Chapter 29 — The Hollowhill Windmill
The hill had no name when Jasper first climbed it, but in time it would be called Hollowhill—not for the empty windmill crowning its crest, but for the hollow it filled in the heart of the warrior who came to live there.
The windmill loomed like a broken sentinel, half-tilted, its sails shattered and hanging, its spine bowed with years. Stone bones jutted out where wood had rotted away. Vines and old ivy crawled across its base, knotting in spirals. Birds nested in the eaves.
Jasper stood before it, the sea wind still clinging to his skin, his bare chest marked with old scars and saltwater. His hooves sank into the soft grass. His horse-like face tilted up to the ruin.
He said nothing.
But after a time, he dropped his armor.
Then his sword.
And walked into the shadow of the windmill.
He did not know magic. He had never spoken spells or drawn wards. But he was Equinari, blood descendant of the Horse King, a lineage older than most kingdoms. Runes—when near him—dimmed, faltered, and broke. Wizards avoided his kind. Old seals cracked at his passing. He did not understand it. He did not want it.
He only wanted silence.
That first spring he built a lean-to against the mill’s stone wall—wood from a rotted barn down the valley, bound with stripped vine cord. He slept beneath its thatch roof, with the wind in the barley and a dagger beneath his folded cloak. Rainwater he caught in clay pots, firewood he split with a rusted hatchet.
In his pouch—wrapped in a soft scrap of green cloth from Myrrenstead—he kept the last of his youth’s barley. He planted it carefully, row by row, around the base of the hill.
Then wheat, then beans.
And waited.
By summer’s end, the sails turned again—new blades carved from pine and fitted by hand. He worked with the discipline of a knight but the quiet patience of a man seeking atonement. His hooves dug trenches. His arms lifted beams. The creak of the windmill began to join the valley’s song again.
Flame came and went. The golden jaguar was not made for stillness. She hunted in the deeper forests, crossed streams, and marked the ridges with her scent. But she never strayed far. She watched the fields from the tree lines. Left a hare or wild grouse near the threshold now and then.
She never asked why Jasper stayed.
And he never asked why she did not.
In the second year, the fields were strong.
Barley stretched golden and thick, waving in time with the breath of the wind. He fashioned a scythe from an old iron rail and an ashwood haft. He learned the rhythm of reaping, the stoop of planting, the ache of the back that came not from battle, but from honest labor.
The windmill groaned, then turned. Slowly, then surely.
The grain became flour. The flour became bread.
The bread became peace.
Travelers came now and then. A pot-mender from the hill country. A monk in silence. A widow and her sons, all skin and bone. He gave what he could—bread, a roof, sometimes a mended tool. They gave thanks and stories. Tales of cities burning, of kings dying, of towers falling. Magic on the rise. Things out of balance.
Jasper listened. But did not speak of the sword. Or the black tower. Or Sarah.
This place was not for war.
Children came too. They ran through the barley rows, chasing the sails’ slow arc, laughing at the strange man with hooves and a horse’s face who lived in the stone mill and made good bread. He taught them to grind, to tie sheaves, to look at the sky and know if rain would come.
None asked of his past.
He did not offer it.
By the third year, they called the valley Windmark Hollow.
A quiet name, but steady.
Jasper built a second shelter for guests. Dug a well. Planted beans. The days passed like falling grain. Still Flame watched from the trees, a sentinel cloaked in gold. Her visits were more frequent, her sleep uneasy.
She sensed it.
Before even Jasper did.
The first sign was a voice. Sweet, singing low in the dusk.
Then came the red-haired woman with a basket of charms and a crooked smile. She smelled of rosemary, honeyroot, and ash.
She called herself Mairlen. Offered blessings and woven sigils.
Jasper gave her bread.
He did not see the rune she wore on her wrist fade in his presence.
And Flame did not enter the windmill that night.
Something old and dark had stirred.
And the long peace of Windmark Hollow had reached its final season.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
Chapter 30 — Mairlen of the Ashes
The wind carried her song before it carried her scent. It was a low, lilting tune, like a lullaby half-remembered, curling through the barley rows and brushing against the windmill’s new sails. Jasper paused, his hands dusted with flour, and tilted his head. The sound was sweet, but it pricked at something deep—an old instinct, buried but not dead.
Mairlen came at dusk, her red hair catching the last of the sun like a flame against the cooling sky. Her basket swung lightly from one arm, filled with trinkets: bone charms, braided cords, polished stones etched with sigils that gleamed faintly in the half-light. She wore a patched cloak, green as moss, and her boots left no sound on the packed earth.
“Evening, miller,” she said, her voice warm, her smile crooked. “I’ve walked far, and your valley smells of good bread.”
Jasper wiped his hands on a rag, his equine eyes steady. “There’s bread enough,” he said. “And a roof, if you need it.”
Her smile widened, but her gaze flickered—past him, to the windmill, to the fields, to the shadowed tree line where Flame’s golden eyes gleamed and then vanished. Mairlen’s fingers brushed the rune on her wrist, hidden beneath a woven bracelet. She did not notice its faint glow dim.
“Come, sit,” Jasper said, gesturing to the rough-hewn table outside the lean-to. The air was cool, the valley quiet but for the creak of the windmill’s sails. He brought out a loaf, still warm, its crust cracked and golden. From a clay pot, he poured chamomile tea, its steam rising in soft curls. Mairlen settled across from him, her basket at her feet, and broke the bread with deft fingers.
“You’ve made a home here,” she said, her eyes tracing the neat rows of barley, the patched roof, the stone well. “Windmark Hollow, they call it now. A good name.”
Jasper nodded, sipping his tea. “It’s enough.”
She laughed softly, a sound like water over stones. “Enough is a rare thing, miller. Most folk chase more.” Her hand dipped into her basket, pulling out a small bundle—a curious thing, no larger than a child’s doll. It was shaped like a scarecrow, woven from wildflowers, dried grasses, and oddities: a raven’s feather, a smooth river stone, a twist of copper wire. The flowers were still fragrant, their petals bright despite the drying. “A gift,” she said. “For your land. To bring good favor. No magic, mind—just a curiosity from an old wanderer.”
Jasper took it, his calloused fingers careful. The scarecrow’s form was delicate, yet sturdy, its woven face blank but oddly watchful. He turned it over, feeling the weight of the stone at its base. “No magic,” he repeated, his voice low, as if testing the words. Mairlen’s smile held, but her eyes were sharp, like a hawk’s.
They spoke as the sky deepened, the sun sinking into the hills. Mairlen told of her travels—villages where rivers ran dry, forests where shadows moved without light, markets where charms sold better than bread. Jasper listened, his hooves still in the grass, his tea cooling. He spoke little, but when he did, it was of the valley: the rhythm of the harvest, the way the wind spoke before a storm. He did not mention the sword beneath the floorboards, or the black tower, or the name that still burned in his chest.
The rune on Mairlen’s wrist lay dormant, its lines faint as old ink.
When the meal was done, Jasper rose and hung the scarecrow charm at the windmill’s entrance, tying it to a rusted nail above the door. It swayed gently, the wildflowers catching the last light, the raven’s feather trembling in the breeze. “For the land,” he said, half to himself.
Mairlen stood, her basket lighter now, her cloak pulled tight against the evening chill. “You’re kind, miller,” she said. “Kinder than most.” She stepped onto the lane that wound down the valley, her boots silent on the packed earth. The sun’s final rays caught her red hair, setting it alight—a cascade of sparks that seemed to shimmer and dance as she walked. Jasper watched until she was a flicker in the dusk, then gone.
Flame did not return that night.
The windmill turned, its creak steady, but the valley felt heavier, as if the air itself held its breath. The scarecrow charm hung still, its stone heart cold against the wood.
And somewhere, far beyond the hills, something old and dark smiled.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
