Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Driochmor
Elara’s Grandfather’s Home
The path wound gently through the garden, pale stone half-hidden by fallen leaves and the creeping reach of late-blooming herbs.
Lavender brushed Elara’s skirt, its scent softened by autumn air, while marigold and yarrow caught the low sun in splashes of gold and rust. Beyond them, a large stone manor rose from the land as though it had always belonged there—solid, patient, watching over Driochmor as it had for generations.
Dar slowed without realizing it, his gaze fixed on Elara at his side.
“How do you feel?” he asked and she chuckled softly, the sound still sounding like a miracle to him.
She tilted her head at him as her laughter faded. “Are you ever going to stop asking me that?”
He did not answer because the truth sat too close to the surface. He wasn’t sure he ever would.
She squeezed his hand, hoping to reassure him. “I feel good, strong. Helma has declared me healed, thoroughly and with great authority, I might add.”
Dar released a breath he hadn’t fully released in days.
He wanted to believe it completely, wanted to let the word healed settle into his bones the way it once would have.
Yet part of him still watched her too closely, listened for a falter in her step, a catch in her breath.
Hunters learned the cost of assuming danger had passed, and he would stay ever watchful.
“She also told you to rest,” he reminded her.
“And I did,” Elara said, her smile growing. “I promise. Though she does have a strange idea of rest that involves far too much broth.”
His mouth curved despite himself.
Walking beside her now—alive, warm, teasing him—felt unreal. There were moments when he still half-expected the world to tear her from him again. When he reached for her hand, it was not habit that guided him but need.
Elara felt it too.
She could sense his relief braided tightly with fear, love sharpened by the memory of loss so close it still echoed. She had known death—felt it brushing her skin, pulling her under—and waking to his voice had changed her in ways she was only beginning to understand.
The garden soothed her. The land answered her presence without demand, without urgency. For the first time, she did not feel like a visitor to her own skin.
Yet ahead lay questions she could not outrun.
Her grandfather’s home waited for them, stone walls holding truths about her blood, her past, and the path now opening beneath her feet. She was no longer only Elara of Scotara—herb-scribe, wife of a Hunter. She was something more. Something older.
And while she did not fear it, she did not yet know how to carry it.
Dar glanced toward the manor, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. Driochmor had saved her life, but Scotara still waited. A king still ruled. Promises still demanded keeping.
No matter how beautiful this place was, they could not remain.
They walked on in companionable silence for a few moments before Elara spoke again, her tone softer now. “I know your worry.”
He glanced at her. “Do you?”
“I saw it,” she said simply. “In a vision.”
His steps slowed. “What did you see?”
She didn’t stop walking. “You and I standing before the king. He was not pleased.” She met Dar’s gaze then. “But I did not feel danger. No blades. No blood. Just anger. And words.”
Relief hit him hard enough that he hadn’t been prepared for it. His grip on her hand tightened briefly before he forced himself to ease it.
“That is good to know,” he said quietly. “Very good.”
She smiled faintly. “I would love to remain here for a time,” she admitted. “To get to know my grandfather more. To learn about Driochmor, about my people.” Her gaze drifted toward the manor ahead. “But I know we cannot.”
“Aye,” he agreed. “There are matters waiting for us.”
He studied her for a moment longer. “Your visions, they are stronger here?”
“They are,” she said. “Clearer. I don’t fight them as much.” She tipped her head toward the manor. “My grandfather is helping me understand them. How to listen without being overwhelmed.”
Dar nodded, thoughtful. Driochmor was changing her, not weakening her, but sharpening something that had always been there. And though part of him feared what that might mean in the wider world, another part knew this strength was not meant to be denied.
“I meant to tell,” she said eagerness in her tone, “do you recall the two times I thought I saw a dark figure at the edge of the forest at Dea’s cottage?”
Dar nodded. “Aye, need it concern us?”
She smiled. “Nay, it was my grandfather. He hoped I would feel he was not a threat and that I might go to him.”
“That’s a relief, though I would not have allowed him to take you from me.”
“And I would not have left you, at least the second time I saw him—” She paused abruptly. “Perhaps not the first time as well.”
“I am glad to hear that, for I would have hunted you down and brought you back to me.”
He had told her often since she escaped death how much he loved her, but she also enjoyed hearing him say it without directly saying it as he once did before the words came easily to him. It touched her heart.
She slowed her steps as they drew closer to manor, her fingers tightened around Dar’s hand. “There is one thing that troubles me.”
Dar turned to her at once, his attention sharpening. “Tell me.”
“Driochmor is powerful. Its people, its magic, the land itself. And yet… the bairns were abducted from this place.” Her brow furrowed thinking on the tale Dar had shared with her. “I cannot understand how that could have happened.”
Dar nodded slowly. “You are not alone in wondering. It troubles me as well. If such a thing could be done here, then nowhere is as safe as we believed.”
She glanced at him. “I asked my grandfather. The moment I spoke of it, he grew upset. Would not meet my gaze. He only shook his head and said it was a troubling time for all.” Her voice softened. “He offered no explanation. No answers.”
“Men often do that when the truth is heavier than silence.”
They walked the last stretch without speaking, each lost in thought, until a sudden flutter of movement drew their attention.
Amelia appeared before them, her wings beating hard, erratic. She did not greet them with her usual quick smile or teasing remark. Instead, she hovered at eye level, her small face pale and strained.
“You are here at last,” she said, her voice tight. “That is good. Very good.”
Elara’s heart skipped. “Amelia, what is wrong?”
The fairy wrung her hands, glancing past them toward the forest and then back again, as if the very stones might be listening. “Things stir that should not. Whispers grow louder. Paths shift where they should remain still.” Her gaze locked on Elara. “Your miraculous healing has not gone unnoticed.”
Dar stepped closer to Elara, his presence solid and protective. “By whom?”
Amelia hesitated, clearly distressed. “We do not yet know. Only that the air feels… wrong. As if something long buried has begun to breathe again.”
She darted toward the door, hovering there impatiently. “You must come inside. Your grandfather wants to see you at once.”
Elara exchanged a look with Dar, unease settling deep in her chest.
Whatever answers waited within the manor, Elara sensed they would bring as many questions as truths—and that the peace she had begun to feel in Driochmor was already slipping away.
They followed Amelia through the heavy doors and into the heart of the manor.
The warmth inside was different from the cottages—older somehow, steeped in stone and history.
Torches burned low along the walls, their flames steady, casting long shadows across carved beams and woven hangings that told stories of forests, beasts, and stars.
Amelia led them into a wide chamber set apart from the rest of the house—a council chamber, though it felt more like a place where truths were weighed rather than decisions announced.
A long table of dark wood stood at its center, its surface worn smooth by generations of hands.
Shelves lined the walls, filled with scrolls, carved stones, and objects Dar could not begin to name but felt rather than understood.
Lord Oaken was there, waiting.
He crossed the room the moment he saw Elara and gathered her into his arms, holding her with a fierce tenderness that tightened Dar’s chest. Elara returned the embrace, comforted by it—and yet, even as she did, a flicker of unease slid through her.
She felt it in the way his hands lingered, in the tension beneath the warmth.
He pulled back at last, his palms resting on her shoulders. “You look stronger,” he said softly.
“I am,” she replied, smiling—but her gaze searched his face. You are worried, she thought. The feeling pressed at her temples, not quite a vision, but close.
Lord Oaken turned then to Dar, inclining his head. “You have my thanks once again, Hunter, and my respect.”
Dar accepted it with a nod, though his instincts remained alert. Whatever had drawn them here was not finished with them yet.
Lord Oaken gestured for them to sit. He remained standing.
“Dark magic stirs,” he said without preamble.
The words settled heavily in the chamber.
“Word spreads about you being ripped from the arms of death by the healer born of evil,” Lord Oaken continued. “The dark forces believe she has come to Driochmor to strengthen them. To lead them. To free them and they are ready to submit to her will.”
Dar felt a chill slide down his spine. He thought of the forest rising in fury, of the price power always demanded. Men never learn, he thought grimly. Whether magic or steel, it is always the same hunger.
“And there is more,” Lord Oaken said.
Elara leaned forward instinctively.
“A man entered Driochmor days ago. He did not wander blindly. He sought out those who walk darker paths. He met with them.” Lord Oaken’s gaze hardened. “I believe he was sent by Warlord Tharne to seek their cooperation in joining forces against the king when war comes.”
Dar’s hands curled slowly into fists, hearing confirmation of what he feared was the reason for the foreigner’s interest in Driochmor.
Silence stretched, thick and heavy.
Elara felt it then—not fear alone, but grief for what might be lost. Driochmor, for all its secrecy and scars, was her blood. To see it torn apart by ambition and darkness felt like a wound that could never heal.
“The consequences,” Oaken said, “would be devastating. For Caerith. For Driochmor. For all of Scotara.” He turned fully to Dar then, his expression grave.
“You must go to the king. You must tell him what has been set in motion. And you must tell him this as well—Driochmor has never stood with evil and never will.”
Dar met his gaze, understanding better the truth of his words since seeing Driochmor for himself.
“We will fight for Scotara,” Lord Oaken said. “Not for crowns or favor—but to stop what would destroy us all.”
Relief stirred in Dar, gaining unexpected allies, but how would the king see it?
Would he trust the word given to him or think it nothing more than a ruse?
With that thought came the weight of what lay ahead: facing the king, speaking truths that would not be welcomed, and standing between suspicion and war.
Elara slipped her hand into his, warm and firm, letting him know that whatever comes, they would face it together.
Dar, feeling her there, alive, warm, resolute, knew one thing with absolute certainty.
He would not fail her.
Nor would he fail the land that had finally revealed its truth.
The chamber was quiet when they entered, the hearth still warm from earlier, embers glowing low and steady. Their plans were set, word sent, horses made ready, departure at first light. For now, the night belonged to them.
Elara moved to the window, watching the last of the dusk fade over Driochmor’s forested hills. “I will miss him,” she said softly. “I never imagined finding family here… and leaving so soon.”
“You will see him again,” Dar assured her, feeling the truth of his words. He loosened his shirt and drew it over his head, the simple act unhurried, thoughtful, before he settled on the bench beside the hearth. “This place is part of you now. It will wait.”
She turned at that, crossed the room, and came to stand behind him. Her arms slipped around his shoulders, her cheek brushing his back as she pressed a kiss to his skin.
“You have not touched me since I—”
He did not let her finish.
Dar reached back, guiding her gently, turning her until she rested against him, then eased her fully into his lap. His arms closed around her, firm and sure, as if he would keep hold of her forever, never letting her go.
“I needed to know,” he said, his voice rough with honesty, “that you were whole again. That I would not hurt you by holding you too tightly. That you were truly healed.”
She searched his face, then laid her palm over his heart. “I am,” she assured him. “Helma said so herself.” Her brow furrowed slightly. “But what of you?”
His gaze darkened, thoughtful rather than troubled.
“This place has changed me,” he admitted.
“Or perhaps it has reminded me of what was always there.” He drew a breath.
“I feel the land now, Elara. Not as something to conquer or guard, but as something that breathes alongside me. It is in my blood. Inherent.” He paused.
“When this is done, I will take the Hunters back to what they were meant to be. Keepers. Not weapons of the king.”
Her smile was soft, proud. “Venngraith could use healers again,” she said lightly. “And a place where herb-scribes can learn without fear.” She tilted her head. “We may have to divide our time between here and Venngraith.”
His answer was a kiss—slow, lingering, full of promise.
“We will build something good,” he murmured against her lips. “Together.”
Dar rose then, lifting her effortlessly, carrying her the short distance to the bed. He lay down with her still in his arms, drawing her close, his forehead resting against hers.
“Tonight is ours,” he said, and kissed her again—deeply, lovingly—as the fire burned low and the world beyond the chamber ceased to matter.