Chapter 28 #2
Another dagger flashed from the shadows of the trees, driving straight into his chest. The force of it stole the breath from him and still he struggled to stay on his feet. Then—he fell hard, the sword slipping from his grasp as he hit the ground.
Elara went to run; two, three steps, then a pain exploded through her chest.
The impact was sudden, devastating, knocking the air from her lungs as the dagger drove deep. Her legs buckled. The forest tilted, spun, and rushed up to meet her as she fell to the ground.
Cold seeped into her bones.
Her vision blurred, darkness closing in at the edges, but before it claimed her, she forced her eyes open one last time.
A man stood over her.
She saw his face.
And then everything went black.
Dar rode out from beneath Pratus’s gate with his jaw clenched and his thoughts locked on what had not been said.
Pratus was hiding something. He was sure of it.
He would send word to his da to send a troop of men to Pratus and question him until they get answers while he continued to pursue the wanderer and the stranger.
They had gone no more than a few lengths down the road when it struck him.
A sudden unease—sharp, vicious—cut through his chest like a blade. His breath hitched, his hand tightening on the reins as if something inside him had been wrenched violently out of place.
Then—
A flutter brushed his cheek.
So light he might have thought he imagined it.
A whisper followed, breath-soft against his ear.
Hurry.
His heart slammed.
She’s hurt.
Dar did not question it. He forced his horse into a run and shouted, “Hurry!”
His men needed no further command. They spurred their horses hard, hooves tearing into the earth as they raced forward.
Soon, the forest rushed toward them, branches blurring, the path narrowing as Dar drove his horse faster than was wise, faster than was safe. Nothing mattered but reaching her.
Nothing.
They broke through the last stand of trees—and he saw her.
Elara lay crumpled on the forest floor, motionless. Blood soaked the front of her gown, dark and spreading, staining the leaves beneath her. Brice lay nearby, unmoving.
The world shattered.
A sound tore from Dar’s chest—raw, animal, filled with a rage so fierce it seemed to split the air itself. He launched himself from his horse before it had fully stopped, hitting the ground hard and stumbling the last steps to her side.
“Elara!” he roared, dropping to his knees, his hands already shaking as he reached for her.
Blood. Too much blood.
“Nay,” he snarled, as if the word alone could undo what he saw. “Nay. Nay.”
He gathered her to him, his hands slick with red, his breath coming in harsh, broken gasps as he pressed his forehead to hers.
Around him, the forest fell silent.
He felt her breath against his cheek.
She still lived.
“Get the healers,” he shouted and one of his men took off, racing through the forest.
He lowered his face close to hers and whispered, “Hear me well, Elara. You will not leave me. I refuse to let you go. The healers are on their way. They will help you.”
Boots shifted behind him.
Dar did not look up as one of his men knelt near the second body. Another Hunter joined him, then a third. There was a pause—brief, weighted—before footsteps approached.
“Dar,” one of them said quietly.
He lifted his head then, his eyes never leaving Elara’s face.
“The other man,” the Hunter continued. “It was Roth.”
Dar’s jaw tightened, but he did not speak.
“He must have surprised Brice,” the Hunter went on. “Came out of the trees fast. Brice probably tried to get between him and Elara, but Roth struck first. He stabbed her, then most likely flung his dagger at Brice.”
“And Brice?” Dar asked, already knowing the answer.
“He drew in time,” the Hunter said. “Drove his blade into Roth’s chest before he fell.”
Dar closed his eyes for a single breath. Roth had been banished, stripped of honor and place, and yet the king had still found use for him. Still sent him into the forest like a hound let loose from its leash. But why attack the one he was ordered to follow? Or was it revenge Roth was after?
When Dar opened his eyes again, they were clear. Cold.
The healers arrived moments later, breathless, kneeling beside Elara with practiced urgency.
Dar hovered over them like a shadow that would not move.
Minutes stretched thin and merciless.
One healer finally looked up at him. Her eyes held no panic—only certainty.
“The blade struck deep,” she said quietly. “It missed the heart, but the damage is grave. We can slow the bleeding. Ease her pain.”
Dar leaned closer. “Then do it.”
“We will,” she said, hesitating, then shook her head. “I am sorry, but we cannot save her.”
The words landed heavier than any blow.
Another healer added, softer still, “This wound is beyond us. Beyond herbs. Beyond skill.”
Dar did not speak.
He reached down and brushed Elara’s hair back from her face, his hand steady despite the storm breaking loose inside him. Her breathing was shallow now, each breath a fragile thing.
“Nay,” he said.
It was not a shout nor a plea that was heard. It was a refusal.
He rose as he spoke, shrugging his cloak from his shoulders and wrapping it around Elara, firm and careful, drawing it close as though the fabric itself might hold her together.
He turned to his men after gathering her up gently in his arms, and ordered, “Send word to my da. Tell him what happened here and that he needs to send a sizeable troop of Hunters to Ancrum. Keep watch on Pratus. Track the wanderer and the stranger—both. Leave nothing unanswered.”
The men moved at once, one taking Elara gently in his arms as Dar mounted his horse.
“Easy,” Dar said.
The man lifted her carefully and placed her into Dar’s arms. He secured her against his chest, his cloak wrapped tight around her, shielding her from the chilled air, from the blood, from the world.
One of the Hunters hesitated, then asked, “And you, Dar? Where do you go?”
Dar did not hesitate. “To save my wife… to Driochmor.”