Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
She grabbed a thin strip of cloth and tucked it in the pocket of her skirt in case she needed it, then stepped outside.
The morning air greeted her with a chill that lingered longer than it once had, the early light still soft as it stretched across the village. Smoke rose from chimneys, and for a moment, everything might have seemed as it always was.
Then the voices reached her. They weren’t loud, nor raised in alarm, but gathered.
Bria turned her head slightly, her attention drawn to a small cluster of villagers not far along the path. They stood close together, their conversation low, though not quiet enough to escape her notice as she moved nearer.
“…came in just a short while ago,” one said.
“Aye, I saw him myself,” another answered. “Wounded, though not nearly as bad as the Hunter had been. Still, he looked like a man who had seen more than he wished.”
“From the forest?” a third asked.
“Where else would he come from?” came the reply. “And alone, at that.”
“A seeker or wanderer, no doubt,” another commented.
“Nay, one look was enough to see he’s a warrior,” someone argued.
“Or a mercenary, careless souls that they are,” one said.
A murmur followed, unease passing between them.
“You think he might have crossed its path?” someone asked.
“If it did, he wouldn’t be here to tell about it,” another said and they all nodded, agreeing.
Bria slowed, her gaze shifting briefly toward them before she continued on.
Whatever had brought the man to Willowmere, it would not remain rumor for long. The healer tending him would find out what happened to him.
“Bria!”
The call came sharp enough to turn her at once.
Old Brenn, a bone keeper, made his way toward her, his stride purposeful despite the years that marked him. His weathered face was set, the usual calm he carried replaced with something more urgent.
“You are needed,” he said without preamble. “At the main healing cottage.”
Bria did not question him. She nodded and turned at once, falling into step beside him as he led the way.
It didn’t take long to reach the main healing cottage. Bria followed Brenn inside and paused only a few steps in.
The space stretched wider than any dwelling in Willowmere, two cottages joined as one. Along one side, beds had been arranged in careful order, each set apart enough to allow for those who required constant tending—those too ill to rise or too wounded to be moved. The scent of herbs lingered in the air, sharp and familiar, mingling with the steady warmth of the hearth.
Hannah, a fever tender, stood near it, her attention fixed on what she was brewing in the small pot suspended over the flames. Across the room, Arella and Leya, both menders, stood together, their backs turned to her as they focused on the man seated at the long wooden table. Then they parted, revealing the wounded man.
Bria had expected to find him in one of the beds.
Instead, he sat upright, as though refusing the need for one.
The moment she saw him, she stilled.
He was stripped to the waist, his broad shoulders bare beneath the flickering light. A deep gash cut across his right shoulder, the blood dark against his skin, though it had slowed enough to show the wound was sustained recently. Muscle shifted beneath his skin as he held himself steady, his strength evident even in stillness.
But it was not the wound that held her gaze.
It was him.
His hair, thick and dark, skimmed his shoulders, touched faintly by the damp of either rain or sweat, she could not tell which. It framed a face carved with sharp planes—strong jaw, high cheekbones, and a brow that held a quiet intensity even as he sat in silence. There was something in him that did not rest easily, something held tight and controlled.
Arella and Leya stood on either side of the man, their attention fixed on the wound.
“It is deep,” Leya said, studying the torn flesh with a careful eye. “Too wide to leave. It will need stitching.”
Arella gave a slight shake of her head. “The edges are not clean. Stitching might prove difficult. Searing might be a better choice.”
The man remained still as the two women debated how to tend to him. His jaw was set firm, and his gaze fixed somewhere beyond them, as though the pain was of little consequence.
Then, as if sensing Bria’s presence, his gaze landed on her, lingering on her face.
“You, healer,” he said finally, his voice steady despite the painful wound. “You have no opinion?”
Bria was caught off guard. No one had ever asked for her opinion. She quickly gathered her senses and said, “I am not a mender.”
“Bria is a comfort healer,” Arella said, not looking away from the wound. “Her touch will ease your pain.”
He stared at Bria as if making his own assessment of her, then said, “That will be welcomed.” He glanced between Arella and Leya. “Stitch it and be done.”