Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 43414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 217(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 217(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
He felt the loneliness settle deeper in his bones. He clenched the reins tighter and stared at the village below. A new start, perhaps. Or simply a new place to live out this humiliating punishment.
He’d once been a man respected by warriors and admired by women. Now he was avoided by both.
A bitter smile touched his lips. “So, this is the price of a foolish wish.”
Slowly, he nudged his horse forward.
Declan entered the village cautiously, the hooves of his mount muffled by the muddied earth and scattered straw. No one came to greet him. No fanfare. No curious children running alongside his horse. Just silence, broken by the occasional bark of a dog or the creak of a sagging door.
The place looked weary.
That was the first word that came to him. Not broken, not hopeless. Just… tired.
Stone cottages hunched low to the ground, roofs patched with moss and thatch that had seen too many storms. A few villagers paused at their work to glance his way, women with baskets, men bent over carts or chopping firewood, but their eyes didn’t linger. They looked, then looked away.
It wasn’t exactly fear, more like… caution. As if they’d seen too many men ride in with promises and leave the clan far worse off.
He passed a smithy with its forge cold, the hammer resting useless on the anvil. A shutter banged loose on a nearby cottage, and he saw a child peering through the narrow space between wood and stone. Their eyes met and the child quickly vanished. A lean dog trotted across the road, ribs showing beneath its mangy coat.
Declan slowed his horse further. This was the place he’d been sent to lead, a clan clinging to its name with nothing else left to them.
Still, there was life here. He could feel it fragile, but unbroken. A woman swept her doorstep, pausing only a breath before continuing. A lad wrestled with a stack of firewood too large for his arms but refused to let any fall. There was stubbornness here. Determination.
He reached the center of the village. It was a patch of churned mud where the stocks stood, now rotted and falling apart. A possibly good sign. Lack of use and rot pointed to a worthy clan.
He dismounted, boots sinking slightly in the damp ground. A few heads turned. One man shifted his stance, hand brushing the hilt of his dirk, more reflex than threat. Declan met his gaze, steady and unreadable. He could see the curiosity on their faces, but no one dared approach him.
Declan took hold of his horse’s reins and began walking toward the keep, its weathered stone walls rising just beyond the village. He’d make himself known. Whether they welcomed him or not, he would not slink in like a shadow. He had a curse to carry. A clan to lead. And no more room left to run.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he whispered to his horse. “We may need to hightail it out of here.”
A few stairs led him up to the door to the keep that groaned open with a forceful pull, the hinges protesting as if reluctant to let him in. Declan stepped into a small inner chamber and another set of doors. They opened with ease into the Great Hall. The wood boards beneath his boots creaking with every step he took. The air was warmer inside, though it smelled of damp wool and boiled roots, and the good-sized hearth hadn’t seen a strong fire in days.
A young maid paused at the far side of the room, a pitcher in hand. She blinked at him and hurried forward before he could stop her.
When she was an arm’s length in front of him, she went down. The pitcher shattered, clay shards spinning across the floor as she let out a startled squeak.
CHAPTER 2
Declan froze, his jaw tightening. He had not even taken five breaths in the damn keep.
A matronly woman in a flour-dusted apron bustled in from a side corridor, gray hair pinned in a lopsided bun, and gasped at the sight of the girl on the ground and hurried to her. “Mira! What on—” She turned and promptly dropped with a huff and a thud.
Declan sighed, deep and weary.
Another set of footsteps sounded heavier this time. A thick woman, her hair a massive set of gray curls, entered from the corner with an armful of linens.
“What in the name of—” She spotted him, and her eyes went wide.
“No—don’t—” he began.
Too late.
Down she went, linens flying, a soft “oof!” escaping her lips as she hit the floor beside the other two.
A groan came from somewhere deeper in the hall. “Saints help us. He’s already laying them low.”
Declan turned toward the voice as a thin, slightly hunched man stepped forward, leaning heavily on a knotted walking stick. His white beard jutted like an accusation, and his bushy brows met in a deep scowl.