Dawn unfurled slowly through the trees, painting the forest in muted hues of gray and silver.
Brannoch Forest was vast, older than any village of men, its trees tall and close as sentinels guarding ancient secrets. Mist coiled around their roots, clinging to the damp earth, and the air carried a scent of pine, wet moss, and the faint sweetness of wood sorrel. Elara had heard that birds never sang in Brannoch Forest before the sun rose, as though they, too, waited for permission to breathe.
Beyond the woods lay the Rowan Reach, a stretch of land marked by low hills and the red-berried trees from which it took its name. Even from here, Elara could almost picture them, the flashes of crimson bright against gray stone and green shadow. The healers of Leighfeld often said that where the rowan grew, the old gods still lingered, watching over those who carried the light of life in their hands.
But this morning, even the thought of those sacred trees brought little comfort. The forest felt heavier than usual, as if it bore witness to too many things left unspoken.
Elara adjusted her cloak, tucking a stray lock of silver hair beneath the hood. Dar walked a few paces behind her, his steps measured and sure. He said little, his eyes alert, constantly moving from shadow to shadow, his every sense attuned to movement.
Neither had spoken since breaking camp.
Elara’s thoughts were too full: the tale Etta had told, the Hunters’ laughter echoing faintly in her mind, and the strange voice she’d heard after they’d gone. She had not told Dar. Some things were best kept to oneself until one understood them.
The sound of her own breathing seemed loud in the stillness. She looked back once and caught Dar studying her, not with suspicion, but the wary interest of a man trying to understand a woman.
“The forest troubles you?” he asked quietly.
“It listens,” she replied. “You can feel it, can’t you?”
His brow furrowed slightly. “I’d rather trust what I can see and hear.”
Before she could respond, a sharp cry split the air, human and desperate, and as fast as it had been heard, it vanished.
Dar’s hand went instinctively to his dagger as he turned toward where he believed the sound came from. “Stay here.”
Elara didn’t listen. She followed close behind.
Dar cast an annoyed glance her way. “I told you?—”
“I stay with you,” she said with a strength that brooked no argument.
“Stubborn woman,” Dar mumbled.
“Determined,” Elara corrected and followed close behind him.
Words he suspected would be exchanged between them much too often.
A narrow glade opened before them, shrouded in morning mist. Seven women stumbled through the far side, their clothes torn and faces streaked with dirt. The youngest couldn’t have been more than eight years, the oldest, wrinkled with age. One carried a bundle strapped to her back, another limped, supported by two others.
When they saw Dar, they froze, fear flashing in their eyes.
“Please,” one cried, her voice hoarse, “we have no extraordinary healing skills.”
Elara pushed past him, raising her hands. “You’ve nothing to fear. He is not a Hunter.”
The women hesitated. Then one of them, a small, wiry woman with wind-tangled hair, let out a sob of relief.
“They came before dawn,” she gasped. “Rathmor’s half in ruin, tossing things aside needlessly in their search, as if we hid what they looked for. They dragged healers with the slightest difference, those who stood out, young and old alike, even one with child.”
Elara’s breath hitched. “How did you escape?”
“Through the north edge, near the Reach. A man shouted from the fields for us to run, one of our own, just before the Hunters arrived. We ran and didn’t look back.”
“Some were caught,” another woman said, “which is why we can’t linger long. They will search the woods.”
Four more women stumbled into the glade, stragglers who had fallen behind the first group.
An elderly woman weathered with age sank to a fallen log, breathing hard. Elara moved to her side, kneeling beside her.