Chapter Twelve #2
Restless and irritated, he flung aside his thin blanket and swung his legs over the edge of the crude sleeping pallet.
The half-finished cottage smelled of cut timber, cold stone, and the faint earthy trace of night air drifting through the open window frames.
He dressed quickly into his breeches, boots, and tunic, and stepped outside.
His mother had urged, no implored, him to stay at the family home until the cottage was complete.
But the daily trek of nearly an hour each way wore on him, and he preferred solitude over sympathy.
The roof was done, the hearth functional, and he’d managed to buy enough provisions to get by.
Doors and windows would come soon enough.
For now, the cottage was a skeleton of a home, bare and cold, but his.
He went outside, the night breeze wrapping around him.
When he looked up, the sky stole his breath for reasons entirely different from pain.
Thousands of stars glittered above, sharp, brilliant pinpricks of silver scattered across a black velvet sea.
He had always loved the night sky, but tonight it felt like balm on his raw edges.
He rubbed his aching side and lowered himself onto the unfinished steps. The wood smelled fresh, resinous, and the scent mingled with the crisp night air and distant smoke from village hearths. Peaceful. Quiet.
A strange light flickered between the trees.
Liam frowned. Someone was walking near the forest edge, carrying a lantern bright enough to cast long, wavering shadows. A lantern that bright at this hour? Foolish. Dangerous.
If it was Effie, he’d have words for her. Stern ones.
Grimacing at the twinge in his hip, he pushed to his feet and limped toward the trees.
“Effie,” he called out.
No reply.
He muttered under his breath, “That lass is naught but trouble.”
“Effie. Wha…”
He stopped dead.
In the clearing ahead stood a massive stone, one he’d noticed countless times on hunts and village gatherings. But now a crack split its surface, and from that crack, light pulsed outward, bright and otherworldly. Not lantern light. Not firelight.
Something else.
Liam staggered back a step, breath caught in his throat. Heat prickled along his arms.
He slapped his own cheek. “Wake up.”
But the vision didnae vanish.
Heart pounding, he spun in a circle, searching the sky, the line of trees, the ground for any earthly explanation. There was none.
Could it be… the miracle stone?
Effie’s stories whispered through his mind. Legends. Folktales. Myths.
Yet the light swelled, blooming outward as if moving.
Drawn by something he could not name, he stepped forward slowly, cautiously lifting a hand as though to test the air for heat. The closer he came, the thicker the air felt, crackling like the moment hot iron plunged into water at the forge. The scent was sharp and metallic, almost humming.
Then tiny stars burst from the crack.
Or what looked like stars. Tiny motes of shimmering light flew out, spinning in wild little spirals. They circled him like excited fireflies, leaving faint glowing trails in the air.
He swatted at one, startled. It tapped gently against his skin, warm and curious, then darted away, joining the others as they danced around him.
A wish.
The thought slid into his mind as clearly as spoken words. He stared at the stone, his pulse thundering. The lights grew in number, multiplying until the entire clearing glowed like the inside of a dream.
What did he wish for?
Effie had told him the rules. No wishes for others. The stone respected free will. And it had to be his truest desire.
He felt selfish. Foolish. Hopeful. Liam closed his eyes and wished.
Birdsong coaxed him awake.
Wind brushed across his face, carrying the scent of dew, grass, and morning. He blinked up at the canopy above him, confusion rippling through his chest.
He was lying on his back in the clearing.
Heart hammering, he sat up sharply and looked toward the stone.
No crack. No light. No swirling stars. Just the same solid boulder it had always been.
A dream, then?
But the clarity of it, the vividness, the warmth, the unmistakable hum of power felt far too real to dismiss.
Still… wandering in his sleep was the far more logical explanation. He’d never done so before, but the upheaval of the past weeks could unsettle any man.
He needed a door. A bolt. Something to keep him inside at night.
Rising to his feet, he trudged back to the cottage. The sun was still low. The builders wouldn’t arrive for some time. Enough for him to make a fire, warm some porridge, and settle his rattled nerves.
By midday, he had installed the front door, hung two window frames, and fitted a third at the back. His muscles burned pleasantly, but not painfully, as he stood outside, watching the two hired men finish the small stable.
By nightfall, he would have a place for a horse. And a horse meant he could finally travel to the village without relying on others. A cart would be essential, as mounting a horse was beyond him now.
But a cart, a horse, a stable… it all felt like progress.
He grabbed his overcoat and coin pouch and stepped out to meet the workers. The older man eyed him strangely, bushy brows drawing low.
“Ye did a lot of work today, Liam.”
Liam shrugged. “Aye. As usual.”
The man snorted. “Aye, but ye move better than us. Most days ye can barely make it back to yer cottage.”
The words hit him like a blow. His knees buckled, and he collapsed. His chest tightened as breath tore from his lungs in rapid panicked gasps. Spots began flickering in his vision.
The workers scrambled down from the wagon.
“What’s happening?” the younger man cried. “Are ye dying?”
Liam shook his head, fighting for breath. “N-no… I-I am…” Another gasp. “I am w-well.”
“Ye dinnae sound well,” the older man muttered, hauling him upright with surprising gentleness.
But the moment Liam was steady on his feet, he laughed.
It burst out of him wild and bright. He spun, then danced a ridiculous jig, light on his feet as if his leg had never been injured.
The men stared as though he had sprouted wings.
But Liam knew. His wish had been granted.
The miracle stone existed. And it had deemed him worthy of granting a wish to.
He sobered abruptly, instinct tightening in his chest. This must remain a secret. The stone was meant to be a legend. Nothing more. For some reason, he was sure of it.
“Let us go,” he said, hopping easily into the back of the wagon, so easily the men exchanged baffled glances.
“A strong whiskey will do ye good,” the older man muttered, shaking his head.
Liam grinned, unable and unwilling to contain the joy swelling in his chest.
If they only knew.