The Hunter's Scent

Elara traced the rim of her wine goblet, the ruby liquid swirling like captured blood. The scent of sandalwood and expensive oils, a constant perfume of the palace, did little to soothe the gnawing emptiness within her. Eight years. Eight years she had spent meticulously weaving her influence, a silken web spun in the shadows, ensnaring the ears of the court, the trust of the King. Eight years since she had last heard the name Aurelia, a name whispered only in the darkest corners of her memory, a ghost she had long believed buried beneath the unforgiving scree of the Serpent’s Pass.

But ghosts, she was discovering, had a stubborn way of clinging to life.

A soft knock echoed through her chambers. A familiar, deferential voice announced, “Your Grace, a messenger from the Northern Territories.”