A shiver ran through her. “I want to believe that.”
“Then do,” he said, sounding as if he ordered her to do so.
Silence followed, heavy and weighted.
Finally, his voice brushed her ear again. “The king is not a man you refuse.”
She clenched the saddle blanket, torn between fear and the sharp pull she felt toward the man holding her. She shouldn’t trust him and yet… the closeness of him, the steady strength of his arms, his warm breath against her cheek, and a kiss that said so much more than was spoken cautioned her to pay heed and not condemn him… just yet.
Ahead, the trees thinned, the road winding toward the king’s land and her fate.
Whatever awaited them in Caerith, she knew one truth clearly, her greatest danger might not be King Dravic. It might be the Hunter she feared she had lost her heart to whether she wanted to believe it or not.
Chapter Thirteen
Caerith
Home of the King
* * *
They crested a rise just before dusk, time enough for Elara to see clearly what lay ahead.
Caerith.
The king’s stronghold.
The heart of Scotara.
The place where fate waited with open jaws.
She drew in a breath and held it, stunned.
The land before them unfurled in sweeping ridges and deep, rolling valleys, the forests thinning into a vast emerald expanse. Mist curled along the ground like drifting spirits, caught in the hollows where lochs glimmered faintly beneath the cloudy sky.
And rising from the lush spread of land, woven into the very bones of the Highlands, stood Caerith.
It was nothing like the stories told in Birkfell, nor the grim fortress she had pictured. The castle rose from the land rather than dominating it, its stone walls grown moss-soft and ancient. Tall towers pierced the sky, their dark silhouettes softened by climbing ivy and the pale green touch of early autumn.
It was beautiful.
Beautiful… and terrible.
Because power lived there, old, sharp, and unyielding. Power that could shape the future of every healer in Leighfeld and power that now waited for her.
The Hunters slowed as they descended the hill, their formation tightening with practiced discipline. Elara felt the shift in Dar’s body behind her, the subtle stiffening of muscle, the deepening of breath, like a man bracing for a storm he had long known was coming.
She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. She didn’t want him to see her fear. She kept her gaze fixed on the castle, her heart pounding with dread and something colder… something like destiny pressing its hand against her back.
As they drew closer, the air itself seemed to change. It grew heavier, charged, as though the land recognized their approach. As though it whispered warnings through the rustle of the nearby pines.
She heard Feena, seated in the cart behind them, murmur a prayer under her breath. And she could almost see how Adira clung to the older woman, eyes wide, face drained of all color.
Elara swallowed hard. “We have arrived.”
Dar’s voice came from behind her, quiet but firm. “Aye, wife. We have.”
That he continued to call her wife somehow continued to make her feel safe, as foolish a thought that it was. Especially since ahead stood the gates of Caerith and beyond them waited King Dravic… waiting for her.