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)
Small figures moved through the space—some winged, some not staring at him. An elder paused mid-step to glare openly at him, his eyes ancient and unafraid.
Dar ignored him and all the others who did not appear pleased to see him.
Amelia stopped in front of one of the cottages.
Dar’s grip tightened around Elara.
Amelia flew to hover beside him again. “This is home to those your king tried to erase. Be respectful.” Her eyes shot to Elara and turned wide with fright. “She fades. We must hurry.”
Dar swung down carefully from his horse, keeping Elara close, every sense sharpened, every instinct warning of danger. But none of that mattered. Only Elara mattered.
The cottage door opened.
A woman stood just inside and smiled when she saw Amelia hovering in the air… until. Her gaze swept past her, settling on the Hunter cradling a cloaked figure.
“What is this?” she demanded, already bristling.
“Helma, she is wounded,” Amelia said, her wings beating faster. “Badly.”
Helma’s eyes narrowed. “You bring a Hunter and his prey here?”
“She is not my prey. She is my wife and we waste time,” Dar snapped. “She is dying as you speak.”
Amelia darted closer to Helma’s face. “It’s Elara.”
The reaction was immediate… all color drained from the woman’s face as she stared, not at Dar, but at the shape in his arms. Her breath caught sharply, and whatever she had been about to say vanished.
“Elara?” Helma whispered, the word barely more than air. She moved at once, flinging the door wide. “Inside. Now.” She ushered Dar in with sharp, urgent gestures.
He didn’t hesitate. He stepped across the threshold, the air changing around him—thicker, warmer, comforting… and hopeful.
Then he heard the woman, Helma, whisper to Amelia. “You know what you must do. Go now.”
Trouble, his Hunter instincts warned.
“Lay her there gently,” Helma instructed, pointing to the nearest bed of the three in the large room.
Dar lowered Elara with care, easing her down and only then drawing back the cloak enough for Helma to see her face.
Helma gasped at her deathly pale face. “How long?”
“Too long,” Dar said.
Helma pressed wo fingers to Elara’s throat and shook her head. “Barely a heartbeat.”
She got busy spreading the cloak to get to the wound as she ordered, “Get out and leave me to tend to her.”
“Nay.”
The single word landed solidly between them.
Helma’s eyes flashed. “This is not your place, Hunter.”
“Again, she is my wife.” His tone hardened. “I will not leave her, not for kings, not for magic, and I dare anyone or thing to come between us.”
The woman stared at him, searching his face as if weighing him and his words, finally saying, “Very well, but do not get in my way. Do not interfere.”
Dar nodded and stepped aside, but he did not move far.
As Helma began pulling jars and cloths from a shelf, Dar’s thoughts snagged on one thing and would not let go.
Elara’s name.
Her name had been spoken with recognition and shock, as though she were no stranger here. As though she belonged. How could they know her? He would get answers, for sure, but for now saving his wife from death was all that mattered.
Dar stepped closer when Helma struggled with the torn fabric of Elara’s shirt, her fingers slick with blood.
“Let me,” he said, already reaching.
Helma caught his arm, not sharply, not to stop him, but with a gentleness that stilled him all the same. Her eyes lifted to his, steady and knowing.
“You may not wish to see what waits beneath,” she warned softly.
“I wish to see everything,” he said, his voice rough.
Helma studied him for a heartbeat longer, then inclined her head and stepped aside.
Dar eased the remaining cloth away, heavy with blood, and with it came the cloth the healers at Ancrum had applied to the wound.
The sight struck him harder than any blade ever had.
Blood matted her skin, dark against the pale rise of her chest. The wound was deep—too deep. Not the clean work of a soldier’s strike, but the savage damage of a thrown dagger driven with intent to kill. His breath left him with a single, harsh sound.
For the first time since he had reached her, fear took full hold.
“Nay,” he said, the word breaking free of him before he could stop it. “Nay.”
Helma moved with quiet urgency, pressing clean cloths to the wound, murmuring words he did not understand.
Dar forced himself to breathe, to stay useful. He held Elara when Helma asked, lifted her when told, steadied her body when pain wracked it though she did not wake.
At one point, he gripped Helma’s arm, desperation bare in his voice. “Use your sorcery. Whatever magic you possess—use it. Save her.”
Helma did not bristle. She did not argue. Instead, she met his gaze with a compassion that cut deeper than anger ever could.
“You do not understand our abilities,” she said gently. “Nor the limits of them. Some wounds…” Her voice softened. “Some wounds tear at more than flesh.”