Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Driochmor Forest
Magic Unleashed
Muir stood across from him, feet planted, sword lifted in a warrior’s grip.
“I will let you die a Hunter,” he said, his voice steady, almost reverent. “Sword in hand.”
Dar’s laugh tore out of him, harsh and broken. “Why?” he demanded. “Why her?”
Muir did not strike. Instead, he lowered his blade and spread his arms wide, lifting his face as if to the sky. He drew in a long breath, deep and deliberate.
“Feel this,” he said quietly. “This land. This power. This is my heritage. My home. And the kings of Scotara took it from me.”
The forest stirred again, not at Dar’s bidding this time, but in uneasy response.
“They came in the night,” Muir continued. “They stole our bairns. Dozens of them. Took them into Scotara and scattered them among your people. They threatened their lives if magic ever crossed the borders of Driochmor again. If even a whisper of it escaped.”
Dar’s chest tightened.
“Some of that magic has begun to wake,” Muir said. “And those stolen children—grown now—feel it. They remember. They want what was taken from them. Their power. Their birthright. And vengeance.”
Dar took a step forward. “Elara knew none of this?”
Muir’s gaze flicked to her still form on the ground. “Aye. That is the tragedy of it. She died never knowing she was born of Driochmor. Never knowing what she carried.”
“Then tell me,” Dar said, his voice deadly calm, “why you stabbed her.”
Muir’s jaw tightened. “I had no choice.”
“No choice,” Dar echoed, disbelief sharpening his tone.
“Roth,” Muir spat. “The fool your king sent to watch you. He discovered my secret by accident. Saw more than he should have. I rushed to stop him from warning you and Elara, so the truth would never reach the king.”
Dar’s fists clenched. “You killed her for that?”
“I did not plan to,” Muir snapped. “I never planned to kill either of you. You were useful to me, Dar. A Hunter moving freely, asking questions, stirring the king’s attention elsewhere.”
Dar’s eyes burned with anger.
“But Roth forced my hand and now—” Muir raised his sword again, resolve hardening. “—now I have no choice.”
Muir staggered.
The change was so sudden Dar barely understood it at first. The way Muir’s breath hitched, the sword slipped from his fingers, the sound he made more confusion than pain.
Then he fell forward… hard.
His body hit the earth with a dull, final weight. Blood darkened his cloak, spreading fast.
Dar stared, stunned, until he saw the hilt.
A dagger jutted from Muir’s back.
A heartbeat later, a figure emerged from the shadows.
The lean, dark-haired man stepped from between the trees as though he had always been there, shadow slipping off him like a discarded cloak.
He stooped, wrapped his fingers around the dagger buried in Muir’s back, and pulled it free with a smooth twist. Blood ran briefly along the blade before he wiped it clean on Muir’s cloak, precise, almost fastidious.
“He took too long,” the man said mildly. “Useless chatter. Boasting. Men like him always want an audience.”
Dar tightened his grip on his sword. “You.”
The man inclined his head. “We met on the road.”
“The wanderer who told me a tale,” Dar said.
“Partial tale, and I am no longer a wanderer, never was. A convenient persona. People hear wanderer and stop looking too closely.” He grinned. “And I couldn’t let them see who I truly am.”
“A warlock,” Dar said.
“That I am and a powerful one,” he said with pride.
Dar glanced once at Muir’s still body. “He claimed Driochmor was his home. That the king stole it from him.”
The warlock’s mouth curved, faintly amused. “The king stole much from Driochmor, but we will soon retrieve all he took and more.”
Dar needed to know more. “How long has Muir worked with you?”
“Long enough for his hatred to grow, not so his skills.”
“He was necessary until he wasn’t, is what you’re saying,” Dar said, “And the Hunter I sent to follow you?”
The warlock sneered. “I finished him off before your stench was out of reach.” His gaze slid, unblinking, to Elara’s still form on the ground. “She sensed me even before she understood what she was sensing.”
“What do you mean?” Dar demanded.
“On the road. She sensed my power, an unease to her.” His eyes sharpened. “She was right. But her power had not matured enough for her to understand it. She could feel the disturbance, not its shape.”
Rage surged through Dar. “You knew what she was.”
“Aye.” The warlock nodded. “The moment I saw her.”
Dar took a step forward. “You ordered her death?”
“I encouraged, convinced Muir it was necessary, and it was. Once she fully awakened, she would have been a problem. For all of us.”
Dar’s vision tunneled. “My wife is dead because of you.”
“Aye.” He admitted unapologetically. “And it would have been done, if not for your inconvenient loyalty to your wife.”
Dar’s hand landed on the hilt of his sword. “You will not take another breath.”
The warlock studied the blade as if it were an interesting curiosity. “You hunt with steel. You track with instinct. You endure.” His gaze lifted, locking with Dar’s. “Admirable traits.”
The forest shifted uneasily.
“But they are useless against me.”
The air thickened, something dangerous in it stirring.
“You will join your wife in death today,” the warlock said with quiet certainty.
Dar knew no sword would defend against this evil. His hands dropped to his sides, fists clenched, breath coming slow and measured now. He felt it then, the terrible calm that followed rage when something deeper took hold.
The ground beneath his boots warmed.
Not from fire, but from life.
The scent of earth rose sharp and clean, moss and rain and blood mingling. Dar felt it then—not as magic, not as power—but as belonging. As recognition.
The forest did not bend to him. It stood with him.
The earth answered Dar’s fury.
The ground split open beneath the warlock’s feet.
Roots burst upward, thick as serpents. He tried to counter the attack with his magic, but it was useless against the powerful roots.
They wrapped around his legs, his torso, his arms so quickly he had barely had time to respond, to defend himself.
Every magical strike he was able to make bounced off the coiling roots and dissipated as if it were nothing more than a playful tap.
The warlock spewed out spell after spell that went the way of his magical strikes as the soil continued to drag him slowly down until only his head showed.
“Nay!” he roared. “What are you—?”
Dar lifted his head, eyes burning not with fury but control. “A Hunter, keeper of the land.”
The warlock roared again and the earth swallowed it and him whole.
The sound of it—stone grinding, roots shifting—faded, until it left only the hush of leaves and the distant murmur of wind moving through branches.
Whatever had hunted them was gone. Whatever threat had come for Elara had ended here.
Dar felt no triumph, only loss.
He turned back to his wife and though he knew she would not respond, he still called out to her. “Elara.”
She lay where he had placed her, wrapped in his cloak, her silver hair stark against the dark forest floor. He glanced once toward the trees, looking for a flicker of blue light, the quick shimmer of wings.
“Amelia?” he called quietly.
Nothing stirred. No whisper. No flutter. And he wondered where she had gone.
Dar lowered himself beside Elara and sat heavily, as if the weight of the world had finally found his shoulders. He gathered her hand in his, enclosing it between both of his, rubbing gently as though warmth might return if he willed it strongly enough.
Her fingers were cold.
He bowed his head, resting his brow against her knuckles.
“I hoped to join you today,” he said, his voice rough but steady. “I truly did. I thought perhaps fate would grant us a little mercy after all we’ve endured.”
He swallowed, tightening his grip on her hand, not ready or willing to let her go. “But it seems fate had other plans.”
The forest breathed around them.
“You took my heart with you,” he went on quietly. “Every part of me that mattered… it went with you. If there is any truth left in this world, then it is this—where you are, my heart will be also.”
A sudden chill swept through the clearing.
Not the cool breeze of evening, nor the promise of rain but something deeper, sharper. Dar stiffened at once, instinct flaring. He leaned over Elara, shielding her with his body, one arm braced protectively across her as if she might still feel it.
“Enough,” he warned, his voice low. “She has suffered—”
Then he felt it.
A presence.
He lifted his head slowly.
The dark, ethereal form hovered several paces away, its shape shifting like smoke held together by will alone. No features were visible beneath the raised hood, yet pale strands of hair—blonde, luminous—spilled free, stirring as though moved by a wind only it could feel.
The figure raised a slender hand.
It pointed at him.
Then, with a small, deliberate motion, it gestured for him to move away from Elara.
Dar hesitated only a heartbeat.
He rose slowly and stepped back, every instinct screaming at him not to move, not to leave her side. His voice broke as he pleaded, “Please. Bring her back to me.”
The figure did not answer.
It drifted closer to Elara, hovering above her, the darkness folding in upon itself like a living veil. Dar could only watch, helpless, breath held tight in his chest.
Time stretched.
Moments passed—too many, not enough.
Just as fear began to claw at him, just as he felt the last fragile thread of hope begin to fray—
Elara gasped.
The sound was sharp, sudden, unmistakable.
Dar surged forward, dropping to his knees beside her as the dark form lifted, retreating slowly. The hood turned once toward him just enough for him to sense intent, not threat, and then… the figure dissolved, breaking apart like mist caught by dawn.
The forest was still once more.
Dar gathered Elara to him, breath ragged, heart hammering, afraid to believe what he had heard, afraid it might vanish if he dared to hope.
But she breathed.
Dar barely dared to breathe.
Elara lay against him, her chest rising shallowly beneath his hand. He felt it, slow, uneven, but there. Real. He tightened his grip as if she might slip away if he did not hold fast.
Her lashes fluttered.
“El… a… ra,” he whispered, his voice breaking on her name.
Her lips parted. Breath came in short, fractured pulls. “Dar… I—” She stopped, drawing in air, eyes squeezing shut as if the effort cost her dearly. “It was… Muir… and the wanderer…”
“Easy,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to hers. “Do not speak. Breathe. I know.”
Her brow creased faintly. “You… know?”
“Aye,” he said softly. “They are gone. They will not harm you again.”
Her breath shuddered, relief washing through her in a fragile wave. He felt her fingers press weakly against his chest, as if testing that he was real.
Dar closed his eyes, cherishing the feeling of her hand against him.
He lifted her carefully into his arms, every movement deliberate, reverent.
The weight of her against him—warm, alive—nearly shattered him.
She let out a small sound and instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging to him with what little strength she had.
His arms locked around her.
For a heartbeat, he could not speak.
“I thought,” he said finally, voice thick, “that I would never feel this again.” His hold tightened, not crushing, but desperate. “Your arms around me. I thought the world had ended.”
She shifted slightly, gathering enough breath to answer. “When I thought I would die…” Her words came slowly, each one fought for. “My only thought… was you.”
His chest hitched.
“That I would never feel you hold me again,” she continued, lifting her face to look at him. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, but fixed on his. “And then… I remembered something.”
“What?” he asked, barely louder than a breath.
“Safe,” she said simply. “You gave your word that you would always keep me safe.” Her lips curved in the faintest smile. “So, I waited for you.”
Something broke in him then.
He bent his head and kissed her—gently, as though afraid the moment might fracture if he pressed too hard. Her mouth was cool, her response faint but there, and it was enough. More than enough.
When he lifted his head, his brow rested against hers.
“There is much you must know,” he said quietly. “Much that waits for us.”
“Later,” she whispered.
“Aye,” he agreed at once. “Later.” He shifted her closer. “For now, I only want to hold you.”
A flicker of blue light darted through the trees, catching his attention.
Dar looked up to see Amelia, her wings beating fast, urgency written in every movement. Behind her, his horse emerged from the forest, reins dragging, ears alert. And beyond that—
Lord Oaken stepped into the clearing, flanked by several men.
Dar looked down at Elara in his arms, wonder and fierce pride filling his chest.
“It’s time,” he said softly, shifting her in his arms, “you meet your grandfather.”