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 turned to her at once, his attention sharpening. “Tell me.”
“Driochmor is powerful. Its people, its magic, the land itself. And yet… the bairns were abducted from this place.” Her brow furrowed thinking on the tale Dar had shared with her. “I cannot understand how that could have happened.”
Dar nodded slowly. “You are not alone in wondering. It troubles me as well. If such a thing could be done here, then nowhere is as safe as we believed.”
She glanced at him. “I asked my grandfather. The moment I spoke of it, he grew upset. Would not meet my gaze. He only shook his head and said it was a troubling time for all.” Her voice softened. “He offered no explanation. No answers.”
“Men often do that when the truth is heavier than silence.”
They walked the last stretch without speaking, each lost in thought, until a sudden flutter of movement drew their attention.
Amelia appeared before them, her wings beating hard, erratic. She did not greet them with her usual quick smile or teasing remark. Instead, she hovered at eye level, her small face pale and strained.
“You are here at last,” she said, her voice tight. “That is good. Very good.”
Elara’s heart skipped. “Amelia, what is wrong?”
The fairy wrung her hands, glancing past them toward the forest and then back again, as if the very stones might be listening. “Things stir that should not. Whispers grow louder. Paths shift where they should remain still.” Her gaze locked on Elara. “Your miraculous healing has not gone unnoticed.”
Dar stepped closer to Elara, his presence solid and protective. “By whom?”
Amelia hesitated, clearly distressed. “We do not yet know. Only that the air feels… wrong. As if something long buried has begun to breathe again.”
She darted toward the door, hovering there impatiently. “You must come inside. Your grandfather wants to see you at once.”
Elara exchanged a look with Dar, unease settling deep in her chest.
Whatever answers waited within the manor, Elara sensed they would bring as many questions as truths—and that the peace she had begun to feel in Driochmor was already slipping away.
They followed Amelia through the heavy doors and into the heart of the manor. The warmth inside was different from the cottages—older somehow, steeped in stone and history. Torches burned low along the walls, their flames steady, casting long shadows across carved beams and woven hangings that told stories of forests, beasts, and stars.
Amelia led them into a wide chamber set apart from the rest of the house—a council chamber, though it felt more like a place where truths were weighed rather than decisions announced. A long table of dark wood stood at its center, its surface worn smooth by generations of hands. Shelves lined the walls, filled with scrolls, carved stones, and objects Dar could not begin to name but felt rather than understood.
Lord Oaken was there, waiting.
He crossed the room the moment he saw Elara and gathered her into his arms, holding her with a fierce tenderness that tightened Dar’s chest. Elara returned the embrace, comforted by it—and yet, even as she did, a flicker of unease slid through her. She felt it in the way his hands lingered, in the tension beneath the warmth.
He pulled back at last, his palms resting on her shoulders. “You look stronger,” he said softly.
“I am,” she replied, smiling—but her gaze searched his face. You are worried, she thought. The feeling pressed at her temples, not quite a vision, but close.
Lord Oaken turned then to Dar, inclining his head. “You have my thanks once again, Hunter, and my respect.”
Dar accepted it with a nod, though his instincts remained alert. Whatever had drawn them here was not finished with them yet.
Lord Oaken gestured for them to sit. He remained standing.
“Dark magic stirs,” he said without preamble.
The words settled heavily in the chamber.
“Word spreads about you being ripped from the arms of death by the healer born of evil,” Lord Oaken continued. “The dark forces believe she has come to Driochmor to strengthen them. To lead them. To free them and they are ready to submit to her will.”
Dar felt a chill slide down his spine. He thought of the forest rising in fury, of the price power always demanded. Men never learn, he thought grimly. Whether magic or steel, it is always the same hunger.
“And there is more,” Lord Oaken said.
Elara leaned forward instinctively.
“A man entered Driochmor days ago. He did not wander blindly. He sought out those who walk darker paths. He met with them.” Lord Oaken’s gaze hardened. “I believe he was sent by Warlord Tharne to seek their cooperation in joining forces against the king when war comes.”
Dar’s hands curled slowly into fists, hearing confirmation of what he feared was the reason for the foreigner’s interest in Driochmor.
Silence stretched, thick and heavy.
Elara felt it then—not fear alone, but grief for what might be lost. Driochmor, for all its secrecy and scars, was her blood. To see it torn apart by ambition and darkness felt like a wound that could never heal.