Page 61 of An Archer's Reckoning

How many of my brothers and sisters?

I stepped to the door, removed a glove, and stretched a bare hand toward the charred wood. I didn’t know why I reached out. I felt compelled.

Was I paying some personal tribute to the lost?

Or did I just want to feel connected to the place—and the people—who were no more?

I knew not.

When my hand touched the door, my head swam.

My heart raced, and sweat bloomed across my brow.

Horror, pain, and grief ripped through my chest, and I sank to my knees.

“DECLAN!”Órla screamed in my mind as she darted from the sky.

Visions seized control.

My eyes rolled back, and images flashed from one disjointed moment to the next.

The night is crisp and clear, the moon a sliver.

Snow has yet to fall.

Grove’s Pass stands quiet.

Smoke curls from chimneys.

The few unfortunate Rangers on gate duty chat quietly through chattering teeth.

A single bell tolls.

On any other night, no one would care. Had a guard on duty bumped the bell with a sword? Had he fiddled with the clapper or the hammer in boredom, accidentally slamming one or the other into the side of the cast iron dome?

A single peal would never send the village into a blur of activity.

It might wake the children.

But this wasn’t any other night.

The vision shifted.

Captain Whitman bolts from his office.

He looks terrified.

As he runs toward the front of the building, he barks alarm to everyone he passes. Steady, deliberate motion transforms into a frenzy in moments.

By the time the Captain reaches the door, men in green cloaks line every wall, bows drawn, arrows nocked.

Young boys race with more supplies of arrows.

Torches bloom every few paces outside the wall’s protective ring.

The Captain looks up at the signal tower, trying to make out silhouettes that blur in the twilight. There should only be one man on that platform.

He sees two.

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