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)
“You should be afraid. Of what you face. An entire clan ready to burn a woman alive. You can’t stop them.”
“Watch me.”
“Fool.” Her voice cracked like a whip. “You’re not invincible, Raff. You’ll die before you even reach her!”
“Then I’ll die with her name on my lips. But I will reach her.”
They stood, eyes locked, the air between them thick with defiance.
Then, softer, he added, “Unless you plan to stop me.”
Her expression flickered.
“Nay,” she said. “I plan to watch you fail.”
“Then watch closely,” he said, brushing past her.
But she turned with him, her voice losing its edge for the first time.
“You’d risk everything… for one woman?”
He stopped.
“She’s not just one woman. She’s mine. And I’d burn every cursed thread of fate you’ve spun if it meant keeping her alive.”
A silence stretched through the forest as if it held its breath in anticipation of what would come next.
And then… the witch gave a slow nod. “You’re still an idiot. But a useful one, perhaps.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Are you offering help?”
“I’m offering options. There are ways to turn the tide, warrior. But they come with a price.”
“I’ve already paid.”
“Nay,” she said, stepping toward him. “You haven’t even begun to pay.”
The clouds had thickened as they neared the outer edge of Clan MacCannish land, hanging low and dark, promising rain or worse. The task pressed heavy on Raff’s shoulders, but not as much as the weight of achieving his first goal… getting past the guards.
The witch walked beside him, hood drawn, her silence sharper than any blade. When she finally spoke, it was through gritted teeth.
“You mean to just… walk in?”
“Aye,” Raff said, eyes fixed ahead. “A tired son and his ailing mother seeking shelter from the coming storm.”
She chuckled. “You think they will actually believe me to be your mother?”
“You’re old enough,” he shot back, then added before she could curse him, “and you’ve got the temper to match.”
She glared. “And you’ve got the brains of a tree stump.”
“It doesn’t matter what they think. What matters is that they see what we want them to see. Lean on me. Cough, limp, whatever it takes. Play the part. What difference does it make as long as we gain entrance?”
She bristled but took his offered arm with the air of someone agreeing to hold a dead fish. “Remember, I’m your mum, so treat me properly—”
“Just limp,” he growled, cutting her off.
They made their way toward the outer watchtower where two guards eyed them warily. Raff kept his head low, his voice humble.
“Storm’s rolling in. My mum and I need shelter, no more than a day or two if you please.”
The guards exchanged a glance, but the storm clouds above helped his case.
One grunted. “Aye, you can stay. There’s space in the stables. Stay away from the keep.”
Raff gave a grateful nod and led the witch inside. The minute they passed through the gates, the smell hit him—an abundance of dried, aged wood that took easily to flame once torched.
Near the center of the courtyard stood a stake. Rough-hewn, tall, and cruel. A pile of kindling spread out at its base and more wood had been heaped upon that. The kindling would catch fast and spread to the upper layer as it crept toward the person tied to the stake. The smoke would choke her first, then the fire would lick at her feet and grip her garments, and flames would cover her.
And Raff had no intention of seeing that horror visited upon his wife.
“By order of Laird Chafton,” a guard shouted, catching everyone’s attention and people quieted with excitement. “The witch burns today.”
The witch’s hand dug into Raff’s arm hard enough to bruise.
“They speak of killing like it’s a feast,” she hissed. “Do they not know what it means to burn a soul alive?”
A group of children skipped past, giggling, pretending to light an imaginary fire, one of them screeching, “Witch! Witch!” as he ran in circles.
The witch closed her eyes. “Barbaric little monsters.”
Raff urged her to an area where they had a wider sight of the area, leaving them to contemplate the next steps. They had made it in. That was one victory. But his heart pounded with a steady, rising fury. Ingrid had to be in the dungeons, somewhere in the bowels of this keep, frightened, awaiting her fiery death.
He would not let that happen.
The village buzzed with twisted energy. Word had spread that the witch would burn shortly. Many speculated that Laird Chafton wanted to be rid of her as soon as possible, especially with the dark sky promising rain, and the people agreed. There would be no delay and no mercy.
Raff paced the area where they stood watching, his jaw tight, his fists tighter. “Once she’s out of the dungeon, in the open, it will be easier for me to grab her, slip her through the stables, cut through the woods before anyone realizes—”