Page 46 of The Unencumbered Warrior
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.
