“Nay,” he whispered, the word tearing free of him. Then louder. “NAY.”
The pain broke through him like a dam giving way.
Rage followed.
It ripped out of his chest in a roar that shook the air itself, a sound born not only of loss, but betrayal, by fate, by kings, by the world that had dared take her from him. He stood, threw his head back, and roared, the sound carrying through the trees, through stone and root and soil.
The forest answered.
The ground trembled beneath his feet. Roots burst through the earth, coiling and snapping, stones splitting as if struck from within. Branches bowed low, leaves shuddering violently as a wind surged from nowhere, carrying with it the scent of rain, blood, and old magic.
Dar felt it then—not as something entering him, but as something awakening.
This was not the hunger of the hunt.
Not the thrill his kind had been taught to crave.
This was belonging.
Power flowed through him, ancient and fierce, settling into his bones, his breath, his blood. The land did not fear him. It recognized him.
He dropped to his knees beside Elara once more, his hands shaking as he gathered her close, pressing his face into her hair.
“I swear it,” he rasped. “By the land. By my blood. By everything I am becoming, I will not let this stand.”
A voice cut through the chaos, smooth and amused.
“Good.”
The word slithered through the clearing, untouched by the fury around it.
Dar’s head snapped up.
“That leaves me only one to kill.”
Amelia streaked to his side, her glow flickering wildly. Dar did not look at her at first. His gaze was fixed on the trees ahead, on the place where the forest recoiled rather than welcomed.
“Stay with her,” he said, his voice low and iron-hard. “Do not leave her side.”
Amelia hesitated.
“When it is done,” Dar continued, finally turning his eyes to her, “you will tell Lord Oaken that Elara and I are to be buried together. No separation, not even in death.”
Her tiny hand flew to her mouth. She nodded fiercely.
Dar rose.
He knew that voice.
Elara had warned him.
He turned toward the darkness, toward the power pressing against the land like a wound that refused to heal.
And he stepped forward to meet it.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Driochmor Forest