The moon was in the early stages of being a waxing gibbous. Enough light to see the road, contrasted by the dark and foreboding forest at his side. His steps were light, and his spirit was surprisingly light. I wonder why?
Given that his mother was dead, and Bertrand was likely in chains or worse, Marc should have been a sobbing mess. A part of him did want to drop to his knees and beg for God to take him, but this was also the most freedom he ever had.
“I’m going on an adventure,” Marc whispered, worried that talking out loud would—
“Halt!” a man ordered.
Disclaimer: This excerpt from Man of War is currently in development. There may be typos, errors, omissions, inconsistencies and so forth.
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