Page 46 of The Archer’s Wish

“Right now, a cottage for myself. The laird gifted me the land. I’m going to live there.”

The blacksmith was keen, his gaze narrowing, seeming to understand he was not receiving the full story of what Liam was doing. In actuality, Liam was surprised the men who were working for him in constructing what he required had not spread word all over the village yet. Then again, they were a gruff lot that didn’t make idle conversation even with each other.

“Thank ye,” Liam said, lifting the pouch of nails. “I have five and twenty.”

He made his way back through the village, his hip a bit stiff after working for so many days hammering and lifting thick pieces of wood.

Pain dragged Liam from sleep like a hand clamping around his hip.

It stabbed along his left side the moment he turned, sharp enough to steal his breath. He hissed between his teeth, clutching his hip until the ache ebbed from agony to a familiar, unpleasant throb. A full day of labor had left him sore, but this lingering pain was becoming something he feared would remain with him the rest of his life.

Not ideal, but survivable. At least it didn’t torment him every waking moment anymore.

Restless and irritated, he flung aside his thin blanket and swung his legs over the edge of the crude sleeping pallet. The half-finished cottage smelled of cut timber, cold stone, and the faint earthy trace of night air drifting through the open window frames. He dressed quickly into his breeches, boots, and tunic, and stepped outside.

His mother had urged, no implored, him to stay at the family home until the cottage was complete. But the daily trek of nearly an hour each way wore on him, and he preferred solitude over sympathy. The roof was done, the hearth functional, and he’d managed to buy enough provisions to get by. Doors and windows would come soon enough. For now, the cottage was a skeleton of a home, bare and cold, but his.

He went outside, the night breeze wrapping around him. When he looked up, the sky stole his breath for reasons entirely different from pain. Thousands of stars glittered above, sharp, brilliant pinpricks of silver scattered across a black velvet sea. He had always loved the night sky, but tonight it felt like balm on his raw edges.

He rubbed his aching side and lowered himself onto the unfinished steps. The wood smelled fresh, resinous, and the scent mingled with the crisp night air and distant smoke from village hearths. Peaceful. Quiet.

A strange light flickered between the trees.

Liam frowned. Someone was walking near the forest edge, carrying a lantern bright enough to cast long, wavering shadows. A lantern that bright at this hour? Foolish. Dangerous.

If it was Effie, he’d have words for her. Stern ones.

Grimacing at the twinge in his hip, he pushed to his feet and limped toward the trees.

“Effie,” he called out.

No reply.

He muttered under his breath, “That lass is naught but trouble.”

“Effie. Wha…”

He stopped dead.

In the clearing ahead stood a massive stone, one he’d noticed countless times on hunts and village gatherings. But now a crack split its surface, and from that crack, light pulsed outward, bright and otherworldly. Not lantern light. Not firelight.

Something else.

Liam staggered back a step, breath caught in his throat. Heat prickled along his arms.

He slapped his own cheek. “Wake up.”

But the vision didnae vanish.

Heart pounding, he spun in a circle, searching the sky, the line of trees, the ground for any earthly explanation. There was none.

Could it be… the miracle stone?

Effie’s stories whispered through his mind. Legends. Folktales. Myths.

Yet the light swelled, blooming outward as if moving.

Drawn by something he could not name, he stepped forward slowly, cautiously lifting a hand as though to test the air for heat. The closer he came, the thicker the air felt, crackling like the moment hot iron plunged into water at the forge. The scent was sharp and metallic, almost humming.