Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 517(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 517(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Dar felt it then—not as something entering him, but as something awakening.
This was not the hunger of the hunt.
Not the thrill his kind had been taught to crave.
This was belonging.
Power flowed through him, ancient and fierce, settling into his bones, his breath, his blood. The land did not fear him. It recognized him.
He dropped to his knees beside Elara once more, his hands shaking as he gathered her close, pressing his face into her hair.
“I swear it,” he rasped. “By the land. By my blood. By everything I am becoming, I will not let this stand.”
A voice cut through the chaos, smooth and amused.
“Good.”
The word slithered through the clearing, untouched by the fury around it.
Dar’s head snapped up.
“That leaves me only one to kill.”
Amelia streaked to his side, her glow flickering wildly. Dar did not look at her at first. His gaze was fixed on the trees ahead, on the place where the forest recoiled rather than welcomed.
“Stay with her,” he said, his voice low and iron-hard. “Do not leave her side.”
Amelia hesitated.
“When it is done,” Dar continued, finally turning his eyes to her, “you will tell Lord Oaken that Elara and I are to be buried together. No separation, not even in death.”
Her tiny hand flew to her mouth. She nodded fiercely.
Dar rose.
He knew that voice.
Elara had warned him.
He turned toward the darkness, toward the power pressing against the land like a wound that refused to heal.
And he stepped forward to meet it.
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.