Chapter 49 Three Conditions
Chapter 49 Three Conditions
Elara's POV
Connor's hands rested on either side of the rifle, his fingers tracing the worn wood grain.
"First," he began, his voice low and hoarse, "you don't act on your own. No wandering off, no investigating sounds you think you hear, no following tracks because you're curious. The Heartwood isn't like the village woods. One wrong turn and you'll be lost before you can even scream."
I nodded immediately, my throat too tight for words.
"Second, you do exactly as I say, when I say it. If I tell you to run, you run. If I tell you to hide, you hide. If I tell you to be silent, you don't make a sound even if the Devil himself is breathing down your neck."
I forced myself to swallow, to nod again, though my mind was already racing ahead to the forest itself—those towering trees, that golden light.
Connor paused. "Third, before we set foot in that forest, you learn the basics. How to spot traps, how to read animal tracks, how to recognize danger before it recognizes you. How to use a hunter's weapons."
He lifted his head fully. "You might be a witch, but magic won't save you if a Wendigo catches your scent."
My heart hammered against my ribs, not with fear but with fierce gratitude. I blinked rapidly, willing back tears. "I understand," I whispered, and then, stronger, "I'll learn everything. I promise."
Garret made a small sound of approval. "That's sensible. She'll need those skills regardless."
Connor gave his father a curt nod. When he looked at me again, his expression had shifted into determination mixed with worry. "We start tomorrow morning," he said simply. "Early."
---
That night, sleep proved impossible.
I lay in our bed staring at the ceiling beams while moonlight painted silver patterns across the rough wood. Beside me, Connor's breathing had settled into the deep rhythm of exhausted sleep, but my mind refused to quiet.
The Heartwood. Garret's words from dinner echoed through my thoughts—trees so massive that ten men linking hands couldn't encircle their trunks, sunlight coming down in solid shafts like pillars of gold, the air itself charged with something nameless. And those sounds on full moon nights, deep resonant calls that vibrated in your bones, like the forest itself was singing.
I turned onto my side, careful not to disturb Connor, and pressed my palm flat against my chest where my heart beat too fast, too hard. Tomorrow I would begin learning. Tomorrow I would take the first real step toward entering that ancient place that had been calling to me since the day I'd arrived in this village.
The excitement felt almost painful in its intensity, a bright burning thing that made my skin feel too tight and my breath come too quick. I imagined myself walking between those massive trunks, felt phantom moss soft beneath my feet, heard those mysterious calls echoing through my imagination until they seemed almost real.
When the first gray light of dawn finally crept through our window, I was already awake.
---
The morning air bit cold and sharp when I stepped outside.
Garret was already in the yard, checking his supplies with methodical precision—dried meat, water flask, rope, knife.
Connor emerged moments later, his own pack slung over one shoulder, his rifle cradled in the crook of his arm. The two men looked at each other, some wordless communication passing between them.
Then Garret's gaze shifted to me briefly. When he turned back to Connor, he said only, "Keep her safe. Don't forget those rogues."
Connor's response was a single, sharp nod. "I will."
Garret shouldered his pack and strode toward the forest's edge without looking back. I watched him go until the shadows swallowed him completely.
When I turned back, Connor was already walking toward the path that led to Garret's old house. I understood without words that this was where my training would begin.
---
Connor led me through the village in silence, past the familiar cottages and workshops until we reached the edge where Garret's old house stood.
The structure was smaller than ours, weathered by years of mountain winters, but solidly built. This was where Connor had lived before our marriage, where he and Garret had shared their hunters' life together. I'd only seen it from the outside before—Connor had never brought me here, perhaps because it represented a part of his life that existed before me, separate from our domestic routines.
Connor pushed open the door, and I followed him into the dim interior. Dust motes danced in the shafts of morning light that pierced through gaps in the shutters, and I caught my breath at what lay before me.
The walls were covered with things I'd never seen in our new house—animal pelts stretched and preserved, antlers mounted as trophies, coils of rope hanging from iron hooks. A workbench along one wall held tools for skinning and butchering, their handles worn smooth by decades of use. Maps had been tacked up near the window, hand-drawn and annotated with notes about game trails and dangerous territories.
My eyes moved from one object to another, drinking in every detail. This was a hunter's sanctuary, a place where knowledge had been accumulated and passed down through generations. The air itself seemed to hold the scent of leather and woodsmoke and something wild that made my pulse quicken.
"Father kept all his hunting knowledge here," Connor said, moving to a heavy wooden chest in the corner. He knelt and lifted the lid, revealing stacks of leather-bound journals, hand-drawn maps, and what looked like decades' worth of accumulated wisdom.
I moved closer, unable to contain my curiosity. The journals were filled with cramped handwriting, sketches of animal tracks, detailed notes about seasonal patterns and weather signs. Some of the pages were stained—with blood, I realized, from hands that had written observations fresh from the hunt.
Connor withdrew a small book from the top of the stack, its cover worn smooth by years of handling. "This was my grandfather's," he said quietly, running his thumb along the edge. "Everything he learned about the forest, he wrote down in here. My father added to it, and I've added my own observations."
He stood and moved to the table by the window, setting the book down with reverence. The morning light fell across its pages as he opened it, and I found myself drawn forward by a pull I couldn't resist.
This was it. This was the knowledge I needed. Every page would bring me closer to the Heartwood, closer to understanding the forest that called to me in dreams, closer to whatever truth was waiting in those ancient depths.
Connor gestured for me to sit. "We're not starting with weapons," he said. "First, you learn to survive. Then, and only then, we talk about hunting."
I nodded, my excitement barely contained as I settled into the chair. My fingers itched to touch the pages, to absorb everything they contained.
Connor opened the manual to the first page, where a series of hoof prints had been drawn with painstaking accuracy. Each print was labeled with measurements, notes about depth and spacing, observations about the animal's weight and speed. Connor's finger traced the outline of the largest print. "This one here is—"
"White-tailed deer," I interrupted, the words falling from my lips before conscious thought could catch them. "Adult male, probably around two hundred pounds. The tracks are about three days old, and he was running—fleeing from something."
The room fell absolutely silent.