Shade of Destiny (The Foreseeing) by Shannon M Yarnold Page A

Wynn had not been branded as the Master’s property. It was a custom that the Master had introduced a decade ago, every servant had a circle on their throat, to show they had no independence of their own, no voice other than that of the Master and their life of servitude was everlasting. The circle could be imprinted on the skin in only one way and the Master found much amusement in his tool, the dagger he kept sheathed on his belt. The scar took away a person’s identity, everything about them that made them who they were. They became property. The servants had all taken to wearing a scarf when the Master was not around, in an attempt to hide the scar and take back some control. And even though the scar marked them, it offered protection, in an ironic way, from those of the town and of the army. If any man other than the Master touched a servant bearing the scar, without permission, it meant a lashing and so Wynn was even more vulnerable than usual, for being unmarked it showed those of the town she belonged to no one and was there for the taking.    
         Wynn shuddered at the thought of the knife and the double edge it offered, protection from men – once she was marked no other man could touch her – and yet it was a permanent binding to the one man she wished more than anything she could be protected from. She had never questioned her unmarked skin, for she had hoped foolishly that the Master had merely forgotten about her, or that he loved her beauty enough not to cut her. Wynn knew it was yet another reason the maids disliked her; not be branded was unheard of. She thought of some of the girls, and how the Master had slipped when cutting the circle, and severed their vocal cords. They had been mute for years, and they were the people that gave Wynn the coldest looks.
         The army were laughing noisily in their respective positions throughout the town when Wynn entered the square and was interrupted from her thoughts. The tavern, situated to her left was alive with sound; shouts of anger and passionate glee echoed around the town. Wynn looked at the sun to check the time, finding that it was not even midday. She shook her head in disgust at the drunken soldiers; abuse of alcohol had never been high on Wynn’s list of desires, anything that could enhance the forcefulness, desires and violent natures of men was something she avoided at all costs.
         Walking with purpose she headed into the bustle of the town, allowing it to swallow her in its routine, ignoring the memory that threatened to bubble, she had seen this square before but it was only in her dreams when it transformed into something fearful.
         The night air was thick with fear, something was happening in the town. The windows in the cottages were black, like closed eyes, and the night offered no more than a silver haze of light. The lanterns had blown out yet the silver light illuminated the massacre well enough. Bodies were piled high, a mess of limbs and gore. There was no pattern to the way the corpses lay; it was as though they had all dropped to the ground atop of each other in the same instant. The air stank of blood, men, woman and children, all ages and genders stared out into the night with cold, dead eyes. Yet, somehow, the pile of bodies was not the most sickening sight, the things that guarded them, arms crossed malevolently, were easily the most disgusting and atrocious crime against mankind. Something that had once been human, their faces were decaying, skin hung from their cheeks exposing yellow, broken teeth. Clumps of hair grew on their decomposing scalp and the remains of clothes clung to their skeletal frame. Soulless, rotting bodies that should, by all rational reasoning, be dead yet instead they watched over the bodies, arms crossed, waiting.
         Wynn felt the bile rise in her throat and instead focused on the wives, daughters and mothers frequented the square, spending their hard earned money on food