Hawke Sigeward Book One:The Dagger
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His expansive yard stretched out before him, a lush expanse of vibrant green grass punctuated by the graceful presence of two birch trees standing sentinel-like on the landscape. The white exterior of his house mirrored the color of his hair, lending the scene an almost surreal symmetry.
But as Hawke ascended the steps to his porch, a sense of unease settled over him like a heavy fog. There, staining the pristine white of the steps, was a trail of brownish-red, sticky substance. Instinctively, he reached out to touch it, his fingers recoiling at the metallic smell that greeted him. With dawning horror, he realized the truth: blood.
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