I wrote a blog about my return to horses but my computer has hidden it from me so I'd like to pose a question instead. Below is the beginning of my new WIP. Is this too much scene setting for a romance or does it read more like a fantasy?
The final morning in April, night grudgingly faded to gray, and there took an icy stand against daybreak. The melancholy day, restless with the floating shadows of clouds, was short-lived. Long before the evening hour, torches smoked and flickered in the drafty passages of the castle. I smelled the storm brewing on the horizon, but fair weather or foul, from sundown to sunrise, the Demon Wind howled its lament, whispered through cracks in the stone walls, whipped up dust devils on the floors, ruffled heavy velvet curtains and wool tapestries. Whimsical gusts toyed with the hems of women’s skirts. The wind caused candles to flicker, fires to gutter and stirred ghostly shadows. An unquiet spirit, the Demon Wind, haunted the Castle Kharsag.
The Demon Wind had been born the night the King murdered my brother. Sometimes I wished we had all perished to the sword. Many were the nights I dreamed of murdering my brothers and sister in their sleep. If we’d died as babes, we might have become a legend. But we had not died, and most people considered our survival a great tragedy.
As a child, I couldn’t understand why having wings made me a freak. As an adult, I understood perfectly. The lesson had been shackled to my feet and chained to my wrists.