Dar tightened his grip on his sword. “You.”
The man inclined his head. “We met on the road.”
“The wanderer who told me a tale,” Dar said.
“Partial tale, and I am no longer a wanderer, never was. A convenient persona. People hear wanderer and stop looking too closely.” He grinned. “And I couldn’t let them see who I truly am.”
“A warlock,” Dar said.
“That I am and a powerful one,” he said with pride.
Dar glanced once at Muir’s still body. “He claimed Driochmor was his home. That the king stole it from him.”
The warlock’s mouth curved, faintly amused. “The king stole much from Driochmor, but we will soon retrieve all he took and more.”
Dar needed to know more. “How long has Muir worked with you?”
“Long enough for his hatred to grow, not so his skills.”
“He was necessary until he wasn’t, is what you’re saying,” Dar said, “And the Hunter I sent to follow you?”
The warlock sneered. “I finished him off before your stench was out of reach.” His gaze slid, unblinking, to Elara’s still form on the ground. “She sensed me even before she understood what she was sensing.”
“What do you mean?” Dar demanded.
“On the road. She sensed my power, an unease to her.” His eyes sharpened. “She was right. But her power had not matured enough for her to understand it. She could feel the disturbance, not its shape.”
Rage surged through Dar. “You knew what she was.”
“Aye.” The warlock nodded. “The moment I saw her.”
Dar took a step forward. “You ordered her death?”
“I encouraged, convinced Muir it was necessary, and it was. Once she fully awakened, she would have been a problem. For all of us.”
Dar’s vision tunneled. “My wife is dead because of you.”
“Aye.” He admitted unapologetically. “And it would have been done, if not for your inconvenient loyalty to your wife.”
Dar’s hand landed on the hilt of his sword. “You will not take another breath.”
The warlock studied the blade as if it were an interesting curiosity. “You hunt with steel. You track with instinct. You endure.” His gaze lifted, locking with Dar’s. “Admirable traits.”
The forest shifted uneasily.
“But they are useless against me.”
The air thickened, something dangerous in it stirring.
“You will join your wife in death today,” the warlock said with quiet certainty.
Dar knew no sword would defend against this evil. His hands dropped to his sides, fists clenched, breath coming slow and measured now. He felt it then, the terrible calm that followed rage when something deeper took hold.
The ground beneath his boots warmed.
Not from fire, but from life.
The scent of earth rose sharp and clean, moss and rain and blood mingling. Dar felt it then—not as magic, not as power—but as belonging. As recognition.