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)
The fire popped, sending another wave of sparks into the air, their light swallowed quickly by the night.
The wind shifted then, carrying a whisper through the trees. A voice? Or merely the rustling of branches? The warriors tensed, hands drifting to their weapons out of habit, though no threat revealed itself. And yet, the air felt different, charged with something unseen, something watching.
From the shadows, a figure emerged, cloaked in darkness, its form shifting like smoke, as if it did not belong to the world of men. The flames did not touch it, nor did its feet make a sound upon the forest floor. But its voice, when it spoke, was deep and knowing, like the echo of ancient things.
“Three wishes,” it murmured, its tone almost amused. “And so, they shall be granted.”
A hush fell over the camp. The warriors, men who had faced death without flinching, felt a prickle of unease as the figure lifted a hand, its fingers curling as though weaving fate itself. The fire flared, casting long, twisting shadows, and then, as suddenly as it had come, the figure was gone.
The night pressed close once more, and yet, something had changed. The warriors sat in silence, the weight of unseen forces settling upon them. The fire burned low, its embers glowing like the last remnants of a dream, or perhaps the beginning of a curse.
They had made their wishes.
And now, there was no turning back.
CHAPTER 1
One Year Later.
The crisp Highland air carried the scent of pine and heather as Raff trudged along a well-worn path, his boots heavy with dust. He had wandered far, through valleys and glens, over rivers and mountains, a year since making that wish, yet he had nowhere to go. No home to return to. No kin waiting to welcome him back. He had thought freedom would be a gift. He had even laughed about the wish with his friends the next morning, believing it nothing more than remnants of a drunken stupor. But now, he saw it for what it was… a curse.
He pulled his plaid tighter around his broad shoulders as the wind picked up, biting at his skin. The sky hung low with thick gray clouds, threatening rain. Not that it mattered. He had no destination, no duties to tend to, no one to care whether he was dry or soaked through to the bone.
What had he done?
His name meant nothing. When he returned home to his clan he had been met with blank stares. His home was no longer his. His betrothed had wed another and his brother, Nathan, claimed he had no brother. His mother—God help him—had looked through him as if he were nothing more than a passing traveler. The weight of it had driven him into the wilds, where he had wandered ever since, trying to find a reason for this freedom he had so foolishly wished upon himself.
A sharp cry pierced the air, yanking him from his thoughts. It came from the bend in the road ahead. He moved swiftly, his hand instinctively reaching for a sword that no longer rested at his side. He cursed under his breath. He had no weapons, nothing beyond the dirk at his belt. He was no longer a warrior—just a man with no past and no future.
As he rounded the bend, he saw them. A group of men had surrounded a woman near a wooden cart. She stood defiant, her chin lifted, though Raff could see the tremor in her hands as she clutched a basket to her chest. Her dark hair tumbled loose around her shoulders, and her green eyes sparked with anger and fear.
“The wool is mine,” she declared, her voice steady despite the fear flickering in her eyes.
One of the men, broad-shouldered and clad in a tunic too fine for common thieves, sneered. “Aye, and it’s owed to Laird Chafton. Simple as that.”
“Laird Chafton was given his share,” the woman argued.
The man sneered. “Laird Chafton decides what you get to keep.”
Raff’s blood heated. He had tried to help when seeing injustices in the past year, but people ignored him, turned their backs on him as if he wasn’t there as if they didn’t even see him. But something about the woman’s defiance stirred something deep inside him and whether he would be ignored or not, he could not leave her to face the group of men alone.
“Seems to me the lass has made it clear she does not wish to part with her wool,” he said, his voice calm but laced with warning as he walked out of the woods.
The men turned, their glares taking stock of him. He was taller than most, broad, and battle-worn, though he looked nothing like the warrior he had once been. His hair had grown longer, wilder, and while he had decent features no woman nor man had taken note of them. It was as though people looked right through him like he was, a man of no consequence, just as these men did now.