Chapter 33 – “The Sword Beside the Plough”
Dawn broke slow and gray, seeping through the cracks of the windmill like spilled milk. Jasper stood at the edge of the woods, hooves sunk in mud, sword gripped tight in his shaking hand. His breath smoked in the cold air, the only sign of life amid the silence. The hag was gone. He had awoken to the scent of rot, to her laughter still echoing in the bones of the mill. His tunic was torn. The straw was fouled. And she—it—had vanished into the dark before he could strike her down.
He followed her trail for hours, deeper into the woods than he had dared in years. Webs clung to branches like fungus. Thin, glistening strands wove between trees in unnatural geometries—webs not made by any spider of this world. In some places, he saw claw marks on bark, symbols drawn in sap, faint runes that made his skin itch and his blade hum.
But no hag.
What he found was Flame.
She lay curled beneath a bramble bush, her golden coat dulled with ash and twigs. Her breath was steady but shallow, like something had been draining her. He knelt beside her, set his sword down, and laid a hand on her ribs. Her skin twitched but did not wake. Only when the wind shifted and the scent of Jasper’s blood reached her did her ears flick. Her amber eyes opened—slow, confused—and she pressed her nose to his chest like a cub to its kin.
“You’re late,” Jasper said softly.
She gave a low rumble, and together they returned to the mill.
The fields were a mess. Barley ripped from the root, earth churned by clawed feet. A whole section of fencing had collapsed under the weight of the Flitterers’ chaos. The windmill itself was unharmed—but the inside was haunted by memory. The cot. The straw. The smell of the hag’s breath on his skin. He burned the bedding, cleansed the room with sage and cedar left by old visitors.
Then he drove his sword into the ground outside the door and said, aloud, to no one:
“The plough may rest, but I do not.”
The villagers returned two days later, wary but kind. Word had spread that the fields were safe again, that the shrieking things in the sky had vanished. They brought him cheese, apples, smoked trout. Some bowed. Some just nodded. But all eyes drifted to the sword.
He had not held it in years. Not since his oath had lapsed. Not since he had turned from knight to farmer, choosing soil over steel. But now the old steel gleamed again, cleaned and honed, its edge kissing light whenever he turned.
At night, he took the sword inside. It lay beside his bed. Flame slept curled on the threshold, twitching at unseen dreams. When the windmill turned in the breeze, Jasper watched the shadows. When mice scurried, he checked twice. When an owl called, he listened for a second.
He worked again.
Planted what he could salvage. Repaired the fences with stone and old rope. Turned the soil with quiet, rhythmic strength. Flame often followed him, silent as smoke, eyes ever on the treeline. There was peace—but not comfort.
Once, while fixing the east field, Jasper found a small clay jar buried under the broken scarecrow. Inside were shattered ward-stones, dull and blood-smeared. Old magic—meant to keep her out. He crushed the pieces with a stone, watching the dust blow into the wind.
Another time, a child from the village brought him flowers and said her grandmother dreamed of a woman with spider legs whispering Jasper’s name. He gave her bread and gently told her not to speak of such things again.
Days turned to weeks.
He sowed grain again, sharpening his scythe and blade side by side. A false spring bloomed around him. Fruit trees flowered. The barley sprouted. Even Flame began to play again, stalking dragonflies in the reeds behind the mill. Laughter returned to the valley.
Jasper, too, laughed—once.
But each night, before sleep, he touched the hilt of his sword and whispered to the dark:
“If you come back, hag—I’ll ride you to hell.”
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
Chapter 34 — “Whispers on the Windmill”
It began with the windmill.
On a still, golden evening, with the sun low and the barley tips painted with firelight, the windmill turned—though the air was dead calm. Jasper looked up from his hoe, wiping sweat from his brow. The blades groaned, slow and ponderous, creaking as if some old ghost had leaned into them. Flame, who had been lounging beneath the oak, lifted her head and growled.
Jasper stood still, eyes narrowing.
“No wind,” he muttered.
And yet the windmill turned.
That night, he oiled the gears, checked every timber, climbed to the top with a lantern. The mechanisms were untouched. No rodents, no nesting owls. But at the very top, etched into the dusty wood, was a spiral drawn in blood—small, crusted over, ancient.
He wiped it away with his sleeve. Flame hissed at something unseen.
The next day, the birds vanished.
Jasper woke to silence. The usual chatter of larks and thistlefinches was gone. No rustle of wings. No dawn chorus. Just the creak of the windmill turning in a windless sky.
He found Flame pawing at the windowsill, her back arched, tail fluffed. When he followed her gaze, he saw nothing—just the edge of the woods. But something watched. He could feel it, the weight behind the trees, behind the veil of leaves.
By mid-morning, the fields were thick with mist.
The villagers didn’t come that week. Jasper sent no letters. He spent the days sharpening tools he didn’t need, listening. He didn’t sleep much, not deeply.
When he did, the dreams returned.
Not of Sarah. Not of love.
Of spiders crawling across a ceiling, too many legs, too many eyes. Of hooves sinking into webs. Of a windmill’s blades slicing the moon in clean, perfect arcs.
He awoke one night to find the door unbarred and Flame standing over him, staring at the doorframe.
There were claw marks in the wood.
Then, on the seventh day, Jasper went to draw water from the well and saw it:
A Night Flitterer.
Perched on the roof.
Watching.
It didn’t move. It didn’t shriek. Just crouched there like a broken doll—arms too long, eyes glimmering like wet obsidian. Its wings twitched when it saw him look. A low clicking came from its throat, and then—
It laughed.
Jasper dropped the bucket, drew his sword, and sprinted toward the mill.
But when he arrived, the roof was empty.
Only a single feather remained—black, long, and warm to the touch.
He buried it behind the mill, under a stone.
But he knew.
She was near.
Not in form. Not in body. Not yet.
But the hag’s breath was in the mist. In the unnatural quiet. In the blade turning where no wind blew. She was rebuilding her web. Patient. Clever.
And this time, she wanted more than blood.
She wanted ownership.
That night, Jasper lit every lantern. Hung new ward-stones. Wrote to the visitor-priests in the southern hills, requesting charms, fire-salt, and iron filings. He dusted the mill with powdered ash and chalked old glyphs on the walls from memory—symbols from the order he once served.
But when he stood by the door, sword in hand, staring into the dark—
He heard her voice.
“You’ll never plough again, my stallion. But we shall reap.”
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
