The walkback is a silent form of torture.
Blisters have formed on my feet—I can feel them with every step.
My soaked arm alternates between numbness and painful tingling all the way up to my shoulder.
My legs shake with exhaustion.
My muscles burn.
And I’m fairly certain one of the blisters inside my left boot just burst.
But I don’t complain.
Not once.
No sighing.
No groaning.
Not even muttering.
The twins walk quietly beside me, though I can feel them paying attention to every movement I make.
Ragnar stays close at my side the entire time.
At one point, I trip over a root.
The sheep stops walking and patiently waits for me to recover before continuing at my pace.
“This sheep really adopted you,” Connor comments.
“Apparently.”
“That’s rare,” Cameron adds thoughtfully. “Ragnar doesn’t trust anyone. Barely even tolerates Mary, and she’s a veterinarian.”
“I honestly don’t know why he trusts me,” I admit.
“Maybe he recognizes someone like himself.”
I frown, uncertain whether that’s supposed to be an insult.
“Someone who doesn’t try to please people,” he clarifies. “Someone who’s just... themselves.”
I don’t answer.
Mostly because I’m too busy focusing on the complicated task of continuing to walk without collapsing.
But the words settle somewhere deep inside my chest.
In the part of me I usually try very hard to ignore.
Finally, the castle appears in the distance.
The gray towers rise beneath storm clouds, and I have never in my life been happier to see ancient stone architecture.
I spot the guesthouse.
Five more minutes.
