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)
“I will explain everything,” Lord Oaken said calmly, though the air between them tightened. “But first, I wish to see my granddaughter.”
Dar glared at him. “How do I know you don’t mean her harm?”
Helma gasped as if shocked that he would accuse his excellence of such a thing and Amelia shook her tiny head.
Lord Oaken spoke softly. “You have nothing to fear from me. I give you my word that I mean Elara and, you as well, no harm. Just the opposite, I owe you a great debt for protecting her and bringing her home to get help.”
Dar searched his face, those strange eyes, too familiar, too close to Elara’s to be coincidence. Still, instinct screamed at him to hold fast.
“She’s my wife,” Dar said, his firm words not a challenge but a claim. A warning.
Lord Oaken’s gaze sharpened, studying him more closely now. “Then answer me this… do you love her?”
Dar answered swiftly. “Aye, I love her. And I would give my life for hers without a second thought.”
Lord Oaken released a soft breath, as though something long held had finally been released. He nodded once, deep and solemn.
“Then you understand how I must feel to have my granddaughter home after all these years and how eager I am to see her, to know it is truly her and that she is truly home.”
Dar wasn’t sure if he liked the sound of that since it left him with the sense that the man expected his granddaughter to remain there and that would not happen. That Elara might not be his granddaughter, solving the problem, had him stepping aside. Though he knew instinctively it was nothing more than wishful thinking.
Lord Oaken stepped closer to the bed.
Dar watched him carefully, every muscle taut, his body angled just enough to remind the man that Elara was not unguarded. The old man’s composure faltered the moment his gaze fell on her face.
Something passed through him then—shock first, sharp and unmistakable, followed by grief so raw it hollowed his chest. His breath caught, one hand lifting as if to touch her, then stopping short, fingers curling briefly into his palm, then unfurling to rest his hand on her arm.
Dar felt it like a blade slid beneath his ribs. The question rose unbidden. Had Elara known she belonged to Driochmor? To magic so deeply rooted it bled through bloodlines and time. And if she had, why had she never spoken of it?
Lord Oaken’s eyes shimmered, violet darkening to bruised amethyst as he straightened with visible effort. “She should not be this still.”
Dar followed his gaze back to Elara and vowed, “She won’t be. Tell me what must be done.”
Lord Oaken did not answer. Instead, his gaze drifted to Helma.
Helma stood rigid near the table, her hands clenched tight in her apron. She shook her head once. “There is nothing more to be done. The wound caused too much inner damage. I have done all that can be done.”
“Are you sure of this, Helma?” Lord Oaken asked with a small shred of hope.
“Aye, and I am so sorry I cannot save her.”
Dar turned on her. “I do not accept that.”
Helma met his angry glare, sorrow lining her face. “Truly, I am sorry.”
Desperate, Dar said, “There is another healer I have heard about. The one who defies death itself. You must know of her.”
The room seemed to recoil at his words.
Fear kept Helma from holding her tongue. “She is evil. Born of dark magic.”
Dar scowled, ready to claim that false. Ready to tell them how she had shown herself to Elara and himself, and how she helped Muir heal. Then he recalled the promise he and Elara had made about not telling anyone that they had seen her, and he held his tongue.
“Leave us,” Lord Oaken ordered gently, looking between Helma and Amelia. “I will speak to my granddaughter’s husband alone.”
Helma bowed her head and hurried from the cottage, muttering under her breath, her steps quick, Amelia swiftly flying past her.
Dar remained by the bed, arms folded across his chest, determined. “My name is Dar and I want answers. I want answers that will save my wife’s life. Who she is can wait. Where she comes from can wait. I will not lose her—born of magic or not.”
Lord Oaken regarded him steadily. There was no offense in his gaze, no surprise. Only assessment.
“That is as it should be,” he said. “Love makes priorities clear.”
Dar glared at him. “Then speak plainly.”
Oaken nodded. “Driochmor is not what your king believes it to be. Nor is it what our enemies claim. It is not a land of evil magic alone—just as Scotara is not a land of only good men.”
“My patience grows thin and your granddaughter’s life fades,” Dar said frustrated.
“This healer you reference. You must have heard the tale about how a sorcerer from Driochmor seduced an exceptional healer from Leighfeld and how he purposely got her with child, intending to create a powerful healer, one beyond anything known. When the woman learned of his deceit, and fearing for her child’s safety from both sides, she fled and hid.” He sighed. “Did her mum do right by hiding her away, teaching her to use her extraordinary powers for good or does evil rule her now?