He leaned closer, his voice barely more than a breath in her ear. “I love you, wife.” His words came rough, unpracticed, but true. “I love you more than you could ever possibly fathom. You are in my heart, deeply rooted, and always will be.”
His forehead touched the pillow beside hers.
“Don’t leave me, Elara,” he said, the plea stripped bare of pride or strength. “I could not bear life without you.”
He rested his head beside hers then, careful not to disturb her, his arm still curved protectively around her hand.
And there, with the forest holding its breath beyond the walls and magic stirring unseen, Dar finally surrendered to sleep, keeping watch even in his dreams.
“Wake up… he’s arrived.”
The words snapped Dar out of sleep.
He surged upright at once, breath sharp, his first frantic glance going to Elara. She lay as she had before—too still. Too pale. Her skin was cool beneath his hand, and fear speared through him, cold and vicious. He had felt that chill before. On battlefields. On bodies that would never draw breath again.
“Nay,” he muttered, shaking the thought away as if it were an enemy he could strike down. She was still alive, and he clung to that truth.
But the room was empty.
Helma was not at the table. No candle flickered with fresh tending. Silence pressed close.
Dar’s hand went to the hilt of his dagger, not drawing it, but ready. His every instinct sharpened. If someone had entered this place unbidden, they would answer for it.
The door opened and Helma stepped inside, Amelia flitting alongside her. Helma moved to the side, bowing her head, not in fear, but in deference.
“His excellence, Lord Oaken,” she announced.
A man entered.
He was tall, his presence filling the room without effort. Long silver hair fell loose down his back and his face was lined not with frailty but with knowledge, with years that had been lived rather than survived.
But it was his eyes that stilled Dar completely.
Amethyst.
The same rare, striking shade as Elara’s.
Lord Oaken’s gaze moved from Dar to the bed and softened.
He inclined his head once, a gesture of acknowledgment rather than greeting. “I am indebted to you for bringing my granddaughter home.”
Chapter Thirty
Driochmor
A Healer’s Cottage
* * *
“Granddaughter?”
The word tore through Dar’s chest, rough and disbelieving. If that were true, it would mean Elara was born… of magic.
Lord Oaken inclined his head once. “Aye. Elara is my granddaughter.”
Dar didn’t move, trying to comprehend the shocking revelation and the consequences it would bring. Yet it changed nothing he felt for his wife, and it made him even more determined to protect her.
He stood between the man and the bed. One arm shifted just enough to block the way, his stance wide. His hand hovered near his dagger, not touching it, but ready.