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)
“Stop being a fool,” the witch interrupted, seated with her legs crossed, calmly sipping from a cracked mug of ale she’d pinched off a passing tray, drinks being provided for everyone.
“There is little recourse left to me. You can make yourself useful and the rescue easier by using your magic to divert everyone’s attention.”
She sighed and looked at him like a tired teacher with a particularly dense pupil. “That is a brilliant suggestion if you’re trying to get both of you killed as well as me. But if you want your wife alive—actually alive—then follow my lead.”
“Why should I trust you?” he asked, wondering if it had been wise of him to bring her along.
“Because you got more from your wish than you realize. And because, whether you believe it or not, I care more about her fate than yours.”
“Why is that?” he demanded.
“You are dense,” she said, shaking her head. “Stay close. Don’t interfere. When I give you the signal, be ready to move.”
“What signal?”
She smiled faintly. “You’ll know.”
The square had been cleared, villagers packed shoulder to shoulder, faces flushed with excitement, fear, or some grotesque anticipation that roiled Raff’s stomach. The sky loomed dark and thick with ash-hued clouds, and the wind had turned strong. That meant the fire would catch faster. Time was not on his side.
“MAKE WAY!” came the echoing shout.
The people parted for Laird Chafton, cheering him as he strutted through the opening, his cloak snapping behind him, and his head tilted in noble style.
He made his way to a stone platform where he addressed the crowd. “Today, we rid ourselves of the darkness that’s cursed our lands. The witch will burn, and with her, every shadow and spell she cast!”
Cheers rose, raw and eager.
From the far end of the courtyard, the heavy door groaned open.
Ingrid appeared.
Her hands were bound in front of her, her hair wild, her dress torn and streaked with dirt. Two large warriors flanked her, one at each side, their grips bruising as they dragged her forward. She stumbled once but refused to cry out, lifting her chin despite the jeers and shouts from the crowd.
Raff’s heart dropped to his boots. He took a step forward, the witch catching his arm.
“Not yet,” she whispered. “Let it play. Let them all look. Let them all see.”
His pulse thundered. “If they lay one more hand on her—”
“They will,” she said coldly. “That’s how this works.”
He looked at her, sick with fury. “Whatever your plan, it better work.”
She didn’t answer.
Ingrid was forced up the steps to the stake. The kindling creaked beneath. The executioner stood nearby, torch in hand, waiting for the order.
The ropes were already in place.
Raff held his breath.
The witch shifted at his side, her eyes flashing with something deep, ancient, and dangerous.
Whatever she was about to do—she better hurry.
Raff was losing patience.
Laird Chafton raised his hand, and the crowd fell into a hush, the kind that made even the wind hesitate. He cast a sweeping glance over the villagers before turning to Ingrid, already bound at the stake, her eyes fierce despite the bruises.
“This woman,” he called out, voice sharp and righteous, “is no simple weaver. She spins spells with every thread. Her wool carries charms—hexes—poison disguised as comfort. She is the cause of our misfortunes, and her fire will cleanse this land!”
A murmur rolled through the crowd.
Then—someone shouted.
“But her blankets heal!”
Raff was shocked to see it was Edith.
All eyes turned toward her. She clutched a worn blue blanket to her chest. “When my son had the fever, no brew helped him. We wrapped him in her wool, and he slept. He woke. He lived.”
Others began to shift, uncertain.
Another voice rose—a man this time.
Raff saw it was Latham. Her friends had not deserted her and there were other friends of Ingrid spread out in the crowd. Her friends hadn’t failed her.
“My wife’s bones ache all winter, but not when she sleeps under Ingrid’s weave,” Latham said.
“She made one for my bairn when she was born,” a young woman from Clan MacCannish said. “It still smells like lavender. Not death.”
Laird Chafton slammed his fist against the wooden rail of the platform. “You are being tricked! That is how witches work—they lull you. They make you believe in kindness before they strike!”
The witch, standing among the crowd in her tattered cloak, smirked.
Raff saw her fingers twitch subtly, the air around her seeming to bend, shimmer—just for a heartbeat.
“Let me show you,” she muttered under her breath, low enough only Raff could hear. “What a real witch can do.”
CHAPTER 20
The wind shifted. Cold and sharp. The firewood beneath Ingrid’s feet hissed, not from flames, but from frost.
Gasps and cries broke out.
A streak of white ice threaded up the stake, splitting the rope that bound her wrists.
The crowd shrank back.
“She’s cursing us now!” Laird Chafton bellowed, but his voice cracked, and his glance rushed over the crowd.