Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99593 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99593 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
The air was cold, still, and heavy with abandonment. The wattle and daub walls were crumbling in spots and the hearth had collapsed. No tools of healing were anywhere in sight. Just shattered crockery and pieces of what might have been chairs and a table, possibly a bed. He moved through it slowly, as if ghosts might stir at his passing.
This was no healer’s home. It had not been occupied for a long time.
He let a heavy sigh escape. He couldn’t say he wasn’t disappointed, but he wasn’t discouraged. This wasn’t the place, which meant he had to look elsewhere. He hadn’t expected it to be easy. It had been over twenty years since his birth. His chances of discovering the truth might be slim, but he found that secrets had a way of surfacing even many years later.
He stepped out into the snow again, glad it was a light falling snow since it would not hamper his search. He would—
A sound cut through his thoughts.
To his right, though he didn’t look. He listened.
The rustle of fabric, the crunch of snow beneath boots.
His hand went to the hilt of his sword.
Another sound, behind him this time.
His stallion snorted, restless. The woods grew too still.
And then they came, three figures, fast and silent, emerging from behind the trees like shadows rising from the snow. No warning, no words, just swords raised, and the sudden storm of violence.
The Great Hall doors slammed open with a thunderous crack, the wind rushing in like an angry spirit, snow flurrying in its wake. Gasps echoed as Torrance strode in, blood streaking down the side of his face, his dark cloak tattered and touched with snow. His left arm hung stiff, blood dripping from the wound above his elbow onto the wood floor.
“Fetch the healer!” his voice roared through the hall, sharp and commanding, but beneath it… a strain. A fatigue from a hard-fought battle.
Esme was on her feet before she realized she’d moved. Her heart jolted at the sight of him—bloodied, breath ragged, and yet still upright with a storm-wrought scowl on his face. She hurried to him, her hands reaching out instinctively.
“You’re bleeding heavily,” she breathed, eyes darting over his wounds. “Let me see.”
“I said get the healer!” he barked again, though his voice faltered as Esme’s hands steadied his good arm and gently eased him toward a bench near the hearth.
A guard darted off and out the door to fetch Brenna.
“You should sit,” Esme said, grateful that a servant had wisely fetched a stack of cloths and a bucket of water and had set them on the table. She grabbed a cloth, pressing it gently to the cut on his head. He hissed under his breath but didn’t pull away.
She worked quietly, her fingers surprisingly gentle for someone who felt nothing for him but obligation. And yet… the sight of him like this—wounded, breathless, human—made something ache in her chest.
“You’re lucky,” she said softly. “The head wound isn’t deep.” Her gaze dropped to the tear in his sleeve. “But your arm…”
“Caught a blade. A minor wound,” he said through clenched teeth, steeling himself against her tender touch, her soft voice, and a look of concern in her eyes as if she truly cared what had happened to him.
She felt a strange heat rush through her. His eyes locked firmly on hers and in their depth, she thought she saw something she had never seen in her husband’s eyes before now. He looked at her as if he truly cared for her, as if he actually had a heart.
“Still,” she said, her voice softer now, “it must be painful.”
Their eyes held for a moment longer than they should have. His expression shifted, something unspoken rising between them, uncertainty, perhaps, or—
Before either could speak, Brack stormed into the hall, face dark with fury.
“What in the devil’s name were you doing in the woods alone?” he demanded. “You could have been killed!”
Torrance’s gaze snapped to him, cold and sharp. “You dare question me?”
Brack realized his mistake and though he corrected himself, his voice remained etched with anger. “Nay, my lord, but I cannot protect you if you vanish without a word. There are enemies who would pay dearly to see you bleed.”
“I do bleed, yet the three who dared to challenge me lie dead in the forest for the animals to feast on,” Torrance said, offering no explanation for his absence.
Brack growled something under his breath, but Esme stepped between them, hands firm on Torrance’s arm again.
“There is time for talk later. He needs tending right now,” she said quietly but firmly. “Brenna is on her way.”
“My wife is right. We will talk later,” Torrance said, a clear dismissal.
Brack hesitated, jaw tight, an annoyed glance at Esme, then he turned with a muttered curse and stalked off, the echo of his boots fading down the corridor.