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At a face that’s so lovely I have no right to be staring at her like that, but her scent has driven me mad.
I’m no longer in control.
My body is moving of its own volition.
I can’t stop.
Can’t.Stop.
8
FINLEY
There’s a man standing in the road.
A lone figure.
Am I seeing correctly?
I’m gaining on him quickly, riding at full speed, but he’s not making any effort to move.
The closer I get, the more details I can make out.
He’s big. Broad-shouldered and tall, he possesses the lean and muscular physique of a man who does hard and purposeful physical work on a regular basis.
A warrior or a hunter, perhaps.
He wears simple grey clothing. A tunic and trousers. Black leather boots. His face is hidden in shadow, covered by the hood of a long black cloak. A scarf conceals his lower face.
His hair emerges from one side. Long and braided, it’s almost as white as the snow itself.
A rare shade. Astrangeshade, considering that he is certainly not elderly. Who is this man? His clothing tells me he isn’t from the nobility. He doesn’t wear the insignia of any lord.
Is he a brigand, like the men from before?
But he carries no weapon.
He’s just standing there, still as a boulder, staring me down.
I catch a flash of something from beneath the shadow of his hood.
His eyes.
They glowred.
For a heartbeat, my entire body freezes.
Time slows.
A feeling of terrible un-reality ripples through me, coursing across my skin and down my spine.
As much as I want to, I can’t look away, even though an overwhelming feeling of danger permeates every fiber of my being.
There’s something unnatural about this man. He’s like a wraith; a specter, appearing out of nowhere, staring at me with those demonic eyes.
I urge my horse to run faster.
Faster.Don’t stop.
