Maelis’s gaze softened, though her voice did not. “I’m too old for their chains to matter. But you? You still have roads before you. Run, Elara.”
The beat of the drums quickened, echoing through the valley.
Elara hesitated only a heartbeat more before gathering her skirts and running, the drums’ steady, powerful beat growing stronger.
The mist closed around her, cool and damp against her skin, the drums chasing her frantic heartbeat into the trees. Brambles tore at her skirt, and the scent of moss and rain-wet bark filled her lungs. She didn’t stop until the sounds of the village faded to a distant murmur, replaced by the drip of water from the leaves and the whisper of wind through the pines.
She pressed herself against the trunk of an old oak, breath ragged.
Calm.
She needed to calm herself or she would not be able to hear the forest alive around her, listening, waiting to help her.
The drums’ intense pounding rolled through the trees like distant thunder and though she would have preferred to press her hands against her ears and silence it, she didn’t. She had to listen. Had to hear. She crouched low among the ferns, pressing herself into the shadow of the oak.
Through the trees she could see the edge of the village, blurred some by distance. Figures moved there now, dark shapes on horseback, cloaks trailing like wings, the glint of steel catching the weak morning light.
The Hunters had arrived.
The drums ceased.
For a heartbeat, all was still. The villagers held their breath, their eyes fixed on the narrow road that cut around the fields. Even the wind seemed to wait. Then came the thud of hooves.
Out of the thinning mist rode a line of black-cloaked figures, the Hunters of Venngraith. There were twelve in all, their mounts broad-chested and restless, the sound of their approach heavy as storm surf against rock. Armor gleamed beneath their cloaks, silver worked into dark leather.
No one moved to greet them.
The lead rider dismounted, his face shadowed beneath his hood. When he pushed it back, the villagers saw a man whose expression was carved of stone; cold eyes, a scar down his cheek, a firm mouth made for orders, not mercy.
“We seek the healer,” he said. His voice carried easily, calm and unhurried. “The one who conquers death.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd. No one answered.
The Hunter’s gaze swept the gathering, slow and searching. “The king commands her brought to Caerith, home of the king. Those who aid us will be rewarded. Those who hinder us…” His eyes settled on a young man near the front. “Step forward.”
The man hesitated, then obeyed.
“Your name?”
“Donnel, sir.”
“Your wife?”
Donnel’s eyes darted to where a woman clutched his arm. “Lysa.”
The Hunter studied her plump and pale face, then turned away as if dismissing her entirely. “We will begin with the healers. Bring them.”
Another Hunter urged his horse forward. Two villagers, both older women, were dragged from the edge of the crowd, their protests swallowed by the sound of hoofbeats and muffled cries. One dropped her bundle of herbs, the scent of crushed rosemary spilling into the cold air.
Maelis stepped forward before anyone could stop her. “No healer with such power exists,” she said, her voice firm despite the tremor beneath it. “She is nothing more than a myth. You waste your time.”
The lead Hunter looked at her for a long moment. “Your name.”
“Maelis.”
“You will come with us.”
A soldier swung down from his horse and grabbed her arm roughly. She struggled, striking him with surprising strength for her years, but another caught her from behind.