Take a break, Robert

Morning arrived shrouded in mist. Light crept reluctantly across the Highlands, hesitant to dispel the heavy shadows left by the night.

I sat on the edge of my cot, staring at the charm the hermit had given me the night before. Its rough edges and crude etchings felt heavier than they should, as if they bore an unspoken burden.

The man's words echoed in my mind, looping endlessly.

"There is a cost for taking what is not yours."

I tried to shake it off, but the warning clung to me like the mist outside soon would.

I thought about the ghostly presence intruding on my presence last night, and the unease seeped in. Maybe I shouldn't wish for excitement in my life after all?

"Robert, you're wound tighter than a spring," Hamish said, leaning against the doorway of my tent with his arms crossed.

"Why don't you take a trip into Kilrain? Get yourself a meal and maybe a stiff drink. Clear your head."

I looked up from where I sat, the charm resting in my palm.

"You think a snack is going to fix all this?"

I gestured at myself and the dig site in the distance, half-hidden by fog.

Hamish shrugged.

"It'll fix you, mate. You're no good to the dig if you're obsessing like this. Go on. The work will still be here when you get back."

Reluctantly, I nodded. Maybe he was right. A change of scenery might help.

"Fine. But if anything big happens while I'm gone, you owe me a pint."

Hamish grinned.

"Deal."

Kilrain lay nestled at the foot of the hills, its stone cottages and winding streets exuding a quiet charm. The air brimmed with the scent of peat smoke and fresh bread, a comforting counterpoint to the heavy foreboding back at the dig site.

I wandered into the main square as Kilrain's daily life unfolded. A young woman, no older than eighteen, hauled a basket of laundry across a small yard, her bare feet brushing damp grass. Auburn hair shimmered in the morning light, but she moved as if she wanted no attention.

She hummed softly, a tentative melody that faltered whenever anyone passed. Something about her quiet rhythm drew me in, a fragile serenity amid the bustle.

Further down, the council building stood proudly at the village center, its weathered stone and trimmed hedges reflecting Kilrain's enduring tradition. An iron plaque reading "Kilrain Council Hall" caught my eye, its surface polished by years of care.

Inside, I imagined leaders debating livestock quotas and festival plans, voices raised in passionate argument. The place radiated a reverence for time.

Nearby, the market buzzed with chatter, vendors calling out their wares, and children darting among stalls. A woman selling scarves waved toward her table, while a butcher handed out samples of cured meat with a wide grin.

A constable strolled by, chatting casually with a baker, his uniform a reassuring reminder of order in this quiet corner of the Highlands. Coins clinked, and occasional laughter rose in the warm hum of village life.

Drawn by the aroma of fried pastries, I stopped at a street vendor's stall. The older man behind it smiled kindly and handed me a steaming meat pie wrapped in paper.

"Soda to wash it down?" he asked, gesturing to the colorful bottles stacked beside him.

"Aye, why not?" I said. My first bite of pie was pure comfort: crispy crust, savory filling, and the warmth of something freshly cooked. The soda stung a bit as I drank, but its sweetness was refreshing.

I leaned against a wooden post and let Kilrain's rhythm wash over me. For the first time in days, a sliver of peace crept into my thoughts.

The calm didn't last. As the streets quieted, a persistent unease settled in my mind like an unwelcome guest. I made my way down a narrow cobbled path, the charm secured in my pocket.

The air felt heavier, as though the mist carried more than water. Rounding a corner, I froze as a figure stepped from the shadows and blocked my path.

The man stood tall, his dark coat and scarf hiding most of his face. His eyes, cold and piercing, gleamed with a predatory sharpness that pinned me in place.

"Robert MacCallum," he said, his voice dark and threatening. The edge in every word quickened my pulse.

"You're trespassing."

My heart thudded, but I forced a calm demeanor.

"Can I help you with something?"

He didn't flinch.

"You're interfering with matters you don't comprehend, things hidden for a reason. Leave them alone."

His words hit like a hammer. I nearly dismissed him as a local zealot, but his accent was American, and his stance suggested something else.

"Look. I'm an archaeologist," I said.

"Digging things up is my job."

He stepped closer, voice dropping to a growl.

"Some things aren't meant to be disturbed. Walk away now, MacCallum, or you'll regret it."

Before I could react, his hand clamped onto my shoulder like a vice. With a single shove, he slammed me backward into the wall, knocking the breath from my lungs.

My boots scraped cobblestones as I fought for balance, anger surging in my veins. I twisted free, drove my elbow into his ribs, and shoved him with all my strength.

He staggered but pivoted gracefully, every movement unnervingly controlled. He smirked faintly and lunged again, his hands clawing for my throat.

I ducked low, sweeping a leg to knock him off balance. He stumbled, then recovered with a darkening expression.

"You've got fight in you," he growled. "But you're out of your depth."

I raised my fists, knuckles white.

"Try me."

He darted forward, throwing a jab I barely avoided, the force whistling past my ear. I countered with a wild swing, catching him in the shoulder.

He grunted but grabbed my wrist in a vice-like grip. I tried driving my knee into his stomach, but his other hand caught and redirected me with ease.

I swung wildly to break free, but his fist slammed into my jaw, sending me stumbling. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth as my head snapped sideways. Another shove sent me sprawling onto the cobblestones.

Stone scraped my palms, and a sharp sting warned of a bloody nose as I struggled to stand.

"Pathetic," he sneered, voice dripping with contempt.

I got a knee under me, but he grabbed my collar and slammed me into the wall. My vision blurred as his grip tightened, stealing my breath.

"You don't know when to quit, do you?" he growled. His knuckles brushed my cheek in a silent threat.

Desperation flared. I lashed out with my knee, weak and frantic, pushing him back only half a step.

I dropped to the ground again, wheezing and clutching my sides. He stared down; his cold, predatory gaze wounded me more than any blow.

"You don't belong here, MacCallum. Consider this your last warning. Stay out of what doesn't concern you."

"Who the hell are you?" I demanded. "And why do you care what I dig up?"

He gave no direct answer, his smirk fading into a grim expression.

"Consider this a warning," he said, his tone turning colder.

"Your life isn't meant for this path. Turn back."

He vanished into the mist without another word, as though he had never been there. I stood, chest heaving, thoughts tangled in anger and confusion.

Something about him felt wrong, a threat I couldn't ignore. I tightened my hold on the charm in my pocket, its rough surface grounding me.

My jaw clenched as I headed back toward the square.

"You want me to stop?" I muttered.

"I'll show you what threats get you."