Etched Intent
Book One of the Personal Verdict Series
a novella by Reyus Mammadli
Chapter 1. Mr. Green
Blackwood was a village buried deep in the northern woods of North America, long hardened by merciless winters. But the cold here wasn’t just weather — it was something alive, something with claws. It wormed under your skin, gnawed at your bones, and left your soul brittle. The crunch of snow under boots, the crackle of firewood in the stove, the wind’s mournful howl — these weren’t just sounds, but scars. Worn like battle marks on an old wolf.
The people of Blackwood didn’t remember that winter for its snow. Not for the whiteness. They remembered the crimson it left behind.
Billy, the blacksmith’s ten-year-old boy, was heading to Mr. Green’s stable, clutching a piece of bread in his hand, tucked into his coat pocket — a peace offering for Bruno, the dog he trusted more than half the folks in the village. The sheepskin coat hung off him, sleeves flopping over bony wrists like a shed skin. He didn’t care. His thoughts were on Bruno, on the nudge of a wet nose against his palm. He didn’t know the dog was already stiff — just as stiff as his master. The bread would stay in his pocket.
Billy slowed when he saw the stable door ajar. Bruno might come running. But nothing moved. He called for the dog as he stepped closer, and paused at the threshold, peeking inside.
Sunlight off the snow had left his eyes half-blind, and it took a moment for them to adjust to the stable’s gloom. That moment of blindness might have spared him the full horror — for a heartbeat.
On the damp, reeking ground, littered with dung and straw, a body lay. The head was twisted at a grotesque angle, like a puppet tossed aside. And for good reason — the neck had been nearly severed. Blood and muck smeared the face. His eyes, still open, stared into a dark corner where mice rustled. Blood had soaked the coat’s collar and pooled thick and dark on the floor. A fur cap lay nearby, flung aside like garbage.
A scythe lay not far from the body. The blade stained dark red, not fresh, not dry — a murder weapon that seemed to recoil from its own act. The horses fidgeted and stamped, nostrils flaring, hooves clattering against the floor. They knew something foul had happened in the night.
Billy didn’t study the scene. The moment he saw Mr. Green lying like that, he turned and ran. He ran like he could outrun the image seared into his mind — snowdrift by snowdrift, tree by tree. He only stopped when he burst through the smithy door, lungs on fire. His father looked up, saw the pale face, and nodded for him to speak.
“Pa… Mr. Green… he’s…” The words came small, distant. “He’s dead. In the stable.”
Frank Harrison — tall and hard as the anvil he worked — didn’t move at first. Then he knelt.
“You sure, Billy?”
Billy nodded. Frank saw it — not fear, but something colder. A truth seen too soon. He put both hands on the boy’s shoulders.
“You did right, son. Telling me first. That’s what a man does.”
Billy sniffled and nodded. The words sank deep. Frank’s heart was heavy, but he hid it well. Just last night he and Jacob had spoken like always. Now…
He walked Billy back to the house near the forge. Told his wife what had happened, how to handle the boy. Praised Billy again. Told her to bake something the boy liked.
“Strong men eat well,” he said with a wink.
That wink took effort. But the boy, calm and upright, was holding fast. Frank left.
He had to see for himself.
He rode hard to the stable, dismounted, stepped inside — and stopped cold.
Jacob’s head hung by a strip of flesh, swinging like a butcher’s bird. Frank let out a breath that came up from his boots. Now he knew what his boy had seen. No doubt about it — Jacob Green was gone. Murdered.
He turned and stepped outside. Blackwood was waking. Folks moved toward the well. A mare pulled a sled into the woods. Distant voices drifted through the frozen hush.
Frank looked to the nearest house — the elder’s. Patrick Stones. He went straight there. The old man opened the door.
“Morning, Mr. Stones.”
Like most in Blackwood, Frank respected the man whose parents had helped raise the village out of the forest.
Patrick was nearing sixty, but still wiry and bright-eyed. Beekeeping had kept him sound.
“Morning, Frank!” Patrick squinted at him. “What’s wrong?”
“Jacob Green’s been killed. In the stable.”
The words landed like stone.
“I figured you ought to know, sir.”
Patrick gave a quiet nod. A voice called from inside:
“Is someone here, Patrick?”
He waved it off gently.
“Mrs. Green…” he murmured.
He looked up.
“I’ll send Martha to sit with her. You tell Jeff.”
Frank nodded toward his horse.
“I was heading there.”
Patrick stepped out and looked around. There hadn’t been a murder in Blackwood in years.
“Tell him to come see me after,” he said with a soft, sad smile.
Frank nodded. That was all.
He mounted up and rode toward the sheriff’s place. As he passed neighbors, he didn’t hide the truth. Word spread like a snow squall through Blackwood. It clung to people like frost. This was no ordinary morning. And before long, they all began to gather at Mr. Green’s stable.