Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Driochmor
The Forbidden Land
Dar rode without pause, Elara cradled against him, her weight light in his arms and unbearably heavy in his heart.
That he could lose her was not an option he was willing to accept.
So, he defied the king’s orders and crossed the boundary into the forbidden land, a place where sorcery ruled, in hopes his wife could be saved.
The forest closed around them as if drawing a breath.
Branches knit overhead, shutting out the last threads of daylight.
The air grew damp and chilly, carrying the deep scent of rich earth.
This was no longer a road meant for men, and he had no idea what he might come across as he traveled deeper along it.
He tightened his hold on her.
You belong here, he thought—not as a plea, but a truth he had come to know. Elara had always belonged to the forest. She listened to it. Understood it. Where others saw wild growth, she saw purpose. Where men claimed dominion, she showed respect.
If there was mercy in this world, it would be found here.
“Help her,” he said aloud, his voice low, roughened by fear. “You know her. She has walked among you with care. She has never taken without giving.”
His horse slowed.
Dar felt it before he saw it—a subtle shift, as if the ground itself had heard and responded. His mount veered from the faint trail he had followed, turning without command onto a narrower path, nearly invisible beneath creeping roots and shadow.
Dar did not resist.
Around him, the forest continued to thicken. Trunks grew closer, bark darkened, twisted. The light dimmed to a green hush, pierced only by pale glimmers that might have been fireflies—or something else entirely. The air hummed, alive in a way he had never known.
“Fae folk,” he whispered, no challenge in it now. “If you hear me… I ask nothing for myself… only that you save her.”
The horse picked its way forward with care, sure-footed, as if guided by something unseen. Ferns brushed Dar’s boots. Leaves whispered against his shoulders. Somewhere deeper within the trees, he thought he heard a voice.
His eyes narrowed as he strained to listen, but he heard nothing. It did not discourage him. After all he was on a hunt, and Hunters always got their prey.
Dar lowered his head to Elara’s brow and murmured, “Hold on. I am taking you where you can be saved.”
He held her firmly against him, her weight resting fully in his arms as he did his best not to jostle her, fearful he’d cause her pain or worse—hasten death.
He made no move toward his weapons, his dagger remaining sheathed at his waist and his sword strapped in place.
Any who watched would see it plainly—he rode as a man seeking passage, not conquest.
Dar allowed the horse to rein, trusting the animal’s instincts where his own could not guide him.
Elara had always spoken of the forest as if it were more than soil and wood, as if it listened. Now, with her breath shallow against his chest and her blood warming his cloak, he believed it.
Dar raised his chin and called out, “She belongs to the forest.” His tone turned defiant. “And she belongs to me.” He finally softened his voice, but it held a command. “Help us.”
The air changed. It thickened, not with damp or mist, but with something sharper, brighter—like light held too long behind closed eyes. Then a streak of blue tore through the trees.
Dar’s breath caught as it rushed toward him, fast as an arrow—and stopped inches from his face.
The glow gathered, shaped itself, and a small figure hovered before him, wings trembling, light pulsing softly around her.
Amelia.
He knew at once it was her, the fairy. Elara had told him about.
“Amelia,” he said, to confirm it.
“No time,” she said urgently. “Follow me.”
Before he could question her, she darted away, the blue light streaking between the trees.
Dar did not hesitate.
His horse snorted once, then turned sharply of its own accord and followed the fairy.
The trees thinned some and he was relieved to catch the scent of wood smoke. That meant they were not far from a village—from help.
Amelia’s light ahead slowed.
His horse followed suit, slowing as the forest opened.
Before him lay a village—but not one built by men.
Stone cottages rose from the earth as if grown rather than built.
Unfamiliar symbols were etched in the stones around the window and door, they glimmered when sunlight touched them.
Roofs were branches so thick with leaves that nothing could penetrate them.
Paths wound between dwellings without straight lines or sharp corners, following the land’s natural shape.
Water ran openly through the village in narrow channels, glowing faintly. Where it flowed, plants bloomed alongside and flowers shifted color as he watched. And vines leaned toward him like curious creatures as he passed by.
Small figures moved through the space—some winged, some not staring at him. An elder paused mid-step to glare openly at him, his eyes ancient and unafraid.
Dar ignored him and all the others who did not appear pleased to see him.
Amelia stopped in front of one of the cottages.
Dar’s grip tightened around Elara.
Amelia flew to hover beside him again. “This is home to those your king tried to erase. Be respectful.” Her eyes shot to Elara and turned wide with fright. “She fades. We must hurry.”
Dar swung down carefully from his horse, keeping Elara close, every sense sharpened, every instinct warning of danger. But none of that mattered. Only Elara mattered.
The cottage door opened.
A woman stood just inside and smiled when she saw Amelia hovering in the air… until. Her gaze swept past her, settling on the Hunter cradling a cloaked figure.
“What is this?” she demanded, already bristling.
“Helma, she is wounded,” Amelia said, her wings beating faster. “Badly.”
Helma’s eyes narrowed. “You bring a Hunter and his prey here?”
“She is not my prey. She is my wife and we waste time,” Dar snapped. “She is dying as you speak.”
Amelia darted closer to Helma’s face. “It’s Elara.”
The reaction was immediate… all color drained from the woman’s face as she stared, not at Dar, but at the shape in his arms. Her breath caught sharply, and whatever she had been about to say vanished.
“Elara?” Helma whispered, the word barely more than air. She moved at once, flinging the door wide. “Inside. Now.” She ushered Dar in with sharp, urgent gestures.
He didn’t hesitate. He stepped across the threshold, the air changing around him—thicker, warmer, comforting… and hopeful.
Then he heard the woman, Helma, whisper to Amelia. “You know what you must do. Go now.”
Trouble, his Hunter instincts warned.
“Lay her there gently,” Helma instructed, pointing to the nearest bed of the three in the large room.
Dar lowered Elara with care, easing her down and only then drawing back the cloak enough for Helma to see her face.
Helma gasped at her deathly pale face. “How long?”
“Too long,” Dar said.
Helma pressed wo fingers to Elara’s throat and shook her head. “Barely a heartbeat.”
She got busy spreading the cloak to get to the wound as she ordered, “Get out and leave me to tend to her.”
“Nay.”
The single word landed solidly between them.
Helma’s eyes flashed. “This is not your place, Hunter.”
“Again, she is my wife.” His tone hardened. “I will not leave her, not for kings, not for magic, and I dare anyone or thing to come between us.”
The woman stared at him, searching his face as if weighing him and his words, finally saying, “Very well, but do not get in my way. Do not interfere.”
Dar nodded and stepped aside, but he did not move far.
As Helma began pulling jars and cloths from a shelf, Dar’s thoughts snagged on one thing and would not let go.
Elara’s name.
Her name had been spoken with recognition and shock, as though she were no stranger here. As though she belonged. How could they know her? He would get answers, for sure, but for now saving his wife from death was all that mattered.
Dar stepped closer when Helma struggled with the torn fabric of Elara’s shirt, her fingers slick with blood.
“Let me,” he said, already reaching.
Helma caught his arm, not sharply, not to stop him, but with a gentleness that stilled him all the same. Her eyes lifted to his, steady and knowing.
“You may not wish to see what waits beneath,” she warned softly.
“I wish to see everything,” he said, his voice rough.
Helma studied him for a heartbeat longer, then inclined her head and stepped aside.
Dar eased the remaining cloth away, heavy with blood, and with it came the cloth the healers at Ancrum had applied to the wound.
The sight struck him harder than any blade ever had.
Blood matted her skin, dark against the pale rise of her chest. The wound was deep—too deep. Not the clean work of a soldier’s strike, but the savage damage of a thrown dagger driven with intent to kill. His breath left him with a single, harsh sound.
For the first time since he had reached her, fear took full hold.
“Nay,” he said, the word breaking free of him before he could stop it. “Nay.”
Helma moved with quiet urgency, pressing clean cloths to the wound, murmuring words he did not understand.
Dar forced himself to breathe, to stay useful. He held Elara when Helma asked, lifted her when told, steadied her body when pain wracked it though she did not wake.
At one point, he gripped Helma’s arm, desperation bare in his voice. “Use your sorcery. Whatever magic you possess—use it. Save her.”
Helma did not bristle. She did not argue. Instead, she met his gaze with a compassion that cut deeper than anger ever could.
“You do not understand our abilities,” she said gently. “Nor the limits of them. Some wounds…” Her voice softened. “Some wounds tear at more than flesh.”
Dar said nothing. He could not.
He watched as she worked, her hands sure, her movements deliberate, her murmured words low and reverent. The light outside faded from gold to gray, then to the deep blue of dusk. Candles were lit. Herbs burned. The room filled with unfamiliar scents, sharp, sweet, and ancient.
At last, Elara lay still beneath blankets, her breathing shallow but present, and her face ashen. She did not stir when Dar whispered her name and she did not respond to his touch.
Helma straightened slowly, weariness settling into her bones.
“I have done all that I can,” she said.
Dar shook his head at once, hearing the apology in her voice. “There must be more. A stronger healer, stronger magic. There must be someone here with the power to save her.”
Helma’s eyes glistened, though her voice remained steady. “If there were more to give, I would give it. If there were another path, I would take it.” She shook her head once. “I am sorry.”
The words fell into the room like a final stone dropped into deep water.
Dar sat very still beside the bed, his hand wrapped around Elara’s, refusing to let go. And there he stayed as night wore on.
Helma moved only when she had to. At some point she settled at the small table near the hearth, folding in on herself with the exhaustion of long practice.
Sleep took her in brief snatches. She woke often, rising to check Elara’s brow, her breathing, the color of her skin.
Each time she was relieved to find no fever burning beneath her touch.
Each time she returned to the table and closed her eyes again, knowing relief was fragile.
The candles burned low.
Dar did not move.
At some point in the deep of night, he drifted into a light doze, never loosening his hold on Elara’s hand.
When he woke again, it was with an aching need, stronger than anything he had ever felt.
He had to tell her. She had to hear what he should have told her sooner, what he’d been fighting, not understanding.
And now it might be too late for her to know.
He leaned closer, his voice barely more than a breath in her ear. “I love you, wife.” His words came rough, unpracticed, but true. “I love you more than you could ever possibly fathom. You are in my heart, deeply rooted, and always will be.”
His forehead touched the pillow beside hers.
“Don’t leave me, Elara,” he said, the plea stripped bare of pride or strength. “I could not bear life without you.”
He rested his head beside hers then, careful not to disturb her, his arm still curved protectively around her hand.
And there, with the forest holding its breath beyond the walls and magic stirring unseen, Dar finally surrendered to sleep, keeping watch even in his dreams.
“Wake up… he’s arrived.”
The words snapped Dar out of sleep.
He surged upright at once, breath sharp, his first frantic glance going to Elara.
She lay as she had before—too still. Too pale.
Her skin was cool beneath his hand, and fear speared through him, cold and vicious.
He had felt that chill before. On battlefields.
On bodies that would never draw breath again.
“Nay,” he muttered, shaking the thought away as if it were an enemy he could strike down. She was still alive, and he clung to that truth.
But the room was empty.
Helma was not at the table. No candle flickered with fresh tending. Silence pressed close.
Dar’s hand went to the hilt of his dagger, not drawing it, but ready. His every instinct sharpened. If someone had entered this place unbidden, they would answer for it.
The door opened and Helma stepped inside, Amelia flitting alongside her. Helma moved to the side, bowing her head, not in fear, but in deference.
“His excellence, Lord Oaken,” she announced.
A man entered.
He was tall, his presence filling the room without effort. Long silver hair fell loose down his back and his face was lined not with frailty but with knowledge, with years that had been lived rather than survived.
But it was his eyes that stilled Dar completely.
Amethyst.
The same rare, striking shade as Elara’s.
Lord Oaken’s gaze moved from Dar to the bed and softened.
He inclined his head once, a gesture of acknowledgment rather than greeting. “I am indebted to you for bringing my granddaughter home.”