DECKARD'S POV
The tyres scrunched over gravel as he steered around the front yard of the house.
House. Not his home.
Three days. Three days since they'd left for Wyvernia but yet he didn't entertain the urge to drop in for a minute or two.
She wasn't in there. The house looked and felt empty without her.
Besides, he didn't drive the over two hour journey back to Frostone in half that time to seek familiar comforts.
He veered around the back of the property and down a narrow road to the old farmhouse tucked just outside the woods.
More like ancient farmhouse than old. Though the stone walls and roofings remained in good condition.
Sheeps and goats used to graze the surrounding bushes. Chickens had filled the roosting pens round the corner. He recalled greyhounds too. Two of them.
That was until his father turned it into a stronghold for prisoners and overzealous rebels. Dug out a basement, installed barred cells, and called it the dungeons.
