Chapter Two
Bones blinked, staring into the misty horizon as his raven, Google, perched on his shoulder, its dark feathers shimmering faintly in the morning light. “Say that one more time,” he muttered, still hoping he’d misheard. The bird cocked its head, its beady eyes gleaming with an almost mischievous intelligence before croaking out the words again. “1538.” Bones sighed, running a hand through his scraggly hair. “Great. Just great.” The weight of the number hung in the cool air around him, as heavy as the mist still clinging to the monastery courtyard. He could feel the uneven cobblestones beneath his boots, the dampness seeping in as if to remind him that this wasn’t some dream or a weird trip gone wrong. This was real, and the 21st century was now a few centuries too far away for his liking.
Bones shifted his gaze from the horizon to the monks milling about the courtyard, their brown robes swaying as they moved with quiet purpose. They didn’t seem in any particular hurry, their soft chanting blending with the distant hum of nature. As they went about their tasks, completely oblivious to the time-shifted stranger in their midst, Bones reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a long-stemmed pipe. With practiced ease, he packed it with a pinch of green herb—something familiar in this unfamiliar world. He could already smell the sharp, earthy scent as he tamped it down with his thumb, his mind barely registering the monks’ curious glances as they caught sight of him. “Alright, let’s get this over with,” he muttered to himself, striking a match and lighting the pipe as he began walking toward the nearest monk.
Bones sauntered toward the monks, the long stem of his pipe resting casually between his teeth, a faint trail of smoke curling behind him. The soft shuffling of sandals on cobblestone and the murmur of prayer created an almost serene atmosphere, one that felt utterly foreign to him. As he drew closer, the monks began to notice him, their steps faltering as their eyes flicked between his scruffy appearance, the raven perched on his shoulder, and the lazy golden mare behind him. He could feel their silent questions hanging in the air as he casually packed his pipe, the scent of green herb mingling with the damp morning mist. One of the monks, younger than the rest, stepped forward cautiously, his hands gripping a basket of bread as if it were some kind of shield. Bones gave him a slow nod, exhaling smoke. “Well, here we go,” he muttered under his breath, making his way toward the group. The younger monk stared, visibly baffled by the stranger approaching from the fog, his lips moving as though struggling to form words.
Bones stopped a few feet in front of the young monk, who was still eyeing him with a mix of confusion and curiosity. The monk’s hands tightened around the basket of bread as if expecting something far stranger than a mere introduction. Bones tapped the side of his pipe, knocking a few embers loose onto the damp ground before speaking. “Name’s Bones. Reverend, technically, but no one’s called me that in a long time.” His voice was casual, rough around the edges, and for a moment, Brother Frederick just blinked at him, clearly struggling to process the modern cadence of his words. The young monk’s brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth, then closed it, before finally managing a hesitant, “Brother Frederick, at your service, Reverend.” He sounded unsure, as if trying to bridge the gap between Bones’ strange introduction and the formal language of 1538. Bones smirked, watching the monk’s mind work to fit him into the world they were standing in.
Bones took a long drag from his pipe, exhaling slowly as he sized up Brother Frederick, whose expression hadn’t quite settled from confusion to understanding. “Alright, Brother Frederick,” Bones said, lowering his pipe and blowing a thin stream of smoke into the misty air. “Since you seem like the friendly sort, maybe you can help a guy out. Mind telling me where exactly I’ve landed? Been a... rough trip.” He gave a crooked smile, the understatement hanging heavy in the air. Frederick blinked, clearly trying to keep up, but after a brief pause, he nodded, his brows knitting together. “Of course, Reverend Bones,” he replied, the formal title clinging awkwardly to his tongue. “You are at the Abbey of Saint Agnes, outside the town of Tournemire.” His voice wavered slightly as if unsure whether this information would make any sense to the stranger before him.
Bones scratched his chin thoughtfully, the gears already turning in his mind as he pieced together a plausible lie. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “You wouldn’t happen to know how I got here, would you?” he asked, keeping his tone casual but curious. Before Brother Frederick could respond, Bones continued, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “See, I was officiating a wedding in some nearby town—can’t remember the name, it’s all a bit fuzzy now—and, well… let’s just say I got a little too friendly with the wine. Fell asleep in my carriage, and, well, here I am.” He made a vague gesture with his pipe, the smirk growing wider. Then, leaning in even closer, his voice dropped to a near-whisper. “Don’t tell the abbot... or the bishop,” he added with a wink. Frederick’s eyes widened, and for a moment, the young monk looked like he was about to break into a scandalized stutter, but instead, he nodded quickly, clearly unsure how to handle this peculiar confession.
Brother Frederick blinked a few times, processing Bones’ story with a mix of uncertainty and confusion, before clearing his throat. “Well... actually, Reverend Bones, you were brought here late last night.” His voice wavered slightly, as though unsure how much to say. “An... Arab man dressed as a monk arrived with your carriage. He didn’t speak much, just said you were to be cared for here until you woke.” Frederick’s grip tightened on the basket of bread, his gaze shifting uneasily toward the edge of the woods. “He called himself Brother Joseph, though I’ve never seen him before. He left shortly after, walking straight into the woods.” The young monk hesitated, his brows knitting together in uncertainty. “He didn’t explain anything else. Just vanished into the night.”
Bones let out a long, exasperated sigh, tipping his head back as if pleading with the sky for patience. “Normal job, my ass,” he muttered under his breath, the words slipping out in a cloud of smoke. He glanced toward the woods where this so-called “Brother Joseph” had disappeared, then back at Frederick, shaking his head. “Figures,” he added with a dry chuckle. “Can’t even officiate a wedding without ending up in some divine mess.” He took another drag from his pipe, the familiar taste of the herb doing little to soothe his frustration. “And here I thought this was gonna be the quiet life.”
Bones flicked the ash from the end of his pipe and turned back to Brother Frederick, trying to get a handle on his next move. “Alright, Brother Frederick,” he said, his voice returning to a more casual tone, “how far is it into town from here? Figure I might as well take a look around, see if anything else is waiting to fall in my lap.” He gave the monk a raised eyebrow, fully expecting the answer to be something inconvenient, given how his day had been going so far.
Brother Frederick adjusted the basket in his hands, glancing toward the faint outline of the road disappearing into the fog. “It’s about two miles by road, Reverend, if you follow the path straight through the woods. Four miles if you’re looking to avoid the trees and take the long way around,” he explained, his voice steady but cautious. “The town of Tournemire is just over the ridge. You should reach it within the hour, depending on your pace.” He paused, shifting nervously as if weighing his next words. “But… it’s quiet there these days. Ever since the troubles began.”
Bones raised an eyebrow, catching on the monk’s final words. He took the pipe from his lips and let the smoke drift lazily between them as he fixed Frederick with a curious look. “Troubles?” he asked, his voice low and edged with suspicion. “What kind of troubles are we talking about here, Brother Frederick?” He leaned in slightly, his tone casual, but his eyes sharp, already sensing that whatever lay ahead wasn’t going to be a peaceful stroll into town.
Brother Frederick shifted uncomfortably, his grip tightening on the basket as his eyes flicked toward the ground. “It’s... it’s not my place to say, Reverend,” he mumbled, clearly uneasy. Bones could see the tension in the young monk’s posture, the way his shoulders slumped slightly under the weight of whatever was troubling him. “But... there have been trials. Accusations.” Frederick swallowed hard, glancing around as if checking to make sure no one else was listening. “Witch trials. I... I don’t agree with them, but...” His voice trailed off, his discomfort painfully evident. “It’s dangerous to speak out.”
Bones let out a slow breath, his eyes narrowing slightly at the mention of the witch trials. “Figures,” he muttered to himself before shaking off the thought. “Alright, Brother Frederick, I think I’ll go take a look around town, see what all the fuss is about.” He turned slightly, gesturing toward the golden mare lazily munching on grass behind him. “Think you could keep an eye on my horse while I’m gone? Her name’s... Mercades.” The name rolled off his tongue with casual ease, though a small grin tugged at his lips as he realized he’d just made it up. “And the carriage too. Wouldn’t want anyone getting ideas while I’m gone.”
Brother Frederick’s face softened, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. He offered Bones a tentative smile, his earlier discomfort giving way to a more genuine friendliness. “Of course, Reverend Bones,” he replied, nodding earnestly. “I’ll make sure Mercades is well cared for, and I’ll keep an eye on your carriage as well.” His grip on the basket relaxed, and he gestured toward the stable at the edge of the monastery grounds. “We’ve room in the stables. She’ll be safe there until you return.”
Bones gave Brother Frederick a nod of thanks before turning toward his carriage. He ambled over, swinging the door open and stepping inside, revealing the impossibly large interior—much bigger than the modest carriage’s exterior suggested. The space within was filled with shelves, tools, and curiosities that didn’t belong in any time period, let alone 1538. Bones reached for his walking stick, a smooth, polished piece of wood leaning against the wall. As he stepped back outside, the stick shifted in his hand, the wood thickening and curving slightly until it became a sturdy shillelagh, fitting neatly into his grip. Satisfied, he locked the carriage door behind him with a click, pocketing the key. Without another word, he started down the road, his boots crunching softly on the dirt path, while Google, his white raven, flitted from tree to tree, following him silently from the shadows of the branches above.
The road stretched out before him, winding lazily through the rolling hills that surrounded the abbey. The morning fog had mostly lifted now, revealing a landscape that could almost be called serene—if it weren’t for the nagging feeling that something dark was simmering beneath the surface. Tall oaks and ash trees lined the path, their branches stretching overhead like skeletal fingers, casting flickering shadows across the ground as the sunlight fought its way through the dense canopy. The smell of damp earth and pine filled the air, mingling with the occasional burst of wildflowers that dotted the roadside in vibrant splashes of purple and yellow. Bones walked in silence, his shillelagh tapping a steady rhythm on the dirt road, his eyes darting between the thick patches of trees that seemed to watch him as much as he watched them.
As Bones rounded a gentle curve in the road, the town of Tournemire came into view, nestled in the valley just beyond the ridge. From a distance, it looked almost picturesque—smoke curling lazily from chimneys, the patchwork of thatched roofs and stone cottages creating a quaint, if not deceptively peaceful, sight. The fields surrounding the town were dotted with grazing sheep and the occasional farmer bent over his work, but even from here, Bones could sense a tension in the air, like the land itself was holding its breath. The road ahead sloped downward, leading into the town’s outskirts, but Bones wasn’t in any rush. He paused for a moment, resting his weight on the shillelagh as he took in the scene. Google flitted to a branch overhead, tilting its head as if sensing something too, the quiet stretch of road between them and the town feeling longer than it looked.
As Bones entered the outskirts of Tournemire, the eerie quiet settled over him like a heavy cloak. The dirt road beneath his boots gave way to cobblestones, uneven and worn from centuries of use, but the usual hum of town life—bustling markets, children playing, the chatter of locals—was nowhere to be found. Instead, the streets lay empty, eerily still, as if the town had been abandoned in a hurry. Doors were shut tight, windows closed, and the occasional wooden shutter creaked in the soft breeze. Bones glanced around, his eyes narrowing as he took in the silence, his grip tightening on the shillelagh. Google fluttered overhead, hopping from one rooftop to the next, the only movement in the strange stillness. “Well,” Bones muttered to himself, scanning the empty square ahead, “this is welcoming.”
Bones moved cautiously through the deserted streets, the hollow echo of his footsteps bouncing off the stone walls of the tightly packed cottages. The deeper he went into the heart of the town, the more his unease grew. There were no carts, no market stalls, and no signs of life except for the faint murmur of voices carried on the wind. His ears pricked up as he caught the sound—subdued, but growing louder as he neared the town square. Rounding a corner, Bones paused in the shadow of a building, his eyes settling on the source of the noise. A crowd was gathering in the square, a tense energy hanging in the air as more and more people trickled in. Their faces were hard, eyes wide with the kind of intensity that only comes from fear or fury. Bones exhaled softly, his gaze sharpening. “Looks like I’m just in time for the festivities,” he muttered under his breath, tightening his grip on the shillelagh as he headed toward the square.
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In the center of the square, a young woman stood bound on a crude wooden platform, her wild, flaming red hair spilling down around her shoulders. She was striking, even in her dirt-smeared dress and shackled wrists, with piercing green eyes that burned with defiance. The crowd’s attention, however, wasn’t on her words but on the flustered magistrate standing beside her, his face redder than the flames he wanted to see burn her. His trembling hand pointed not at her, but at the unmistakable bulge in his trousers. “This!” he shouted, his voice cracking with indignation. “This is proof of her witchcraft! No decent man could be bewitched into... this!” The crowd gasped and muttered in agreement, fear and embarrassment making them buy into the absurdity of his claim. As Bones edged his way closer through the throng, he smirked at the ridiculousness of it all. “Witchcraft?” he muttered under his breath, “More like poor impulse control.” The accused woman glared at the magistrate, her fiery Irish accent cutting through the growing noise of the crowd. “It’s not magic, ye bloody fool! Ye’re just a pig too weak to control yer own urges!” Her words only fueled the mob’s frenzy, and Bones, now near the front, could see that things were about to get dangerous.
The magistrate’s face darkened with frustration, his hand now shaking as he pointed a trembling finger at her. “Silence, witch!” he bellowed, his voice cracking with a mixture of fear and outrage. “I won’t have you bewitching this crowd with your cursed tongue! One more word and you’ll have us all under your spell!” His eyes darted nervously around the square, as if half-expecting her next breath to turn the entire town into frogs. The crowd murmured in agreement, shifting uncomfortably, their fear feeding off his words. The absurdity of the moment wasn’t lost on Bones, who had now positioned himself near the front, watching with growing amusement. He took a slow draw from his pipe, wondering just how far this farce would go before it all fell apart.
But if the magistrate thought his warning would silence her, he was sorely mistaken. The woman’s green eyes blazed with fury as she tugged against her bindings, leaning forward as much as the ropes would allow. “Quiet? Ye burned my house to the ground, ye bastards!” she yelled, her voice ringing out over the square with a raw, defiant edge. “And for what? For naught but fear and ignorance! Ye killed my dog, too—he was more loyal than any of ye’ll ever be!” Her words lashed at the crowd, who recoiled slightly, guilt flickering on a few faces before being drowned out by the mob’s growing frenzy. Bones couldn’t help but feel a spark of admiration for her as she raged against the injustice, even with a noose practically hanging over her. He glanced at the magistrate, whose face was a shade of red that seemed to deepen with each defiant word she spat.
The crowd surged forward as the headsman, a hulking figure with a black hood masking his face, stepped up behind her. He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders, forcing her down to her knees in front of the crude wooden block. The heavy thud of her body hitting the platform sent a ripple through the square. Bones’ eyes narrowed as he watched the scene unfold, his hand tightening around the shaft of his shillelagh. The magistrate, looking all too pleased with himself, puffed out his chest and raised the parchment in his hand, his voice booming with the kind of self-importance that only comes with unchecked power. “For the crime of witchcraft, for casting spells on men of good faith and for disturbing the peace of this good town, you are hereby sentenced to death by execution!” His words echoed through the square, met by a mixture of murmurs and cheers from the crowd. The magistrate stood tall, a smug smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, as if this farce of justice was his crowning achievement.
Bones acted fast, his mind racing as the magistrate’s pompous voice droned on. Without drawing attention, he lowered his shillelagh to the ground, dragging the tip through the dirt in a swift, deliberate motion. The sigil he carved was simple, something he’d used before, but here in the midst of this farce, it was about to do some real work. With one last glance at the crowd, Bones spat into the center of the sigil, muttering under his breath, “mist.” The reaction was immediate. A thick, rolling fog began to spill out from the mark, curling up from the ground like ghostly fingers, enveloping the platform and quickly spreading into the square. The crowd gasped in stunned confusion, some of them shouting in alarm as the dense fog swallowed them whole. Bones allowed himself a small, satisfied smirk as he straightened, gripping his staff tightly. “Let’s see you blame this on her,” he muttered to himself, watching the scene dissolve into chaos.
Bones wasted no time. As the thick fog swirled around him, cloaking the square in confusion, he hurried toward the platform. The crowd was too disoriented to notice as he slipped through the mist, reaching the girl’s side. She was still on her knees by the block, her fierce green eyes wide with shock at the sudden turn of events. Without a word, Bones knelt beside her, grabbed her arm, and whispered, “Hold still.” With a quick flick of his wrist, he brought the pipe to the ropes binding her wrists, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. The smoke burst into a small, controlled flame, licking through the ropes and burning them away in an instant. The girl stared at him in stunned silence, her arms now free, as the fog thickened around them, muffling the chaos of the crowd. “Let’s get out of here,” Bones muttered, pulling her to her feet.
Keeping low, Bones pulled the girl into the chaos, guiding her through the panicked, blind crowd as the fog wrapped itself around them like a living thing. The mob stumbled over one another, shouting in confusion, their fear only feeding into the thick, disorienting mist. Bones knew they had only moments before someone regained enough sense to start searching. Quickly, he muttered another incantation under his breath, tapping his temple with two fingers. Instantly, his vision cleared, cutting through the fog like it wasn’t even there. “This way,” he whispered, taking her hand firmly in his own. “Stay low.” They half-crawled through the mess, Bones expertly guiding her through the gaps between flailing arms and staggering bodies. The girl clutched his hand, bewildered but trusting, as they moved silently through the crowd, like shadows slipping past the madness.
They finally reached the edge of the fog, the dense mist thinning just enough for Bones to see the open road ahead. He glanced over his shoulder, the panicked voices of the crowd still echoing behind them, then turned to the girl, her chest rising and falling as she caught her breath. “Alright,” he whispered urgently, squeezing her hand one last time before letting go. “You’re gonna run for the tree line. Don’t look back, don’t slow down. Just make it to the forest’s edge, and I’ll be right behind you.” Her wide eyes met his, still blazing with that fierce defiance, but she nodded, understanding the gravity of the moment. Bones gave her a quick nod, scanning the surrounding area one last time. “Go. Now.”
As the girl bolted toward the trees, Bones turned back to the square, raising his pipe to his lips. He took a deep drag, letting the smoke curl inside his chest before whispering softly into the fog, “Sleep.” The word slipped from his mouth, carried by a thin trail of smoke that swirled and twisted as it mixed with the dense mist. Almost instantly, the spell spread, moving through the fog like a gentle breeze, wrapping itself around the townsfolk still stumbling in confusion. Bones watched as the first of them yawned, their eyes growing heavy, limbs sagging under the weight of the enchantment. One by one, they began to lower themselves to the ground, some curling up on the cobblestones as if it were a bed, others leaning against walls, eyes fluttering shut. The whole square fell into a strange, sleepy silence, the once panicked mob now yawning and drifting off into a deep, peaceful slumber.
With the town falling into a quiet slumber behind him, Bones turned and made his way toward the tree line where the girl had disappeared moments earlier. His pace was slower now, unhurried, as he let the calm of the woods welcome him. The soft rustle of leaves and the cool, earthy scent of the forest washed over him, a sharp contrast to the chaos he’d just left behind. The fog still lingered at his back, but he felt no need to rush. The girl was safe for now, and the townsfolk were all tucked into a magical sleep. He tucked his pipe away and adjusted the grip on his shillelagh as he entered the shadowy embrace of the trees, the stillness of the woods drawing him deeper in with each step.
The woods were dense, with tangled thickets and brambles clawing at their clothes as they pushed deeper into the forest. The ground was uneven, roots twisting up from the earth like the gnarled fingers of ancient trees, forcing them to step carefully with each move. Branches snagged at their sleeves, and the underbrush rustled with unseen creatures darting out of their path. Bones could hear the girl breathing heavily just ahead of him, her pace steady but weary as they navigated the wild maze of the forest. His shillelagh came down hard with each step, pushing back the low-hanging branches that blocked their way, the cool air sharp with the smell of pine and damp earth. The canopy above them was thick, the light filtering through in patches as they moved through the shadows, their path unclear but away from the town—away from danger.
After a few minutes of trudging through the tangled underbrush, Bones slowed his pace, glancing around the dense, unfamiliar forest. The woods stretched endlessly in every direction, and for a moment, the thought hit him—he had no idea where he was going. With a sigh, he stopped and rubbed the back of his neck, his face flushing slightly with embarrassment. He cleared his throat, and with as much casualness as he could muster, asked, “Uh, hate to admit it, but... you wouldn’t happen to know which way the abbey is, would you?” He glanced over at her, his eyes catching hers as she paused and turned to face him, one eyebrow arched, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.
She stopped, turning to face him fully, her lips curling into a smirk as a soft chuckle escaped her. “All that,” she said, gesturing back in the direction of the town, “and you want to go to a church?” Her green eyes sparkled with a mix of amusement and disbelief. “Are you sure that’s the best idea? Doesn’t seem like the safest place for someone who just stirred up a crowd with a bit of magic.” She crossed her arms, leaning slightly against a nearby tree, her fiery spirit showing through even in the aftermath of their escape. Bones shrugged, scratching at his chin, trying not to let the grin forming on his face show too much. “Well, let’s just say my options are limited right now.”
Bones raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening as he leaned casually on his shillelagh. “Well, we could always head back to your house,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm, “or, I’ve got a perfectly fine carriage back at the abbey. We can hitch up Mercades and get out of Dodge.” He paused, glancing at her with a playful glint in his eye. “You’re welcome to come along, of course. Can’t say I’m much for company, but I figure you’ve had enough of this charming town for one lifetime.” His offer hung in the air for a moment, as he let the humor of the situation settle between them, hoping to lighten the tension that had followed them into the woods.
She froze, her eyes narrowing into a cold glare that cut through the playful tone Bones had tried to set. For a long moment, she said nothing, the weight of her stare making it clear that any joke about her burned-down home was far from amusing. Bones shifted slightly under the intensity of her gaze, realizing he might’ve pushed too far. Finally, with a sharp exhale, she turned on her heel, muttering, “Abbey’s this way.” Without another word, she stepped past him, taking the lead through the brambles and thick undergrowth, her movements quick and purposeful, as if to make it clear that she wasn’t in the mood for any more jokes.
They moved in silence for a while, the only sounds being the crunch of leaves and the snap of twigs beneath their feet. The woods grew less dense as they pushed on, the thickets thinning and the underbrush giving way to a clearer path. After what felt like an eternity of weaving through trees and brambles, the ancient stone walls of the abbey finally came into sight, rising from the mist like a sanctuary in the middle of nowhere. The towering structure loomed ahead, its weathered stone dark against the pale sky, the spires reaching up like fingers grasping for the heavens. Bones exhaled in relief, his eyes scanning the familiar outline of the monastery as they approached. “There it is,” he muttered, half to himself, the tension from their hurried escape starting to ease as the sight of safety came into view.
The carriage was still parked out front, just where Bones had left it, its plain exterior giving no hint of the magic inside. After a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching, he motioned for her to follow. “Come on,” he whispered, leading her to the carriage door. With a soft creak, he swung it open, the spacious interior briefly revealed to her wide eyes. “Wait inside,” Bones said, his voice low but firm. “I’ll see to Mercades, get her hitched up. Shouldn’t take long.” He gave her a reassuring nod before stepping back, waiting for her to enter. “You’ll be safe here.”
Just before he turned to head for Mercades, Bones paused at the door, glancing back at her. “I’m Turner, by the way,” he said casually, his eyes flicking to meet hers. “But everyone just calls me Rev Bones.” The girl, still standing in the open doorway, was wide-eyed as she stared in disbelief at the impossibly large interior of the carriage. The rich wooden shelves, the plush seating, and the strange assortment of items scattered inside seemed far too grand for such a modest exterior. She blinked, momentarily stunned, before a flutter of wings passed just over her shoulder as Google swooped into the carriage, settling on one of the higher shelves. She glanced at the bird, then back at Bones, stuttering, “I... I’m Teagan.” Her voice was soft, still tinged with amazement at the space inside.
Bones gave her a quick nod, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Nice to meet you, Teagan,” he said, his tone light but urgent. “Now, get inside. We’ve gotta get outta here before anyone catches wind of this.” He jerked his thumb toward the interior of the carriage, his gaze shifting briefly over his shoulder to check the abbey grounds. “I’ll be right back,” he added, his voice steady but with the unmistakable edge of urgency. “Just make yourself at home.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned and strode off toward Mercades, leaving Teagan still marveling at the interior as she stepped cautiously inside.
Bones made his way quickly across the abbey grounds, his steps steady but his mind racing. The stable was quiet, the soft sounds of snuffling and shuffling hooves the only indication that the horses were resting inside. He slipped through the stable doors, the scent of hay and leather filling the air as he approached Mercades, who was lazily chewing on some straw. “Alright, girl,” he muttered, patting her golden coat as she lifted her head. “Time to get moving.” With practiced ease, Bones gathered the reins and began leading her out of the stall, her hooves clopping softly against the stone floor. He glanced around once more, making sure the monks were still busy elsewhere. So far, no one seemed to have noticed their arrival—or their pending departure.
As Bones led Mercades to the front of the carriage, he paused, staring at the pile of harness gear with a growing sense of confusion. He realized, with no small amount of embarrassment, that he had absolutely no idea how to hitch a horse properly. He scratched his head, glancing between Mercades and the carriage, trying to piece together where everything was supposed to go. Before he could even think of what to do next, the gear seemed to come alive. Straps slithered up from the ground, growing out of the carriage itself, winding their way around Mercades with a fluid, graceful motion. The harness fastened itself in place, buckles clicking and tightening as though guided by an unseen hand. Bones stepped back, watching as the reins slipped neatly into position, the entire setup coming together in a matter of moments. He let out a low whistle, shaking his head in amazement. “Well, that’s one less problem,” he muttered, patting Mercades on the neck as if this sort of thing happened every day.
With Mercades harnessed and ready, Bones climbed up onto the driver's seat, settling in with a satisfied grunt. He snapped the reins with a practiced flick, and the golden mare began to trot forward, the carriage rolling smoothly behind them. As they picked up speed along the dirt road, the trees and distant hills slowly faded into a blur, the sound of the wheels creaking beneath him a steady rhythm in the quiet air. Bones reached into his coat pocket, pulling out his long-stemmed pipe and packing it with a pinch of green herb, his thoughts already drifting to the next step. He struck a match, lighting the pipe as the smoke curled lazily around him, blending with the mist that still clung to the trees. “Onward,” he muttered, a smirk tugging at his lips as the road stretched out before them. The carriage rumbled on into the distance, leaving the chaos of the town far behind as they disappeared down the winding road.
