The king said nothing. He simply stared at Elara, the weight of his scrutiny sharp enough to peel a man to the bone.
Tavish cleared his throat carefully, stepping forward just a fraction. “Caerith is overflowing with simple healers, my king. Food, space, and tempers remain tight. If none of them are the one you seek?—”
The king’s head snapped toward him, the scowl that he leveled enough to freeze Tavish mid-breath. The advisor bowed his head and wisely said no more.
The king turned his gaze back to Elara and studied her for several long, tense moments, then a slow breath left him, controlled and cold. “Very well. The healers will be released.”
A relieved breath left Elara, though relief was short-lived.
“But hear me clearly,” the king continued. “If your visions fail me, if you do not locate the healer who defies death, you will suffer dearly for it.” His voice turned so icy cold that it could be felt. “I will see to it myself.”
A shiver ran along Elara’s spine, but she kept her chin up, refusing to cower.
The king turned to Feena. “You and the silver-haired one. Wait in the hall.”
Feena rose slowly, her joints stiff, and reached for Adira to help the lass stand.
The king’s hand shot out, firm and unyielding as it clamped onto Adira’s shoulder. “I said nothing about the mute.”
“Adira,” Feena corrected him, wanting him to see her as a person who hurts and fears like anyone else.
“She stays, and she remains with me until I say otherwise,” he commanded, Adira’s name never reaching his lips as his hand tightened on her shoulder.
Adira froze, her breath shuddering, eyes wide and frightened as she felt the weight of his clamped hand deepen.
Feena hesitated only a heartbeat, her face pale and drawn with fear for the lass she loved like a daughter, ready to speak up.
The king silenced her before she could speak. “Out. NOW.”
Feena shuffled past him, barely having time to send Adira one last soft look, hand to her own chest in their private sign of comfort before Tavish ushered her out of the room.
Elara lingered one heartbeat longer before Dar touched her elbow lightly, a silent urging. She cast one final glance toward Adira, the young woman trembling beneath the king’s grip, then turned and stepped out of the chamber.
Behind her, the heavy door thudded shut, the sound reverberating through the corridor like the slam of fate itself.
Chapter Seventeen
The King’s Chambers
The Looming Threat
* * *
King Dravic stood beside the table, his hands braced on its edge, his shoulders taut. The single candle burning beside him threw a sharp glow across the strong planes of his face.
Dar, Tavish, and Muir stood before him, silent and watchful.
When the king finally spoke, his voice cut through the stillness like a blade drawn from its sheath. “Warlord Tharne of Drogath continues to prepare for war.”
Muir’s brows shot up. Tavish remained stone-still. Dar’s jaw tightened, though he kept his expression firmly controlled.
“Are you certain it’s Scotara he plans to wage war against?” Dar asked carefully.
The king straightened. “Certain enough. Their fleets multiply. Their shores bristle with warriors and communication from advisors I sent to speak with Tharne has become sparse.”
Tavish stepped forward slightly. “Your spies?—”
“Every one of them has returned empty-handed,” the king said. “Or not at all.”