Page 17 of The Archer’s Wish

“Such as?” she pressed, stubborn to the very end.

He considered. The woods, the cold, the echo of memories still clinging to him and… something else. Something warm and unexpected that had been stirring in him ever since a certain healer’s apprentice had entered his life.

“Such as the idea,” he said slowly, “that strength is nae only measured by a man’s leg.”

Effie blinked. Then her mouth curved into a small, knowing smile. “Ah. So that’s it.”

“What?” he demanded.

She twirled the lantern. “Nothing. Just that maybe yer healing is nae the only thing weighing on yer mind these days.”

A sharp look from him only made her grin wider.

“Let’s go back,” she said gently. “Return tomorrow night. Perhaps the stone will reveal itself. Perhaps it will nae. But hope, brother… Hope is never wasted.”

As they turned toward the path, Liam felt the weight in his chest shift, not disappear, but lighten, as if the night itself carried some of the burden away.

Maybe Effie was right.

Maybe hope wasn’t foolish after all.

Beitris drifted into his thoughts as naturally as breath. Her steady hands, her quiet determination, the way she’d tended him without complaint, even when he’d met her care with stubborn pride, rose in vivid clarity. She had been unwavering since the moment he’d been carried into the keep utterly broken. Her dedication to his healing had been as constant as the tide.

And then came the memory of the kiss.

He hadn’t meant to do it. Not truly. Yet something in the air, something he still couldn’t name, had urged him forward. An invisible pull that felt older than desire and deeper than impulse. Even now, hours later, he could taste the faint sweetness of her lips, feel the warmth of her breath brushing his skin. It had been his first kiss since the battle that nearly claimed his life, and it had taken every shred of discipline he possessed not to deepen it. Not to crush her to him and kiss her until the world vanished around them.

Beitris was made for kissing, soft curves to fit a man’s embrace. A face a man could wake to for the rest of his days. She hadn’t recoiled or stepped back. Instead, she’d stood perfectly still, as though time had stopped or as if the moment itself held her fast. As if something unseen had wrapped around them both, urging them closer, refusing to let her flee.

Had she enjoyed it? Had she felt that strange pull too? That whisper of warmth beneath the skin, that spark that felt almost enchanted.

“Liam! Ye’re going to trip and fall in the dark!” Effie called from ahead, her lantern bobbing like a lone star through the trees.

He quickened his pace, though the forest floor was little more than shadows and shifting shapes. Still, the thoughts of Beitris clung to him, warm against the cold night air.

Behind him, a faint breeze rustled the leaves, soft, swirling, almost musical. He caught a flash of light from the corner of his eye, but when he turned, there was nothing. Liam narrowed his gaze but then continued walking.

As though the woods themselves had heard his thoughts and approved.

Back at the family home, sleep refused to come. Liam added a thick log to the glowing embers in the hearth, sparks spiraling upward like tiny fire spirits, then eased himself into the worn armchair. He stretched his injured leg onto the padded footstool, a small luxury his mother insisted stay near that chair in particular, as if it belonged to the limb more than the family.

Ambrose, the old grey wolfhound, lifted his massive head from the rug. His amber eyes studied Liam with ancient wisdom, or perhaps mild judgment at being woken. After a long stretch, the dog padded over and collapsed beside Liam’s uninjured leg, exhaling a huff of warm breath. Liam reached down and stroked the coarse comforting fur.

“Aye, Ambrose. Neither of us sleeps tonight,” he murmured.

“It seems I am no’ the only one,” came his father’s familiar rough voice from the doorway.

Thom stepped into the room, firelight deepening the lines on his weathered face. He was a tall man still thick with the strength of his youth, though grey threaded fully through his long hair and beard. His eyes, sharp and steady, took in Liam’s position and the tautness of his jaw.

He carried a bottle and two wooden cups.

“Wasn’t sure if ye’d want company,” Thom said as he poured, “but ye’re getting it anyway.”

He handed Liam a cup before settling into the chair opposite him.

“Are ye hurting, son?”

Liam took a sip of mead, the sweetness warming his throat. “The pain is nae unbearable. I’m growing accustomed to the dull ache.”