“And none saw where he headed?”
“None cared to know,” Pratus said, annoyed.
“If he returns, you will send word to Venngraith at once,” Dar said, turning to his horse, then back again at Pratus. “Not to Caerith. Not to the king—to me.”
“And if I refuse?” Pratus asked, regaining his courage.
Dar’s gaze hardened. “Then the king will hear of your refusal to obey me. Along with why you fail to maintain the king’s holdings and why a man of your standing thinks himself above concern.”
Pratus swallowed hard.
Dar turned away, already done with him. “You will find your importance lies in how useful you are—not how loudly you claim authority.”
He mounted and rode off without another word.
Behind him, Pratus stood very still, the illusion of power cracking quietly at his feet.
Brice stepped forward, placing himself squarely between Elara and the figure that had emerged from the trees.
“I asked,” he said again, his voice hard, unyielding, “what are you doing here?”
The man went to answer when a dagger suddenly struck him in the chest with a brutal sound. He gasped, shock widening his eyes, as he staggered backward and fell to the ground.
“Elara—” Brice said, turning as he drew his sword.
Too late.
Another dagger flashed from the shadows of the trees, driving straight into his chest. The force of it stole the breath from him and still he struggled to stay on his feet. Then—he fell hard, the sword slipping from his grasp as he hit the ground.
Elara went to run; two, three steps, then a pain exploded through her chest.
The impact was sudden, devastating, knocking the air from her lungs as the dagger drove deep. Her legs buckled. The forest tilted, spun, and rushed up to meet her as she fell to the ground.
Cold seeped into her bones.
Her vision blurred, darkness closing in at the edges, but before it claimed her, she forced her eyes open one last time.
A man stood over her.
She saw his face.
And then everything went black.
Dar rode out from beneath Pratus’s gate with his jaw clenched and his thoughts locked on what had not been said. Pratus was hiding something. He was sure of it. He would send word to his da to send a troop of men to Pratus and question him until they get answers while he continued to pursue the wanderer and the stranger.
They had gone no more than a few lengths down the road when it struck him.
A sudden unease—sharp, vicious—cut through his chest like a blade. His breath hitched, his hand tightening on the reins as if something inside him had been wrenched violently out of place.
Then—
A flutter brushed his cheek.
So light he might have thought he imagined it.
A whisper followed, breath-soft against his ear.
Hurry.