Title: The Scourge of Demon Metal - Winter of Ghosts 5
Series: Children of Nall Multi Timeline Series #5, Dubric - Grimdark Writer's Cut #5, Winter of Ghosts #5
Published by: TamboWrites
Release Date: April 14, 2020
Contributors: Tambo Jones (author), Michelle Maakestad (illustrator)
Genre: Grimdark Fantasy
Pages: 128
ISBN13: 978-1951023126
ASIN: B081C3DVND

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The castle slasher is dead, killed by Risley Romlin to save his beloved Nella, but Castellan Dubric finds more death in the slasher’s secluded lair along with a terrifying corruption, a substance so vile none but the corrupted can look upon it, let alone touch it. He knows someone else has been killing and collecting death in ways he hasn’t seen since The War. Someone who corrupted the castle slasher. Someone who wields the scourge of Demon Metal.
Meanwhile, Risley’s taken Nella to the nearby village of Klinder to rest and heal and plan their future together. They think it’s quiet and safe, but they soon learn the killing’s not over, not yet.
Because this new threat is in the village, watching the young couple and the soldier assisting them. He has a score to settle and Dubric’s too far away to stop him this time.

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CHAPTER 1
Risley opened his eyes to their rented room and the soft warmth of Nella’s skin against him. She curled close, her head nestled on his shoulder and her bandaged right hand on his belly. Her scent, the weight of her in his arms, brought him a familiar tightening in his groin and a quickening of his heart, but he closed his eyes for a moment and locked himself under control.
Yes, she was naked and warm, and yes, they lay together in a private room—the very situation he’d dreamt of for phases—but he dare not succumb to weakness, not yet. Not until she healed. He calmed himself as he held her and listened to her ragged breathing.
Her breaths sounded slow and labored as if she had to work to take every long, drawn-out gasp, but he heard no rattle, no gurgling. He kissed her forehead and thanked the Goddess her lungs hadn’t been punctured. Broken ribs would heal in time but a torn lung meant death. He watched her sleep and frowned at dark splotches blossoming over her face and chest. They too would heal, the visible bruises at least, but he worried about the injuries he couldn’t see, the marks on her soul. How could he help her heal those? Could he do anything at all?
Beckwith had violated her, had her, even if he had not raped her, and Risley wished to kill the beast a thousand times more. He’d heard of women who had become afraid of men after similar attacks and he prayed that fate would not befall his Nella. She had felt so warm and alive in his arms the night before, so precious, the complement to his soul, and it terrified him to imagine her timid and afraid. As he held her close and prayed she would not fear his touch, he knew he decided to be patient, not rush their closeness, and wait for her above all else. Her safety and happiness were far more important than his carnal desires. More important than her naked skin beneath his hands or her breasts pressed against his chest.
Risley groaned silently and closed his eyes, thinking instead of shoeing his horses or mucking their stalls until he calmed.
While he worried over her mental and spiritual well-being—and how many tortuous moons he’d have to restrain himself—his belly rumbled. He’d had dinner the night before, and had not a bite to eat or drink since. She hadn’t either. He made a mental note to get her something to eat as soon as she woke, and he smiled. As deep as she seemed to be sleeping, it might be some time until then, and he couldn’t blame her for that. Goddess only knew what all she’d been through, and she had lost so much blood. She needed sleep to heal. Sleep and time.
He smiled again. All roads led to Nella, it seemed. Anything he envisioned drew him back to her. He sighed and held her. Still worried, he also felt content. They were finally together, alone, snuggled close and warm, and she was safe. They had nowhere to rush to and nothing to do or deal with. They could stay here, curled together napping and healing on this very bed, for as long as they needed to.
Or at least until she was well enough for him to take her home.
Home.
He considered what home now meant to him. Was home Haenpar? His parent’s manor? A place of his own. Of... of their own?
Smiling, he whispered her name into her hair. He knew exactly what home meant. Home was anywhere she happened to be, any place he might reach out to touch her or see the light shining in her eyes. He’d leave the location of home up to her, as long as she came with it. If she wanted to live in a tent out in a sheep pasture, then that’s what they’d do. An apartment in Waterford, a shack in Pyrinn, or right here in this inn. Anywhere at all, as long as they were together.
Until Nella, he had never understood how his Da gave up the throne of Lagiern and never looked back. But as Risley stroked her hair and marveled at how it shone in the afternoon sun, he understood perfectly. He too would toss it all aside, become a farmer or a fisherman or a beggar if he needed to. Just to come home to her and nap beside her on a sunny day.
He closed his eyes and reached again for sleep. Goddess, he was exhausted, but the sun shone in his face and he hated to roll over and disturb her. He opened his eyes after a few moments and frowned at the dim window. It had been late morning when they had reached the inn and had fallen asleep no later than lunchtime. It couldn’t be late afternoon already, could it?
If it was nearly evening, where was Aswin? Where was Gleen?