The Lycan King’s Mark (Nevara) by Tiffanie L. Campbell novel Chapter 8

44

< CHAPTER 8 – ROOT AND BLADE

CHAPTER 8 – ROOT AND BLADE

Nevara

I woke to sunlight spilling across my pillow, soft and golden, the kind that only comes after a night of dreamless sleep. For the first time in months, I hadn’t jolted awake from shouting, slamming doors, or the echo of Tobias’s voice slicing through my head.

Just silence.

And birdsong.

The fire had long gone out, but the cabin still held a comfortable warmth. I stretched, yawning, and smiled

when my muscles didn’t ache for once. Maybe it was the air up here–clean, sharp, full of pine and promise

-or maybe it was just the freedom finally settling into my bones.

After a quick breakfast of toast, eggs, and the last of the orange juice, I tugged my hair into a loose braid

and stepped outside.

The morning air was cool but pleasant, the kind that kissed your skin rather than bit it. Though it was November, the sun was bright and strong, burning through the thin veil of mist that clung to the forest

edge. The scent of earth and cedar filled my lungs.

It was a good day for work.

The garden waited for me, half–wild but still hopeful. I crouched at the edge of the raised beds and began pulling weeds, loosening roots and tossing them into a pail beside me. The soil was damp from the morning dew, soft enough to dig my fingers into. It was strangely satisfying–feeling it crumble between my hands, freeing the beds from the tangle of neglect.

By the time I finished the first bed, my knees were dusted with dirt and the pail was nearly full. I brushed hair from my face and looked around at what I’d cleared, feeling a quiet pride settle in my chest.

my

The herbs were next–tall sprigs of rosemary, thyme, and sage still clinging to life despite the season. I took the small pruning shears from the shed and trimmed them carefully, humming under my breath as !

went.

Their scent filled the air: sharp, clean, and comforting.

The smell of life continuing, even after everything else had fallen apart.

I gathered the clippings into a small bundle, tied them with twine, and carried them to the porch. I’d hang them near the kitchen window later, let them dry naturally. For now, I just wanted the house to smell like something warm and green.

When the garden was tidy and the soil aerated, I washed my hands at the pump and wiped them on my jeans. The sun had climbed higher, glinting through the branches like shards of gold.

I turned toward the woodpile.

13

CHAPTER 8–ROOT AND BLADE

The axe waited where I’d left it beside the stump–its blade glearning in the light. I tested the weight in my hands, feeling the solid balance of the handle. My father had taught me how to chop wood when I was fifteen, though he’d always said I swung too fast, too emotional. “Wood’s like people, held told me. “You can’t force it. You just find the seam and let the strength follow through

I smiled at the memory and set the first log on the stump. The blade came down clean, splitting it strache

through.

Thud. Crack.

Again.

Thud, Crack.

Each swing sent a satisfying tremor through my arms. The rhythm was hypnotic–the rice and fall of the

axe, the clean break of the wood, the soft hush of wind threading through the trees

By midday, I’d built a respectable stack beside the porch. I wiped sweat from my forehead with the back o

my arm and sat on the steps, letting the warmth of the sun soak into my skin.

The woods were still, save for the gentle rustle of leaves. Somewhere far off, a hawk cried–a lonely

echoing sound that faded into the distance.

I closed my eyes, breathing it all in.

For the first time since the funeral, I felt… steady. Not happy, not healed–but grounded.

This was the life I’d forgotten how to want.

The simple kind.

The kind where survival didn’t mean submission.

I reached over, grabbing one of the smaller logs and running my fingertips along the smooth grain of the

split wood.

“Almost ready for winter,” I said softly.

And for the first time, the forest didn’t feel like it was watching.

It just felt alive.

I stacked the last few logs onto the growing pile beside the porch, lining them neatly against what was already there. My father must’ve started it before bringing me here; the bottom rows were older, darkened with age, stacked tight and precise. His handiwork, always practical and tidy. I smiled to myself, brushing a streak of sawdust from my jeans.

The air smelled of cedar and smoke and sweat–clean, honest scents. I grabbed the small wagon that sat parked near the garden shed and loaded it with several split pieces, enough to keep the cabin warm for the next few nights. The wheels creaked as I pulled it across the uneven ground, the sound oddly comforting in the stillness.

< CHAPTER 8–ROOT AND BLADE

+25 Points

By the time I reached the porch, the sun was beginning its slow descent, casting long, golden shadows across the clearing. The warmth lingered, but I could feel the first whisper of chill threading through the air. Winter was waiting–close, but not quite here yet.

I carried the firewood inside and stacked it neatly by the hearth. The sight of it there–the tangible result of my own work–filled me with a quiet sense of pride. This place was becoming mine, piece by piece.

When everything was settled, I headed into the bathroom and turned on the faucet. The pipes groaned for

a moment before the water began to flow, clear and steaming. I poured in a handful of Epsom salt,

watching it dissolve into the water like fog curling over glass. The faint scent of lavender rose into the air.

Peeling off my sweat–damp clothes, I stepped into the tub and sank beneath the surface with a sigh. Heat

seeped into my muscles, loosening the stiffness that had started to settle in my shoulders and back. I

closed my eyes, letting the water lap gently against my skin, my heartbeat slowing with each deep breath.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify