Dar didn’t like leaving her. It was his duty to protect his wife and while Brice was a seasoned hunter and skilled warrior, when necessary, he wondered if Hunters had the skills to defend themselves against what was stirring awake in the forest.
He did not want to be gone long. It was the reason he did not slow his horse as the castle came into view.
Calling it a castle was generous. Stone walls, in need of repair, enclosed the compound, and the squat towers were not maintained as well as they should be. While this was no seat of power, it was a regional stronghold for the appointed regional chieftain, built to remind nearby villages of the king’s rule.
Pratus ruled this region for the king and even with a brief glance Dar could see Pratus was not seeing to his duties.
Dar reined his horse in before the closed gate, his men fanning out behind him in disciplined silence. The guards stiffened at the sight of Hunters—hands drifting toward weapons they would not dare draw.
“I am Dar of Venngraith,” he said, his voice carrying without effort. “Open the gate.”
There was a pause—long enough to be deliberate.
Then iron scraped stone.
Pratus awaited him in the courtyard, dressed in fine wool and leather trimmed with unnecessary ornament, looking much finer than the castle itself. His expression was practiced confidence, the kind worn by men who ruled small lands and mistook it for real authority.
“You arrive without summons,” Pratus said. “This is my holding.”
Dar dismounted in one smooth motion and walked with firm strides to stop in front of Pratus, a glare in his eyes. “Wrong. All of Scotara belongs to the king and you answer to him.”
Pratus’s mouth tightened, his chin went up.
“And you are subjected to King Dravic’s law,” Dar reminded sternly.
Silence followed. Pratus waved his guards back with a sharp flick of his hand, unwilling to look weak before them.
“What do you want, Hunter?” he asked.
Dar wasted no time. “A wanderer came through Ancrum. Short. Thick of build. He did not linger. Did not speak as wanderers do. Instead, he came here.”
Pratus’s eyes flickered—briefly, but enough. “A great many pass through my lands. I do not keep account of every ragged traveler.”
“You do,” Dar said, stepping closer, Pratus taking two steps back, “when they ask about old paths.”
Pratus scoffed. “Old paths interest many.”
“Not those leading toward Driochmor,” Dar countered.
Pratus straightened, drawing himself up as though height might grant him leverage. “You accuse me of harboring suspicion without proof.”
“I ask questions,” Dar replied. “Your answers determine whether suspicion grows.”
Pratus answered, reluctantly. “Aye. A man who fits your description stopped here. He stayed one night and was not seen after morning light. He asked about roads recovered by the forest by now. I thought him a fool for chasing tall tales.”
“Yet you let him remain,” Dar said, not believing his words.
“He caused no trouble.”
“Men seeking forbidden lands rarely do,” Dar said. “Until they do.”
Pratus bristled. “You overstep, Hunter.”
Dar leaned in just enough for the threat to land without spectacle. “You overestimate yourself, Chieftain Pratus. You govern fields and villages… I answer to the king. If this wanderer threatens Scotara, your silence makes you complicit.”
Pratus held his ground but sweat had begun to bead at his temple.
“As I said, he was gone before dawn,” he said tightly.