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)
“We’ll do it again at the festival,” Raff added. “So, all can bear witness. There’ll be ale and song to enjoy.”
“And not a man among us left sober,” Latham called out.
Laughter echoed and everyone took their turn congratulating the couple.
But then the mood shifted when a sudden pounding of hooves broke through the celebration. Laird Chafton’s warriors approached, and all cheerfulness faded. They rode in, six of them, dressed for battle, their eyes sweeping over the gathered villagers like they expected resistance.
The largest warrior dismounted, dark eyes scanning the crowd.
“By order of Laird Chafton,” he barked, “the search for the witch continues. As he warned, someone better speak up. Look for a witch’s mark on her, a sign upon her body, something unnatural, something rarely seen.”
A hush fell so deep not even the birds dared sing.
“If such a person lives among you,” he went on, “you are commanded to speak. The next time we come, it will be to collect the witch. Anyone hiding her will be judged the same—by fire.”
No one spoke. No one pointed. But Raff felt it, the invisible ripple of glances not cast, the careful stillness. His hand tightened around Ingrid’s.
He could feel the blood drain from her fingers. She tried to tuck her left hand deeper beneath her cloak, as she always had.
She had lived on guard with her difference all her life—the joined ring finger and pinky, the strange birthmark of bone and skin—but never had it been called what it now threatened to become.
A mark of death.
The warriors turned and rode out, leaving silence in their wake. The joy of the morning curdled in the air.
Raff watched the villagers begin to disperse, slow and silent. No one had said a word. Not yet. But he saw the worry forming in their eyes. And he knew, if things turned darker, silence wouldn’t last forever.
Edith and Agnes even looked Ingrid’s way with concern, realizing what he had. Fear would turn one of the villagers into a trader.
Raff nor Ingrid spoke until they were back at her cottage.
Raff shut the door behind them and leaned against it, arms folded, as if to prevent the world from entering.
Ingrid stood in the center of the room, her cloak still on, her left hand hidden beneath its folds. “They’ll demand someone when they return, and fear will force someone to speak.”
Raff crossed to her. “They’ll have to go through me first.”
She looked up, her eyes brave but shadowed. “I will not see you harmed because of me.”
He reached for her concealed hand and gently drew it forward, his thumb brushing the curve of the fused fingers.
“I will let no one take you from me.”
“You cannot win against six warriors,” she said sadly, her eyes shimmering as she stepped into his arms, resting her head against his chest.
He held her close, letting the stillness speak what words could not. But over her shoulder, Raff’s gaze found the window and the forest beyond it. If the witch who cursed him still lingered in the shadows, he would find her. And if the curse had chosen Ingrid as its price… then he would do what he must to break it.
Even if it meant calling the darkness to him once more.
CHAPTER 14
The merchant’s cart rattled over the uneven road, its wheels groaning as it came to a halt just inside the village. The children who’d been playing with sticks and stones scattered, their laughter drying up in the sudden hush. Word of a merchant’s arrival always spread quickly, and before long a small gathering had formed, faces cautious and eyes curious.
Raff stood among them, his arm around Ingrid.
The merchant climbed down from his seat, a wiry man with sharp shoulders and a keener gaze. His cloak was dusty, and his boots crusted in mud.
“I bring goods for trade,” he called out, “but it’s not just cloth or metal you need to hear about today.”
Anxious murmurs rippled through the crowd.
He tossed a glance over his shoulder as though worried he’d been followed. “It’s the witch frenzy,” he said low but clearly. “It’s spread. Clan MacMunn set the first torch, and now the flames are catching everywhere. Even clans that once scoffed at such talk are sending word to those who hunt for coin.”
“Mercenaries?” someone asked.
The merchant nodded grimly. “Aye. They’re calling themselves cleansers now, as if the name gives them honor. They come bearing contracts, offering to hunt witches for a price and not just in the woods. They’re stirring up fear in every village they pass through.”
Latham spoke. “They haven’t been here.”
“Not yet,” the merchant said with a quick shake of his finger. “But they will come. They go where rumors linger. If your village is thought to harbor a healer too skilled, an old woman too solitary, a strange mark or disfigurement—they’ll come. You’d do well to rid your village of anyone suspect before they do.”