“I knew you would see what others overlook,” he said quietly.
Something in his tone made her chest tighten, not quite longing, but something near to it.
When they reached the valley floor, Falkrith came into view—a sturdy village of stone cottages, each warmed by curling threads of hearth smoke. The setting autumn sun was making a slow descent behind thatched roofs. Stacks of neatly piled firewood were placed throughout the village for all to use. The air carried the scent of drying herbs, wood smoke, and freshly turned soil.
Muir rode ahead without comment. A few of the younger Hunters broke off toward their own dwellings.
But as the villagers took notice of Dar… the atmosphere changed and the chatter faded.
Men paused their work.
Women leaned toward each other with whispered words.
Children darted behind skirts and peered out.
Elara felt it instantly.
They feared him.
Even the air felt charged, as if the trees themselves bowed away from him.
Without thinking, she slid her hand down to his forearm—a soft, anchoring touch. His muscles tightened beneath her palm, but he didn’t pull away. In fact, he leaned into it, just slightly.
She felt that small gesture all the way to her heart.
“Dar,” she murmured, “why do they look at you with fear?”
His gaze passed over the villagers. “They fear the Hunter in me. Not the man.”
“But you are one of them. Their own.”
“I am also my father’s heir,” he said softly, “and the blade Venngraith sends when something must be done… that others do not wish to witness.”
A chill brushed her spine, though not out of fear of him, and she held tighter to his arm.
A tall man with broad shoulders, silver threaded through his dark hair, emerged from between two cottages. His leather vest was worn but clean, his posture proud, and his eyes—pale gray like his son’s but softer—locked onto Dar with equal parts relief and shock.
“Dar.” His voice carried across the open space. “By the gods… I did not expect you home yet.”
Dar dismounted in one fluid motion, the kind that made villagers whisper and step farther back, and he crossed the remaining distance with long strides.
“Da.”
No bow. No hesitation. Just the solid clasping of forearms between two men who understood strength in silence.
Chieftain Cadmus looked as though he had been carved from the very stones of Venngraith—strong, weathered, immovable. But the moment his gaze shifted to Elara, he blinked, surprised.
“And this lass?” he asked, eyes narrowing with curiosity. “She is a beauty.”
Heat rushed to Elara’s cheeks. She slid from the horse carefully, Dar going to her and steadying her waist with a gentle hand.
“This is Elara of the village of Cramond in Leighfeld,” he said. “My wife.”
Cadmus’s eyes flicked between them, sharp with assessment.
Elara kept her chin lifted, though her heart fluttered wildly.
“Welcome to Falkrith, Elara, my new daughter,” Cadmus said at last. “The hearth of Venngraith is yours now.”