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)
Muir wasted not a heartbeat once they were told to wait. He strode toward a long side table where pitchers of wine and ale stood ready, along with trenchers of fruit, bread, and cold meats. He reached for a tankard as if he’d been born doing so and tore into a hunk of bread with equal enthusiasm.
Elara could not bear the thought of food, her stomach knotting and her hand remaining firm in Dar’s. Her pulse thrummed in her ears. The hall felt too large, too open, too exposed. Whatever power ruled Caerith seemed etched into its very stones. Oh, how she wished she was far from here, in the forest where she felt the most welcome, the most at home. And she feared she might never see it again.
She cast a quick glance at Dar. He stood stoic beside her, his posture straight, the black leather of his Hunter’s garb intimidating. He looked as though he belonged in this hall, carved from the same strength and history, war and battle. He kept his gaze forward, unblinking.
Tavish turned toward the far archway as the sound of deliberate, measured steps began to approach, the kind of sound made by a man who expected the world to move aside for him.
A chill swept across the room.
Feena stiffened behind Elara, her hand tightening around Adira’s. The girl shrank against her, eyes fixed on the archway, where everyone focused, with fear so raw Elara felt it vibrate in her bones.
The steps grew louder, echoing, controlled, each one a statement, then… King Dravic entered.
Chapter Fourteen
Caerith
The King’s Castle
* * *
King Dravic did not simply walk into the Great Hall—he claimed it with every step.
He wore no crown, yet there was no mistaking him. His garments marked him as king long before his gaze reached them. A long coat of deep black, sleeveless and trimmed in silver thread, swept behind him like shadow given form. Beneath it stretched a richly tailored brocade tunic of dark green, the fabric catching the torchlight in subtle glints. It molded to his broad shoulders and powerful chest, the cut elegant yet unmistakably made for a man accustomed to command more than courtly life.
But it was his face—striking, immaculate, almost too perfectly carved—that stole breath. High cheekbones, a strong jaw framed by neatly trimmed dark hair, a mouth that could charm or cut depending on how it chose to shape a word. Women in any village would whisper about such a man, and maidens would imagine him in their dreams.
Yet none of that held true danger.
It was his eyes.
A piercing, dark blue, cold as winter lochs, deep enough to swallow secrets whole. One look was enough to still the breath in a chest, enough to warn any heart with sense to look away. Those eyes scanned the hall with a composure sharpened by years of power, pausing only briefly on Dar before fixing upon Elara.
The moment his gaze found her, Elara felt her pulse jolt.
It was not attraction. It was more like his presence striking something ancient stirring in the marrow. A king carved by legacy and danger, a man who commanded fear as easily as another man might command loyalty.
Beside her, Feena drew a shaky breath and drew Adira closer to her.
Adira stared openly, her green eyes wide, fear trembling through her slight frame.
Dar stood straighter, his posture shifting subtly, taut, ready for battle.
King Dravic stopped several paces before them, the sweep of his long black vest-coat settling around him like the folding of great shadowed wings. His dark blue eyes, cold and discerning, passed over each of them in turn before narrowing on Dar.
“Report,” he commanded.
Dar’s voice carried the calm authority of a seasoned Hunter. “Aye, my king. I am sure my father has informed you that word reached him of a healer with silver hair and amethyst eyes hidden in Leighfeld. My father sent me to find her and bring her to you. But she is no healer. She is an herb-scribe.”
Dravic’s gaze drifted over her hair, her eyes, her every breath as though measuring the truth of her blood.
“Are you sure she does not mislead you?” King Dravic asked.
“Aye, my king,” Dar replied. “She is no legendary healer. But she has visions. They come without warning, tied to danger. They have proven… useful.”
Elara felt yet another sting of betrayal carving its way toward her heart. He had given his word that he would say nothing, and he broke it.
Dravic lifted his chin slightly, considering her. “The gift of sight. A dangerous thing left behind with the evil magic of the forbidden land.” His eyes narrowed on her. “So, how was it born to an herb-scribe?”
Elara fought to keep her voice strong and free of fear. “I do not know, my king. But I assure you I was not born of evil.”