Page 60 of Tethered In Blood

Oberon remained silent during the ride, lost in his brooding thoughts. He offered no sharp comments, exasperated sighs, or even an attempt to silence me, which only heightened my unease.

Things were far worse than I had realized.

I slid off Neryth’s side, landing on the damp ground with athudand a grunt. My muscles ached from the long ride, and the dull, pulsing throb in my palm reminded me of my bandaged wound. I flexed my fingers, pressing them against the rough fabric before letting my hand fall back to my side. The ground beneath my boots radiated warmth, an oddly high temperature for the location and time of year.

Oberon dismounted silently. I sighed, brushing aside stray strands of hair from my face as I turned to take in the village.

The silence felt suffocating.

No candlelight flickered through the windows, nor did distant voices murmur behind the doors. The houses stood hollow and dark, their wooden frames worn by time and neglect. From their eaves, trinkets dangled, swaying in the decaying breeze. Their delicate chimes pierced the stillness, creating an eerie melody of death.

Wards? Warnings?My brow furrowed as I examined them. The craftsmanship appeared deliberate. Someone had positioned them for a reason, but whether they kept something out or contained it was another matter.

I glanced at Oberon, searching for any sign of unease, but his face remained impassive. His sharp gaze swept over the village like a predator waiting for movement in the brush. If he felt unsettled, he didn’t show it.

“This isn’t normal,” I whispered.

He remained silent while he knocked on the nearest door. The sound resonated, piercing the wood and echoing in the unnatural silence. We waited, but there was nothing. No footsteps approaching, no creak of shifting floorboards, not even the whisper of breath behind a curtain.

I tried the next house. Then another.

Nothing.

The stillness stretched, unlike the emptiness of an abandoned village. A prickle arose at the back of my neck, the unmistakable sensation of being watched. Hidden eyes peered from the darkness, held back by fear.

“They’re hiding,” I murmured, stepping closer to Oberon, seeking the quiet reassurance of his presence. He didn’t react, but his jaw set tight, and his gaze remained fixed on the looming mansion at the village’s center, an ominous figure against the darkening sky. The grand architecture contrasted with the modest homes, its dark stone and iron-trimmed windows setting it apart—untouched by the sickness seeping into the land. If anyone would answer, it ought to be the person who lived there.

Oberon strode up the path, his boots crunching on the gravel with a purposeful tread. When he reached the heavy wooden doors, he rapped his knuckles against them.

A lengthy moment passed before the door creaked open.

The man who greeted us was older, with blonde hair and deep lines etched into his weary face. He carried himself like someone who had spent years bearing burdens too heavy to mention. His sharp gaze landed on Oberon first, scanning him from top to bottom. His shoulders tensed, and his spine straightened with the slightest flicker of recognition before he inclined his head.

“Sir Sinclaire,” he greeted. I waited for his attention to turn to me, but it never did. Not a single glance or acknowledgment was given.

Right.

Like the knights in Silverfel and the nobles in the courts, he wouldn’t regard me the same way he regarded Oberon. I didn’t possess a knight’s title or noble rank. I was a woman- an herbalist clad in travel-worn linens, bearing the marks of battle. In his eyes, I meant nothing.

A specter of remembrance stirred. An additional house, another door, another pair of unreadable eyes.

Blue and white walls, as pristine as porcelain, stretched toward a vaulted ceiling adorned with shimmering chandeliers. I had once stood in a grand entryway much like this one, the polished marble beneath my feet so smooth that it made my steps feel weightless. I was younger then, still foolish enough to believe I could create something for myself.

Marcus greeted me at the top of the staircase, a vision of gold and ivory with a warm smile and honeyed voice. “You look stunning, Darling.” I felt small beneath his gaze, burdened by the weight of those words that dripped with a suffocating tone of manipulation. He offered me a hand, expecting me to accept it. He adorned the walls of his house with paintings of men who shared his sharp, aristocratic features—men who took what they wanted and left ruin in their wake.

I didn’t know then how deeply those walls would become my prison.

I clenched my fingers into my dress.That time had passed. The fragrance in the air wasn’t Marcus’s cologne. The man before me wasn’t him.

Lord Everette stepped back. “Come in. There is much to discuss.”

The heavy doors closed behind us with a resounding thud, shutting out the night.

“I’m Lord Everette. I oversee Vaelwick,” he announced, the flickering glow of a candle casting long shadows across his face. The entryway soared high, its grand archways embellished with dark wood and aging tapestries. The scents of damp stone and parchment hung heavily, mingling with the subtle smoke from the hearth’s smoldering embers. Despite the fire’s warmth, a chill descended upon my skin.

Lord Everette lifted his candle, gesturing toward the symbols carved into the doors and the small trinkets strung along the archways.

“These are protection wards,” he murmured.

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