Magic Unleashed
* * *
Muir stood across from him, feet planted, sword lifted in a warrior’s grip.
“I will let you die a Hunter,” he said, his voice steady, almost reverent. “Sword in hand.”
Dar’s laugh tore out of him, harsh and broken. “Why?” he demanded. “Why her?”
Muir did not strike. Instead, he lowered his blade and spread his arms wide, lifting his face as if to the sky. He drew in a long breath, deep and deliberate.
“Feel this,” he said quietly. “This land. This power. This is my heritage. My home. And the kings of Scotara took it from me.”
The forest stirred again, not at Dar’s bidding this time, but in uneasy response.
“They came in the night,” Muir continued. “They stole our bairns. Dozens of them. Took them into Scotara and scattered them among your people. They threatened their lives if magic ever crossed the borders of Driochmor again. If even a whisper of it escaped.”
Dar’s chest tightened.
“Some of that magic has begun to wake,” Muir said. “And those stolen children—grown now—feel it. They remember. They want what was taken from them. Their power. Their birthright. And vengeance.”
Dar took a step forward. “Elara knew none of this?”
Muir’s gaze flicked to her still form on the ground. “Aye. That is the tragedy of it. She died never knowing she was born of Driochmor. Never knowing what she carried.”
“Then tell me,” Dar said, his voice deadly calm, “why you stabbed her.”
Muir’s jaw tightened. “I had no choice.”
“No choice,” Dar echoed, disbelief sharpening his tone.
“Roth,” Muir spat. “The fool your king sent to watch you. He discovered my secret by accident. Saw more than he should have. I rushed to stop him from warning you and Elara, so the truth would never reach the king.”
Dar’s fists clenched. “You killed her for that?”
“I did not plan to,” Muir snapped. “I never planned to kill either of you. You were useful to me, Dar. A Hunter moving freely, asking questions, stirring the king’s attention elsewhere.”
Dar’s eyes burned with anger.
“But Roth forced my hand and now—” Muir raised his sword again, resolve hardening. “—now I have no choice.”
Muir staggered.
The change was so sudden Dar barely understood it at first. The way Muir’s breath hitched, the sword slipped from his fingers, the sound he made more confusion than pain.
Then he fell forward… hard.
His body hit the earth with a dull, final weight. Blood darkened his cloak, spreading fast.
Dar stared, stunned, until he saw the hilt.
A dagger jutted from Muir’s back.
A heartbeat later, a figure emerged from the shadows.
The lean, dark-haired man stepped from between the trees as though he had always been there, shadow slipping off him like a discarded cloak. He stooped, wrapped his fingers around the dagger buried in Muir’s back, and pulled it free with a smooth twist. Blood ran briefly along the blade before he wiped it clean on Muir’s cloak, precise, almost fastidious.
“He took too long,” the man said mildly. “Useless chatter. Boasting. Men like him always want an audience.”