned from her then, slowly, deliberately, until he faced the villagers who had not yet looked away.
Every eye was on him.
Dar took a single step forward, his presence filling the space the chieftain had vacated. His voice carried easily, honed by command and meant to be obeyed. “I am here to hunt.”
Fear rounded eyes, wives gripped tight to their husbands, mothers gathered their bairns close, and no one spoke a word.
“I seek information on two men who have passed through your village.” His gaze swept the crowd, measuring, remembering faces. “And know for certain, I will get what I want one way or another.”