All the Dark Souls, #1 by A. M. Dunnewin

Author:A. M. Dunnewin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: dark fantasy, gothic fiction, gothic romance, action adventure, epic fantasy, executioner, assassin
Publisher: Dark Hour Press, LLC
Published: 2022-11-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

The amount of time it took Aric to get out of bed was an embarrassment, in his own opinion. He didn’t land on the floor again, which was at least a small victory, given how long he allowed himself to be doted over. Normally, he would have been on his feet a day later, always a man who needed to be on the move. However, he had to admit that this beating was the worst he had endured, and healing was taking longer than expected. It also didn’t help that one of his caretakers was cute.

Limping his way past the doorframe of his room, he made his way back to the table, thinking it a good distance to practice with. His ribs still ached, though not so terribly, and while the pain seemed inevitable, he realized that part of him could still function through it. What helped was that he had a goal now: to make it to the table for the second time that day before returning to the bedroom. Focusing on trying to get his stamina up helped, as well as the memory of the Mask and how easily he found the cottage.

Reaching the table, he leaned against it like he’d done before, breathing through the aches and pains. Trying to focus on anything else, he looked around the room, noting again the fireplace and cauldron in the kitchen, drying herbs suspended upside down, and the jars upon jars of only God knew what on the rows of shelves and possibly behind those cupboard doors. He could see the large risen basin with its curved facet just right of the smaller hearth.

Next to the kitchen was the staircase, and a door hidden underneath which he assumed was the pantry. He noticed that the staircase created a hallway on the other side with two more rooms positioned next to his. Admittedly, he had already hobbled over to see them. The farthest door led into a bare bedroom similar to his. The middle door led to a water closet with a standard toilet, sink, and mirror, along with a wood-burning furnace in the corner that heated water which fed into the porcelain bathtub by way of the pipes. This was just another oddity that dated the cottage, next to the lack of electricity.

He looked to his left then, seeing the two worn plush chairs facing the cold hearth, more shelves lining the wall, these ones filled with books. A roll top desk sat under the window next to the front door, and Aric found himself drawn to it.

Past experiences told him that people often kept their livelihood in desks, their expenses and corresponding letters telling a story that would often reveal the character of the owner. He rummaged through desks like this before, mainly to get a sense of his target so he could do his job more efficiently. Places they traveled, people they spoke to, money they spent—everyone seemed to build their lives into schedules, little maps that showed Aric when to strike.

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