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 not take you far,” Lord Oaken said. “And you will still hear her if she stirs.”
Dar followed him outside.
The night in Driochmor was unlike any he had known. The forest did not recede into darkness—it watched. Leaves whispered though there was no wind. Soft lights pulsed faintly between branches, not lanterns, not stars. Life pressed close without crowding.
Lord Oaken stopped beneath an ancient tree, its bark pale as bone, its branches heavy with age.
“Tell me something, Dar of Venngraith,” he said. “Do you know the true history of your Hunter clan?”
Dar frowned. “I’ve heard tales. Old ones. My da told me to pay them no heed.”
“And did you?”
“Aye, it is imperative that Hunters follow rules. It is why Hunters always catch their prey. The old tales are meant to distract. Hunters deal in what is real. Flesh. Blood. Proof.”
Oaken studied him in the low light. “And yet here you stand—in Driochmor—trusting magic to save your wife.”
Dar stiffened. “I trust nothing but my will to keep her alive.”
Lord Oaken nodded once. “Then it is time you heard the truth of what your da told you to ignore.”
He turned his gaze toward the darkened forest beyond the village.
“The Hunters were not always what your king believes them to be. Before kings ruled Scotara,” Lord Oaken said quietly, “before banners and borders, there were the Hunters.”
Dar’s jaw tightened. “We know that.”
“You know the tale the king allows,” Lord Oaken corrected. “Not the truth.”
A need to hear what he would say kept Dar minding his tongue.
“For hundreds of years,” Lord Oaken continued, “Hunters were keepers of the land. They watched the herds. They culled only what was needed. They hunted to survive, never for sport. They knew the forests the way healers know flesh—by scent, by sound, by instinct. They heard what others could not. They moved faster. Could see at a far distance and had the power of scent. Their allegiance was to the land. Those natural abilities dwindled once they abandoned the land and turned their allegiance to the king.”
Dar’s chest tightened, eager to hear more, yet concerned as well as to what he would discover.
“When the Great War came,” Lord Oaken continued, “your grandfather’s brother ruled Venngraith. King Halric—Dravic’s grandfather—promised him riches beyond imagining if the Hunters would hunt his enemies. Not beasts. Men. Whole villages. Anyone who did not bow.”
Dar’s fists clenched. “Hunters followed orders.”
“Aye, to man not nature,” Lord Oaken said softly. “And at first, they hunted as they always had—quickly, efficiently, without cruelty. But wealth changes men. Greed more so.”
He turned then, his gaze sharp. “Your great-uncle took the gold. Then demanded more. And to earn it, he drove the Hunters harder. Longer. Bloodier. At some point, the hunt stopped being duty. It became desire. And once that line is crossed…” He shook his head.
Dar considered his words. Hunters hunted and caught their prey, but lately he had seen that some Hunters had an unquenchable bloodlust.
“When your great-uncle died,” Lord Oaken went on, “he left no heirs. No family. He had been too busy hunting to build one. Your grandfather inherited Venngraith already changed. He had grown up under that rule. Under that conditioning. To him, service to the king seemed natural. Necessary.”
“But it wasn’t,” Dar said, acknowledging what one man had done.
“Nay,” Lord Oaken agreed. “Hunters were never meant to serve a throne. They were meant to serve the land.”
Silence fell between them, heavy and absolute.
Dar stared into the dark, the forest suddenly feeling less like an ally and more like a judge.
“My da told me to ignore those stories,” Dar said at last, “said they weakened resolve.”
“They threatened obedience,” Lord Oaken corrected.
Dar dragged a hand through his hair. “If this is true… then everything we are—everything we do—”
“Has been shaped by a lie,” Lord Oaken finished.
Dar’s voice was low. “Then what does that make me?”
Lord Oaken looked at him steadily. “A man who can reclaim his clan’s honor.”
The words settled heavily between them.
Without another word, Lord Oaken turned back toward the cottage, and Dar followed, the weight of what had been revealed pressing down on him as surely as the night air. Inside, Helma moved quietly, checking Elara one last time before nodding to Lord Oaken.
She looked at Dar. “I will leave you alone with her.”
Dar felt the weight of her words. She was leaving him to spend what time there was left with his wife, Lord Oaken leaving with her.
He slipped out of his boots and lay down beside Elara, careful not to jostle her. He drew her close, resting her head against his chest. Her breath remained shallow but steady. He wrapped his arm around her as though the simple act might anchor her to this world.
Exhaustion claimed him quickly and he plunged into sleep.
Something wrenched him awake.
It wasn’t a sound nor a touch, more of a knowing or a warning that he should wake.