Page 7 of The Unencumbered Warrior (Highland Wishes Trilogy #1)

L atham joined Raff in the fields, walking in the furrowed rows.

The scent of earth and grain filled the air, mixing with the crisp bite of autumn.

Though much of the harvest had been gathered, work still remained.

Bundles of wheat and barley waited to be threshed, and the last of the root vegetables needed pulling before they were hit with early and unexpected frost.

“The work is going well. You do more than three men combined, and we are grateful for your help,” Latham said, nudging a loose stone from the field. “There is a place for you here if you wish to stay.”

Raff studied the expanse of farmland, smelled the rich scent of the potent earth. “I’ll give it some thought. How much longer before we finish, you think?”

“A few weeks yet,” Latham replied. “The days will be long but the celebration that follows will make it that more enjoyable and well worth it. There’ll be feasting, music, dancing.” A grin spread across his face. “And more than a few folks eager to drink themselves blind.”

Raff huffed a quiet chuckle, imagining the revelry.

He had attended such feasts before—clan gatherings, victory celebrations—but none since his cursed wish had come to pass.

He wasn’t sure if he belonged at such occasions anymore, but then he thought of sharing it with Ingrid and he felt a tug in his chest.

“Of course,” Latham added, his voice dipping lower, “that is, if the witch doesn’t take a liking to the celebration first.”

Raff turned to him, his brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Latham glanced around as if weighing whether to say more. Then, with a knowing look, he leaned in. “This time of year is when her power is the strongest. The veil is thin, or so the old ones say. She walks among us, unseen, listening, choosing.”

A shiver prickled Raff’s skin despite the lingering warmth of the afternoon. “Choosing what?”

“Whatever she desires, so it’s said.” Latham let out a short laugh, but there was no humor in it.

“Some believe she looks for a man to please her for the night. It’s why the women keep an extra eye on their husbands or intended.

But with so much food, drink, and merriment, it’s hard to do, so the witch has her pickings. ”

“Do you have your suspicions as to who she might be, then?” Raff asked, keeping his tone even while anxious to hear.

“If I had to pick one?” Latham’s grin returned, though it was edged with wariness. “I’d say Ingrid’s mum. The woman’s a terror, and even Chafton avoids her when she’s around. If anyone could be a witch, it’s her.”

That surprised Raff and made him curious about the woman. “She doesn’t live here, does she?”

“Nay. That’s why she can’t be the witch.

But there are others. Widow Elsa, for one.

She never speaks unless it’s to spit a curse, and she’s always watching folk like she’s measuring their worth.

Then there’s Brena. Never seen her shed a tear for her husband, and no one ever saw him buried, either.

He just disappeared one day. They say she still talks to him at night. ”

A hush settled over them, broken only by the whisper of wind through the half-cut stalks. Raff’s gaze drifted toward the distant cottages, gray clouds stretching over them.

“Or maybe,” Latham mused, voice quiet, “it’s someone we’d never suspect at all.”

The thought coiled in Raff’s gut, unsettling. He had spent years living by his sword, fighting enemies he could see, men he could strike down. But an unseen foe? A shadow in the midst of those he walked amongst? That was far more dangerous.

Raff crouched by the stream, cupping the cool water in his hands and splashing it over his face, neck, and arms. The chill bit into his skin, sharpening his thoughts.

Above, heavy clouds gathered, their dark bellies pressing low, promising rain before the night was through.

The wind had shifted, carrying the scent of damp earth and something else—a faint, unplaceable musk, like the remnants of a long-dead fire.

Latham’s words clung to him, whispering in the back of his mind. The witch walks among us… unseen, listening, choosing.

If she was real, she was no ordinary enemy. A blade could not cut her, nor could she be chased from a battlefield, many believed. She would be a shadow slipping through the cracks of the world, unseen until it was too late.

A rustling stirred beyond the stream. Raff stilled, his senses honed, a warrior’s instinct sharpening in the quiet. Slowly, he lifted his gaze.

Across the water, among the gnarled trunks and creeping fog, stood a figure cloaked in black. The hood was drawn low, obscuring her face, turning her into little more than a silhouette against the shifting gloom. She did not move, did not speak, she simply stood there, as if waiting.

A cold prickle ran down Raff’s spine.

Was it a woman?

Or had his mind twisted shadows and branches into something unnatural? His hand hovered near the hilt of his dirk, though steel would do little good against a phantom.

The wind stirred again, and the figure wavered. A trick of the dimming light, or something more? Raff blinked, closing his eyes for barely a breath.

When he looked again, she was gone.

No shifting of leaves. No footfalls. Just emptiness where she had stood.

He remained still, his muscles tight. Waiting. Would she return? Or had she ever been there at all? Or had his mind, troubled with thoughts of curses and witches, conjured a specter from the shadows?

The clouds thickened, deepening the gloom. The stream rushed on, whispering secrets to the trees. Somewhere in the distance, a raven cried, its voice sharp and knowing.

Raff rose, his fingers flexing at his sides. Real or not, something was out there. Watching. Waiting. Just like the night he and his two friends had made their wishes. Could it be the specter they saw that night? Had she returned for him?

If so, why?

Did his wish cost more than he had already given and was she here now to collect more from him?

He intended to find out and settle any debt he may have with her.

Later, as night wrapped around the village, he spotted Ingrid sitting alone in front of one of the village fires, her shawl drawn tight over her shoulders.

A few embers still glowed in the hearth, casting flickers of orange against her profile.

She was staring into the flames, lips parted slightly, lost in some thought of her own.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, watching her, the heaviness of the day still pressing on his shoulders.

“You feel like a man chasing ghosts,” she said without turning.

“I might be,” he murmured, stepping closer, surprised by her perception. “Or they might be chasing me.”

That made her look up. Her eyes met his—sharp, steady, and not so easily shaken. “What did you see?”

He hesitated, then crouched beside her, letting the warmth of the fire thaw the chill in his limbs. “By the stream. There was a woman or something that looked like one, cloaked and watching me. But when I blinked, she was gone.”

Ingrid didn’t scoff or laugh. She studied him instead, as if weighing what the story truly meant.

“You’ve been speaking with Latham,” she said after a moment.

“He said this is the time of the witch. That she walks strongest now.”

She drew her knees up, wrapping her arms around them. “They say that every year when the seasons change. When the days shorten and the dark comes quicker. It’s the season of fear, Raff. Folks start to see things because they expect to.”

“And you?” he asked. “Do you believe there’s a witch in the village?”

Her eyes shifted to his, quiet and unreadable. “I believe people want something to blame when life turns cruel.”

He watched her in the firelight, how the shadows danced across her face, softening her in some places, sharpening her in others. “You sound like you’ve seen what fear can do.”

“I’ve seen what people can do,” she said quietly. “Fear just gives them permission.”

The words hung between them, until…

“What do you search for, Raff?” Ingrid whispered as if she shouldn’t be heard.

Did he trust her? Share with her? Was it fair to place his burden on another? He didn’t know but he sensed one thing… he could trust her.

Raff kept his voice low. “Do you think… if someone had been cursed, truly cursed… there’d be a way to undo it?”

The fire popped and crackled between them. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached out, brushing her fingers lightly over his hand where it rested on his knee.

“Is that why you’re so interested in witches?” she asked softly.

Raff’s breath caught at her touch. It was warm and comforting, and he reveled in it. It had been too long since he’d felt the touch of a woman or anyone for that matter. He had forgotten how good it felt. He glanced at their hands, then at her face.

“I want to believe I can fight whatever is holding me.”

She searched his eyes, then gave a small nod. “Then fight for the right things. Not shadows. Not whispers. Don’t let fear make you foolish, Raff.”

He closed his hand around hers, wanting to hold on to her, feel her warmth, her caring. “And if it’s real?”

“Then you’ll need someone to stand beside you, help you,” she said softly. “And I will gladly do that for you. But you must promise me something.”

“What?” he asked, a bit stunned and pleased that she offered to stand by him.

“That you won’t start looking for a witch unless you’re ready to face the consequences of being wrong, condemning an innocent person to suffer, to burn.”

He stared into the fire, his stomach turning at the thought. “I would never let that happen.”

“Be very sure, for words hold much power and can condemn easily.”