Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
Caerith
The King’s War Room
The war room had not changed.
The same heavy stone walls rose around them, cold and unforgiving, etched with scars left by centuries of conquest. The same long table stretched through the center of the chamber, maps pinned beneath iron weights, markers pressed into parchment that charted borders won and lost by blood.
The scent of oil, metal, and old smoke lingered, as if the room itself remembered every order given within it—and the cost of those orders.
Dar stood at the table’s edge, tense and alert, making sure to keep his wife close by his side. If the king meant to punish, he would be the one to suffer not his wife.
Elara’s fingers brushed his sleeve, feeling how taut with tension he was. “Do not even think to play the hero.”
“You will obey me in the king’s presence,” he ordered and cringed hearing his commanding tone.
She gave his arm a squeeze. “Let go of the Hunter you were and give rein to the Hunter reborn in the forest of Driochmor.”
Her remark fell gently but with tremendous power over him, and he gave her waist a tender squeeze. “Aye, but I will always think fondly of the Hunter in me who first came upon you in the forest.”
She poked him in the chest. “Aye, a stubborn one—”
“Determined,” he declared and tightened his hand at her waist, “to keep you safe, and he always will.”
Footsteps echoed in the corridor, turning them silent and watchful.
Tavish entered, leaving the door partially closed behind him and cast a glance around the room. His posture was rigid and his face carved into something close to stone.
He stepped aside, announcing, “King Dravic.”
The two doors swung wide, drawn open by two of the king’s elite guards.
King Dravic entered as though the room belonged to him by right of existence.
He did not hurry. He did not pause. He moved forward with the quiet confidence of a man accustomed to obedience, his dark sleeveless cloak flowing behind him, his gaze sweeping the chamber with practiced authority.
Power clung to him, not the loud kind, but the dangerous sort that waited, patient and assured, for others to bend.
Adira followed several steps behind. She walked silently, her head bent slightly, her movement a bit uncertain.
She was dressed in clean garments, a brown wool skirt and tan shirt, marking her role as a servant.
Her eyes moved constantly, her way of reading faces, the room, measuring tension, absorbing every unspoken exchange.
When she spotted Elara, her gaze lingered for a moment, a light of recognition in her eyes that faded to worry as her gaze shifted to the king.
The king stopped at the head of the table and pointed to a chair to his left. Adira quickly sat.
His dark eyes settled on Dar. “I received word you entered Driochmor.”
He had not raised his voice, but there was accusation in every word.
Not a bit of fright marked Dar’s response. “Aye, word I had sent to you.”
Dravic stared at him, letting the silence linger uncomfortably before he said, “You entered Driochmor without my command. You crossed an edict laid down by my grandfather himself.” His mouth curved slightly, not in humor. “You had best tell me why I should not call it treason.”
Elara felt the weight of that moment settle into her bones and wished for a vision that would ease her worries, but none came.
Dar stepped forward, his voice steady, ready to defend himself and his wife with words, or sword if necessary. “My wife suffered a vicious attack, leaving her with a wound that healers told me she would not survive. I took her to Driochmor to save her.”
The king’s expression did not change. “Continue.”
“She died,” Dar said bluntly. “Her heart stopped. Her body cooled.”
Elara watched as Adira looked between Dar and the king, her folded hands resting on the table tightening. She sensed the coiled tension.
“Yet she stands here. How?” the king prompted.
Dar didn’t hesitate to deliver the news. “By the healer you seek.”
“Yet you return empty-handed, mission failed, but your wife saved,”—his hand fisted and came down hard on the table—“by the very creature you were sent to deliver to me.”
“She is ethereal, her form nothing but mist, nothing that can be captured,” Dar said.
Elara felt the king’s gaze bore into her, searching, calculating.
“How did death feel?” the king demanded.
“I felt nothing, my king,” she said with a slight bow of her head.
“And what of your visions? Did they not warn you of this?” he asked, anger strong in his tone.
“Nay, but she was in a vision where she told me I would not find her, but that I would find a man who would change the tides of war.”
“How so?” the king asked eagerly. “Victory for Scotara or defeat?”
Elara had not given that thought. She had assumed the best for Scotara, but what if… She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
His fist came down on the table again, and Adira cringed.
The king saw it too and quickly took hold of Adira’s chin to lift her head, then he patted his chest like Feena did to let Adira know all was well, and Adira calmed.
But all was not well for Elara, the king turning angry eyes on her.
“Tell me something you do know,” Dravic ordered.
Dar went to speak.
The king’s raised hand, stopping him. “Hold your tongue, Dar, I am speaking to your wife and she will answer me.”
Elara knew what she had to do, had to say though it would change everything.
For a heartbeat, she hesitated, not out of fear but thought, since once spoken, there would be no retreat. No quiet life. No return to being only an herb-scribe who listened to the forest and walked unnoticed among her people.
But she thought of the land she had felt pulse beneath her feet. Of the magic that had answered her breath. Of the truth that had finally claimed her.
Elara lifted her chin and spoke with strength. “I was born in Driochmor. Born of magic. Its life-blood runs through me. I am one of the bairns abducted from my home by order of your grandfather and raised in Scotara. I am of both worlds.”
“But which one do you owe allegiance to?” the king challenged, showing no hint of surprise at her remark.
Dar stepped closer to his wife and went to speak.
The king silenced him again. “Do not try to answer for your wife again.”
“I do not need him to answer for me. I can speak for myself and for my grandfather, an elder of the High Council of Driochmor,” Elara said with pride.
“Go on,” the king ordered, his brow tight with anger.
“There is good and bad here in Scotara just as there is in Driochmor. Dark forces begin to stir there just as they do here. A man sent by Warlord Tharne has already made contact with those dark forces. He has made them an offer if they join with Tharne against Scotara.”
Dravic’s jaw tightened. “An alliance with evil.”
“Aye,” Elara said, “and my grandfather wants you to know that the good people of Driochmor will fight with you, for Scotara, against the dark forces.”
Dravic scowled. “And you expect me to trust his word, the word of magic, sorcery, when it could be a ruse and all of Driochmor will stand against me? Will want revenge for my grandfather banishing them, abducting their bairns. I would be a fool to fall for such a ruse.”
“A fool or foolish not to—”
“Watch your tongue with me, woman, or you will lose it easily,” the king threatened.
Elara felt her husband ready to shield her and she spoke quickly, “I meant no disrespect, my king, but the good people of Driochmor will fight for Scotara whether you trust them or not, for it is their homes they are fighting for.”
“You mean the creatures of Driochmor,” the king corrected.
“Creatures, as you call them, who know the land and its power far better than anyone else. And if Tharne has such creatures on his side, would it not be wise for you to have the same?”
The king looked to Dar. “You stand with your wife on this?”
“I stand with her always,” Dar said, leaving no doubt ever as to whose side he stood by.
The king looked about to slam his fist down again, then stopped, a calculating look suddenly forming in his eyes.
Tavish stepped forward. “My king, if I may speak?”
“I know what you are about to suggest, Tavish, for I thought the same myself.” The king looked between Dar and Elara.
“It would be an unwise move for me to ignore the offer Driochmor extends. Dar, you and Elara will be my emissaries to Driochmor. You will report to me all that goes on within Driochmor and while there you will find out about these dark forces that will help Tharne. You will also find out in what direction this man is supposed to change the tides of war. And you will continue to pursue the healer and convince her to speak with me. If you refuse such an order or betray me… you both die, slowly.”
“Aye, my king,” Dar said, relieved, and Elara followed suit, saying the same.
“Food and drink, Tavish, for there is much to be discussed before Dar and his wife return to Driochmor.”
Dar reached for his wife’s hand just as she reached for his, their fingers threading together, firm and unyielding. Whatever lay ahead—Driochmor’s shadows, the king’s demands, the dark forces stirring beyond the borders—they would face it side by side.
Elara felt it then, not as a vision, but as certainty. The land had claimed them both. The hunt before them was no longer one of pursuit or capture, but of balance—between power and mercy, loyalty and truth, fate and choice.
As the firelight flickered across the maps of war and whispered of what was yet to come, Dar and Elara stood together, bound not by command or crown, but by love and the will of the land itself.
Whatever came next—kings, magic, or darkness stirring beyond sight—they had each other and always would.
THE END
Book 2, Whispers of a Healer