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)
“So say you,” he said dismissively, then turned his attention to Adira.
The lass clung to Feena’s sleeve, her green eyes wide with fear.
“Adira is a mute, my king.” Feena hurried to explain. “She has little skill, but she has a kind and caring soul.”
“A mute,” the king said curiously, circling her like a wolf scenting something unusual. “An uncommon condition.” He paused, the corner of his mouth lifting, not in kindness, but in thought. “A lass who cannot speak dangerous truths, nor hear what she should not. Such a one might serve me very well.”
Feena blanched, her arm tightening around Adira in silent warning.
Adira pressed herself closer to Feena, trembling.
Elara’s stomach twisted. She felt the danger forming, delicate but deadly, like frost beginning to spider across glass.
The king turned back to Dar. “I heard that you traveled more than a week with the silver-haired one. What did you learn about her besides her having visions?”
“I learned that Elara is a good and caring soul.”
“You expect me to take your word?” the king snapped.
Dar’s tone turned firm. “Hunters do not lie to their king. Besides—” He paused for a heartbeat. “Elara is my wife, and I will not allow her to be harmed.”
Silence struck the entire hall.
Elara went still, her breath catching.
The king studied Dar’s face for a long, heavy moment. Then his gaze slid to Elara again, cold and discerning. “Wife,” he said, as if tasting the word. “A convenient bond?”
Dar didn’t flinch. “A necessary one.”
“A permanent one,” the king said, “since I know a Hunter would never speak the word allow to his king unless it was one of their own, one who belonged to them, one they sought to protect. Does Elara belong to you, Dar?”
Dar held the king’s gaze. “Aye, my king, she does.”
The words barely left his lips when King Dravic stepped forward, the air in the Great Hall drawing tight as if the stone itself braced for what would come next.
“Then I will see your marriage made legal, a binding agreement,” the king said, his voice so powerful it reverberated through the hall. “Here. Now. I will seal your marriage with my authority so none may question it.”
Elara’s blood went cold. It wasn’t a choice, not a request, nor a command.
The king’s dark blue eyes narrowed, as if daring either of them to object.
Elara had no choice but to hold her tongue. Otherwise, she would face torture to prove she was nothing more than an herb-scribe. She now understood what Dar meant in following his lead and why he continued to call her wife… he was protecting her. And he committed himself to her for life to do so.
“My king!”
The shout interrupted her thoughts, and she turned to see Muir step forward, his chest puffed, and his arm raised like a banner.
“Forget the silver-haired woman, my king. I believe the one you seek is here.” He pulled back his sleeve with dramatic flair. “My wound, sire, the old woman, Feena, tended it yesterday, and today it’s nearly mended, barely nothing left of the wound!”
The king’s gaze turned upon the arm with sharp interest. He stepped closer, his eyes intent on the wound that appeared completely healed.
“The wound was an angry red and spewing pus.” Muir rubbed the area. “Now there is barely anything there.”
“Impossible,” the king claimed and turned to cast a sharp glance at Feena. “Did you do this by mere touch, or did you use herbs?”
Feena bowed her head, though she trembled under his scrutiny. “I treated the wound with herbs as any healer would, my king. Nothing more.”
“Nothing more?” his voice deepened dangerously. “How can that be with how remarkable Muir healed?”
Feena shrugged. “I don’t know why Muir’s wound healed as it did, my lord. I only know that I possess no remarkable healing touch.”
Elara’s stomach twisted and her heart pounded so hard she thought the king might hear it. Her vision from the night before—the dark figure, the healing touch—rose to the surface of her mind.
Tell him, whispered fear.
Tell him everything, whispered dread.
Say nothing, whispered instinct.
If she spoke of the ethereal figure, of the healing that came from something beyond the mortal world, or perhaps from the forbidden land, what then would the king do?
She pressed her tongue hard to keep it still.
“We will see about that, but right now—” the king turned back to Dar. “The silver-haired woman is yours. You claim her. You bind with her. You control whatever she carries in her heart and mind.” He looked around as he shouted, “Tavish, bring the book of records and two iron bands.”
Elara’s heart felt as if it… shattered.
Control.
Not protect. No mention of cherish, only control and… forever.
The king’s stare pinned her like a spear. “And you, silver-haired one…” His gaze slid slowly over her, taking measure of her fear, her anger, her confusion. “You will be bound to the Hunter. Bound to the throne. Bound by vow and law. Your destiny is no longer your own.”