Prologue
I don’t consider myself an angry person, but nothing sours my mood like blood stains ruining a perfectly good tunic. Though I shouldn’t be that upset; I do have a closet of them back home. But the damp and unsalvageable one clinging to me now was a favorite.
Before it was soaked in the smell of rotting iron.
In fact, everything is steeped in the stench of loss. It’s filling every crevice of the wet stones around us, knotting my stomach as I push down feelings I’d rather not name.
Because I am the cause of this death and destruction. By my own hand—I am the chaos.
Dying witches lay around me, sputtering and spewing their last moments. My fingers are shaking in a violent chatter, I’m certain you can see the nausea on my face.
It's almost over. I remind myself, not looking into their bleeding wounds or hazy eyes.
It’s almost over. It’s cost you everything, but it’s finally almost over.
Truthfully, I’ve spent far too long tracking the rogue fledglings—nearly five days. Five days of trading my silk bed sheets for sleeping on branches and pine needles. Of swallowing down nuts or wild fruit instead of savoring my usual hot meals.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the lush green forest. And alone time. A heap of alone time. As much of it as I can get.
But even a grumpy introvert grows restless in the isolation. Especially if you’ve been tasked with hunting down rogue witches by your lethal ruler.
Which I have been.
At first, I was eager to leave my coven and enjoy the solitude, despite the heinous task that came with it. At first, this didn’t seem so bad.
But now—I’m just pissed. And wet. And willing to do just about anything to wash the grime down. Even if it means returning to my mother.
My mother.
Thinking of her sends a prickle through my neck. It’s not like she would ever leave the comfort of her capital, her cushy manor, to deal with the traitors. Not when she could just send her own death incarnate heir in her place.
Doing Mother’s dirty work is something I’ve grown used to. After a century, you stop asking questions. Especially when you know the Coven Crown would rather bite through her tongue than share anything important with her own daughter.
But even if she’s ruthless, she's not impractical. Whatever the witches did, it must have been a heavy threat. Malvolia doesn’t end her coven member’s lives without reason. Not when our own numbers remain so low. And the magic remains diluted.
Ruthless, but not an idiot.
Unfortunately, I’ll assure my mother that her traitors have been dealt with, though the slits opening their necks and their shaky fingers make my throat go bone dry.
Don’t look.
I focus on my lungs instead. Filling them with air, releasing it back out. Again. And again.
With an even breath, I step over the tribe of bodies and put their fading pleas in the back corner of my mind. I’m busy locking them in the dusty depths of everything bad as a chill trembles through the air. Rain lightly falls against my sleek hair.
The north part of the Isle is dark and uninhabited. I can't see much, despite my sharp vision. A split tree blocks part of the path ahead, blackened and splintered from some serious lightning. I doubt a rogue witch could get past the mangled tree. Hell, I don’t know if I can get through the blocked path. The ground is slick, my hands are bloodied. Beyond that, I'm tired. For days I tore through the woods trying to retrace their movements. But Malvolia would skin me for the misstep; if they’re beyond the tree, I need to know. Maybe I’m just out of practice, maybe I'm just fed up with blindly following orders.
I count the bodies around me. Maybe I don’t need to go beyond the tree.
1. A boy with splotchy freckles—newly matured a decade ago. He stops moving first.
2. Dark raven hair that matches my father’s. There’s a gap between her two front teeth, smeared with blood. 3. Round twitching cheeks. Green eyes. I think she’d studied botany in her early years.
4. A crooked nose attached to our most trustworthy carpenter.
5. And worst of all…an original Elder. A graying man, old enough to look aged, with a few wrinkles around his mouth. Once, he’d been Malvolia’s closest advisor. Now, he’s croaking out his last breath.
But one’s missing.
Damn.
There's supposed to be six dead traitors. Six lifeless bodies to report back to Mother so I don’t meet a similar fate. Six graves etched with blood, on my hands. Because though I am heir to the Coven Crown on this gods forsaken Isle, our leader won't hold back her wrath if I mess up. If I disobey.
Until I hear a crack and watch a streak of color dive behind the lightning struck tree, pulling me back from every bad thought I’ve ever had.
I pick up my own pace just in time to see a flash of her blonde hair tangle in a leaf. I push the magic and she’s down on the dirt fighting off sparks of silver that are gnawing at her leg. She does not scream, though I know how badly it hurts.
“Malvolia sent her most faithful hound for a group of teenagers?” the blonde witch asks baring her teeth. I hide the recognition that must be splattered all over my face the same way the blood is on my tunic.
The Isle is small, the witches almost extinct. I was lucky to not know the others she’d ran with. However, the fledging spitting before me has crossed my path many times. She sells herbs in the town square, tends to the children who live in the capital. She studies healing and has a mother and a sister and a small cat—
“Get on with it,” she says, cutting off the thread of panic weaving through my mind. I’m surprised to see she wields no fear.
“You’ve upset the Coven Crown with your treason.” My voice sounds sure, but my mouth feels heavy. The young witch laughs, a defeated sound that carries more bone than muscle. Her blue dress is torn, her knees dirty. I wonder how much times they had to pack up and run before I came after them like the dog she claims me to be.
“Treason,” she says. Like it’s a sick joke rather than the ugly truth.
I don’t know exactly what these fledglings did to lose their lives; Mother only said they betrayed the crown and therefore the coven. That they need to die. I’m rarely in a position to ask questions or demand reasoning, so I don’t.
“What do you think, Dove Seraphina?” she asks. “Is this any way to live?” I remember her name as she says mine. This is Clarissa Bow and she only matured last year, immortality setting into her bones early compared to some others. Early, like me.
I don’t answer.
“I used to wonder if this was truly a punishment,” Clarissa carries on.
She’s looking at me. Maybe through me. Maybe above me. I can’t tell, I’m still silently screaming at my fingers to act! act! act! instead of feeling like icicles attached to my hand. Gods, I just need to get on with it. There’s no reason to turn Mother’s wrath back on me. On Calix. Althea. The only reasons I haven’t completely given up.
My fingers slightly thaw, my wrist twitches. Clarissa catches the movement, a sharp witch for someone so young. Something close to terror settles within her pupils, she swallows slowly. I try not to acknowledge how beautiful she is in the dark, how much she seems to know.
Things I clearly don’t. Hell, I don’t even know why she’s a traitor.
“You could stop her. Don’t…don’t allow her to unlock the gods’ magic. If the witches escape the Isle…if we’re free to roam the realm again under her rule…” She looks away from me and into the distant trees, like she sees something that I can’t. She’s shaking. I might be, too. Her gaze makes me want to turn around, but I hear my mother’s voice in my head chastening me.
Never turn your back on an enemy, a friend, or even your family. Expose nothing.
I stand perfectly still while the girl in front of me comes to terms with her impending death. She speaks once more, quieter this time.
“We deserve what the Realm Bound gods did to us.”
I hear the words but I’m already moving, unable to listen for another second.
Don’t prolong death or life. Never hesitate.
So I don’t, and I slit her throat when she isn’t expecting it, when her eyes are still lost in the trees. My hand is on my dagger and against her skin before she could register what had happened. I think I see a ghost of smile on her lips as she settles into the earth. The others clawed at their wounds, tried to keep the blood from leaving their body. Clarissa does no such thing, petting the grass below her with outstretched arms, staring into the stars.
I question if the witch is brave or spineless, wise or insane. I try to remember what it’s like to believe in something worth dying for. To feel chosen by the energy of the realm. I look up at the stars, just as she is. Even though she’s no longer breathing. And I am. I take my own unsteady inhale and I turn to start trekking towards Uncliff. Back to Mother. Dread holds my hand the entire journey home.
