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)
And rising from the lush spread of land, woven into the very bones of the Highlands, stood Caerith.
It was nothing like the stories told in Birkfell, nor the grim fortress she had pictured. The castle rose from the land rather than dominating it, its stone walls grown moss-soft and ancient. Tall towers pierced the sky, their dark silhouettes softened by climbing ivy and the pale green touch of early autumn.
It was beautiful.
Beautiful… and terrible.
Because power lived there, old, sharp, and unyielding. Power that could shape the future of every healer in Leighfeld and power that now waited for her.
The Hunters slowed as they descended the hill, their formation tightening with practiced discipline. Elara felt the shift in Dar’s body behind her, the subtle stiffening of muscle, the deepening of breath, like a man bracing for a storm he had long known was coming.
She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. She didn’t want him to see her fear. She kept her gaze fixed on the castle, her heart pounding with dread and something colder… something like destiny pressing its hand against her back.
As they drew closer, the air itself seemed to change. It grew heavier, charged, as though the land recognized their approach. As though it whispered warnings through the rustle of the nearby pines.
She heard Feena, seated in the cart behind them, murmur a prayer under her breath. And she could almost see how Adira clung to the older woman, eyes wide, face drained of all color.
Elara swallowed hard. “We have arrived.”
Dar’s voice came from behind her, quiet but firm. “Aye, wife. We have.”
That he continued to call her wife somehow continued to make her feel safe, as foolish a thought that it was. Especially since ahead stood the gates of Caerith and beyond them waited King Dravic… waiting for her.
Elara shivered when they reached the great gates of Caerith, massive wooden doors banded with dark iron, each hinge thick enough to withstand a siege. Two guards stood before them, donned in deep green and black, the king’s colors. Their spears crossed as the Hunters approached, barring the way.
Dar did not slow.
At the last instant, one guard snapped his spear upright, eyes widening.
“Commander Dar,” he said, bowing his head.
The others followed suit, a ripple of recognition passing through the men atop the walls that flanked the gates.
A chill settled over Elara. Dar’s presence was met not with suspicion but with awe and a touch of fear. He was far more known, which meant he was a man of importance, another surprising revelation about him.
The guards’ eyes slid past him to her, to her silver hair she no longer hid beneath her hood, to her violet eyes she could not hide if she wanted to and she found herself instinctively pressing against Dar and was relieved when she felt the strength of his arm tighten around her.
A murmur started low on the wall walk.
“Is that her?”
“The healer the king searches for?”
“May the gods help her.”
Fear gripped Elara’s stomach. She kept her gaze ahead, though her hands trembled and when she looked down at them, she saw that she no longer clutched the saddle blanket but Dar’s arm. When she had done that, she didn’t know, but she kept the grip on his arm, feeling as if it anchored her, kept her strong, kept her safe.
The gates opened inward with a groaning scrape, revealing the village nestled within Caerith’s outer walls. Life was settling for the evening. Merchants selling the last of their wares, breads that once were fresh from ovens, hides from the northern hunts, cloth from foreign lands. Children darted between legs, chasing each other through the square. Women gathered at the well, drawing buckets with practiced ease, gathering water to prepare supper.
But the moment the villagers saw the black-clad Hunters riding in formation, the hum of activity shifted.
Curiosity.
Fear.
Silence swallowing sound.
And then more whispers.
“That must be her…”
“Look at her hair…”
“Silver as a frost moon…”
“Saints preserve her…”
“Or curse her, depending on what she is.”
Elara’s heart thudded painfully.
Dar’s hand gave her waist a subtle squeeze and at that moment she was relieved that he had ordered her to ride with him.
His voice brushed her ear, low enough for only her to hear. “Keep your head high. Do not let them see fear.”
She did as he said and lifted her chin. She would let no one see her fear, though it was a chore to do so, feeling her fate was already sealed.
Children stopped mid-play to stare. Women at the well paused with buckets half-raised. Men lowered their voices and stepped aside, making a clear path through the center of the village.
Dar rode with steady, controlled power, his shoulders squared, his expression carved from stone. Nothing in him wavered, and the people saw it and felt it.
“By the gods,” someone muttered, “he brings her himself.”