Page 15 of The Unencumbered Warrior
He rose and paced the floor, the cold boards creaking beneath his bare feet. He hadn’t changed. The curse still clung to him. He could feel it, that invisible weight pressed between hisshoulders. So why did it seem thinner here? Like the air wasn’t so heavy. Like the wish had no teeth.
Magic.
The thought came unbidden, but he didn’t dismiss it.
He’d seen too much not to believe in strange things. Had wished himself into a life not his own with nothing but a foolish longing and a few careless words. So, if magic had a place in this world, and he knew now that it did, then perhaps there was something working here as well. Something stronger.
But what?
His eyes drifted to the small window. The moon had risen behind a veil of clouds, its pale light painting the fields beyond gray and silver. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once, then fell silent.
What made this village different?
Was it Ingrid? Or something she was tied to?
He had felt the pull toward her from the start, as if drawn by something just beyond understanding. Was that fate? Or some working of the very power that had cursed him?
And if that power was present here, could it be the same that had twisted his path?
Could the witch Latham had whispered about be real?
Could she be watching him even now?
He moved to the window, arms crossed tight upon his chest as he stared into the dark. There had to be answers. There had to be a reason why his curse was dulled here, and why this place hadn’t turned him out like the rest of the world.
And if therewas magic here—whether in shadowed woods or the eyes of a lass whose smile pierced his heart—then he would find it.
And he would learn what it wanted from him or what help he might get from it.
The morning camepale and cold, a mist clinging to the village like breath held too long. Raff hadn’t slept. He’d watched the gray light creep into the corners of the cottage, then pulled on his shirt and plaid with the grim determination of a man who expected the day to demand something of him.
He just hadn’t expected it to come so soon.
Voices echoed from somewhere in the village, sharp and commanding, the kind used by men who expected to be obeyed. Raff stepped outside, boots crunching against the fallen leaves, and spotted two riders near the center of the village. Laird Chafton’s colors flew from their cloaks, and the arrogant tilt of their heads made it clear—they hadn’t come to talk.
Ingrid stood before them, alone. Shoulders squared, chin high. She looked every bit a brave and proud woman. But Raff saw the tension in her stance, the tight line of her mouth.
He moved quickly, catching her voice as he got near.
“We gave what was promised. We’ve nothing more to give.”
One of the warriors, a thick-necked brute with a scar across his brow, leaned from the saddle with a sneer. “His lordship says otherwise. A portion of grain, this time. Enough to ensure his good favor remains.”
Ingrid’s eyes narrowed. “If we give what you ask, we risk not lasting the winter.”
“That’s not his concern.” The second man smirked. “Maybe if you learned to hold back less for yourselves, your stores would stretch.”
Raff stepped in then, his voice low and cold. “Maybe if you didn’t fill those fat bellies so much, more grain wouldn’t be needed.”
The two warriors turned glaring eyes on him only to shake their heads.
“Hold your tongue. You’re of no importance,” the one warrior ordered.
That sparked Raff’s anger. “Important enough to toss your arse out of here.”
The scarred man’s expression darkened, though remained confused. “You’ll regret interfering.”
“Then make me.”
