Page 37 of Tethered In Blood

Oberon

Thetavernpulsedwithrestless energy, thick with the aroma of ale, roasting meat, and damp wool. Laughter and drunken boasts clashed against the steady clatter of tankards slamming onto wooden tables, each impact a heartbeat in the tavern’s fevered rhythm. Shadows flickered along the walls, cast by the dancing flames of lanterns swinging above.

She healed the village while I was still asleep.

Sneakui dilthen adaneth.

Sneaky little woman.

My eyes scanned the crowded room, searching. She had to be here somewhere—drained and exhausted from everything she had done, with little sleep. But there was no sign of her.

A slow tension curled beneath my skin before movement near the far end of the tavern caught my attention. A younger knight, one of the few who had dared to speak when she questioned them, sat hunched over his drink. His fingers traced the rim of his mug, his eyes distant, as if he were still grappling with the weight of what had occurred.

I strode toward him, my voice laced with impatience. “Where is the herbalist?”

His head snapped up, and his posture stiffened. Under my gaze, he shifted uncomfortably, tightening his grip around the handle of his cup. “She stayed,” he admitted. His eyes darted to his fellow knights, hoping one would answer on his behalf. When no one did, he exhaled heavily. “She made medicine for the villagers and stayed by the hearth to tend to the knights who weren’t improving.” His brows furrowed.

Of course, she did.

A muscle in my jaw twitched. I raked a hand through my hair, gripping the strands at the base of my skull. I should have expected nothing less.

Conversations dwindled, and voices faded into an uneasy silence as I passed. The knights’ gazes pressed against my back, burdened by unspoken questions. The heavy slam of the door behind me pierced through the tavern’s din.

Three steps into the square, movement caught my eye along a narrow path leading into the woods. A blurred flash of a cloak whipped behind a figure. An instinctual, bone-deep ache pulsed in my chest. My teeth clenched, and my boot sunk into the gravel path, propelling me forward.

“Herbalist!” My voice pierced through the trees, but she didn’t stop. She didn’t hesitate or waver.

A snap cracked through my ribs. An aching, splintering sensation unfurled into something wilder. Heat surged through my veins, searing through reason. It wasn’t just concern that drove me forward; it was something deeper, raw, and unshackled. It had nothing to do with duty and everything to do with her.

The forest blurred past me. Shadows twisted in the fog, and bare, skeletal branches clawed at the sky. My pulse, a steady war drum, thundered in my ears.

The chase set me alight.

Every stride and sharp pivot she made drew me closer. Her movements were fast, controlled, and fluid—born of instinct and necessity. She ran as though she belonged to the wild, as though Elduvaris itself yielded beneath her steps, undisturbed.

She had learned this. Had honed it. The knowledge of escape was etched into her bones, polished over time.

It was breathtaking. Dark. Addictive.

My heart pounded.

Why did it excite me?

Hunting was in my nature. To move unseen, to close the distance before my prey knew I was there, was instinctual. But chasing her wasn’t about the hunt. It was how she ran. She must have learned what it meant to be prey from experience.

The thought of someone else chasing her—hunting her with cruel intent—sent a dark sensation slithering through my gut. A sudden, unique, and unwelcome feeling dug in deep and wound tight around my bones.

My mind flickered back to the journal, to the ink-stained pages filled with precise agony, the remedies, poisons, and wounds described in depth. Each word had been deliberate and clinical, yet beneath them, it was raw and shaped by experience. My body tensed. My boots slammed against the damp soil, pushing harder, faster. But she was too quick. Too fucking fast, even for me.

Phantom hands of mist curled through the trees, swirling as we tore through them. The scent of wet leaves, overturned soil, and damp rock filled my senses. A nightbird cried somewhere above us; the wind swallowed its lonely, warbling call. Insects scattered, their tiny wings clicking in startled chaos as we passed. A golden-banded moth flickered too close but vanished into the fog before I could swat it away.

She pivoted in a sudden, flawless movement. Her body twisted, knee bent, as she dropped low, sliding across slick grass and damp leaves in a motion so fluid it seemed inhuman and left me breathless.

It was perfect—no missteps or hesitation. It wasn’t the frantic, desperate scrambling of prey trying to escape a predator. No, it was control, adaptation, a honed skill.

And it was enthralling.

An intense, unwelcome hunger coursed down my spine. I craved the thrill of the chase, the way she moved and ran.

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