Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 41044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
And if there was magic here—whether in shadowed woods or the eyes of a lass whose smile pierced his heart—then he would find it.
And he would learn what it wanted from him or what help he might get from it.
The morning came pale and cold, a mist clinging to the village like breath held too long. Raff hadn’t slept. He’d watched the gray light creep into the corners of the cottage, then pulled on his shirt and plaid with the grim determination of a man who expected the day to demand something of him.
He just hadn’t expected it to come so soon.
Voices echoed from somewhere in the village, sharp and commanding, the kind used by men who expected to be obeyed. Raff stepped outside, boots crunching against the fallen leaves, and spotted two riders near the center of the village. Laird Chafton’s colors flew from their cloaks, and the arrogant tilt of their heads made it clear—they hadn’t come to talk.
Ingrid stood before them, alone. Shoulders squared, chin high. She looked every bit a brave and proud woman. But Raff saw the tension in her stance, the tight line of her mouth.
He moved quickly, catching her voice as he got near.
“We gave what was promised. We’ve nothing more to give.”
One of the warriors, a thick-necked brute with a scar across his brow, leaned from the saddle with a sneer. “His lordship says otherwise. A portion of grain, this time. Enough to ensure his good favor remains.”
Ingrid’s eyes narrowed. “If we give what you ask, we risk not lasting the winter.”
“That’s not his concern.” The second man smirked. “Maybe if you learned to hold back less for yourselves, your stores would stretch.”
Raff stepped in then, his voice low and cold. “Maybe if you didn’t fill those fat bellies so much, more grain wouldn’t be needed.”
The two warriors turned glaring eyes on him only to shake their heads.
“Hold your tongue. You’re of no importance,” the one warrior ordered.
That sparked Raff’s anger. “Important enough to toss your arse out of here.”
The scarred man’s expression darkened, though remained confused. “You’ll regret interfering.”
“Then make me.”
The warrior reached for Raff, intending to shove him aside, but Raff caught his arm, yanked him off the horse, twisted it, and drove his fist into the man’s gut. The air whooshed out of him in a grunt as he stumbled backward.
The second warrior leapt down, hand on his blade.
Raff was on him in an instant, a solid blow to his jaw sending him stumbling into the other warrior.
The two warriors recovered, trying to steady each other.
One cursed, blood trickling from his lip. “You’ll both pay for this,” he spat. “Laird Chafton does not forget insults.”
Raff’s chest rose and fell, but he held his ground, fists clenched. He wanted them to try again, wanted a reason to beat them senseless.
The air around them remained charged, anticipating it.
But Ingrid stepped between them, her voice sharp, capitulating. “We’ll give you the grain.”
“Wise woman,” the one warrior said.
Two sacks of grain were brought to the warriors, and they mounted up, victorious grins on their faces as they took their leave. The moment they were gone, the weight of silence fell heavily over the village.
Villagers slowly emerged from their doors, wide-eyed, uncertain. Watching. Waiting.
Raff turned to Ingrid.
“That was bold,” she said. “And foolish.”
“They cannot keep taking from the village. Soon you’ll have nothing left for yourselves,” he warned, worried for her and those he had come to know and respect.
“We don’t have a choice,” she said. “If we don’t give Laird Chafton what he demands, he will only send an army of his warriors to take it and more from us and we cannot defend ourselves against them.”
He disliked the truth of her words. There was no recourse for the villagers.
“You stirred a hornet’s nest striking one of Laird Chatham’s men,” she cautioned. “There will be consequences.”
Raff glanced toward the path where the warriors had ridden off, his hands still faintly trembling, not from fear, but from the lingering rush of it all.
It felt… good.
The strength in his limbs, the fire in his chest. The choice to act, to stand for something—someone—rather than drift like a man waiting for his curse to claim him. He hadn’t realized how much he missed the edge of challenge, the way his instincts roared to life in defense of something that mattered.
For the first time in what felt like ages, he’d felt like a warrior again. Not a ghost. Not a man cursed by a careless wish. But a fighter. A protector.
And it felt right.
He looked at Ingrid again, at the way she stood so fiercely despite the weight pressing in on her. And something inside him, something buried deep, aligned itself to her in a quiet, undeniable way. A bond of some kind that he had never felt before. A bond so strong, he sensed it could never be broken.