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Chapter 104: The Shackles of Destiny

 

Declan was tired of trailing after the Witch Hunters. The constant state of fear of being discovered, the crappy sleeping conditions without so much as a tent or fire, and fretful nights he’d jerk awake at even the slightest sound of a cricket’s chirp or the wind stirring through the trees. Declan was more than ready for the pack of church hounds to cross the damn border already and no longer be his problem.

Although the Witch Hunter’s movements gave every indication that the border was their destination, Declan couldn’t cut them loose on a hunch. The half-witch was also unwilling to directly defy the king that he had sworn his service to as a knight.

‘Well, crown prince, but Nicholas will be king soon enough. Hopefully, a better king than his father was.’

The once sunny forest had darkened sometime after midday. Storm clouds rolled in over the verdant pines through which Declan and his irritable steed now traveled. The wind hummed with the promise of rain and more misery as Declan pulled up his hood and resigned himself to another night of frustrating sleep. His stallion snorted in disapproval but obeyed Declan’s command as the half-witch reined the dark chestnut horse in under a tree.

He listened intently, focusing past the din of laughing leaves to the group of Witch Hunters he sensed more than saw ahead of him. This strange discernment was new to him—something that Nero had awaked that day in the field where he had taught Declan about the different kinds of witches.

‘I may not be a pure-blood or coven witch, but still, being able to sense a prey I cannot see through the wind is handy. Especially for missions as dangerous as this one.’

However convenient his gift, Declan did not for a minute underestimate the quarry he had been ordered to trail on their return trip to Zarus. And right now, judging by the lack of hoofbeats and movement up ahead, it appeared the Pope’s hounds had chosen a place to make camp for the night.

‘They’re moving at a leisurely pace today,’ Declan mused as he tied up the stallion and crept through the forest underbrush to get a closer look. ‘Normally, they wouldn’t bother stopping until it was too dark to see.’ In that regard, Declan was fortunate that the Witch Hunters had left their Bishop behind to run the church in the Abbess’s absence. He could only imagine how much slower the journey would have been with such a fancy carriage dragging down the pace.

Declan paused and leaned against a tree as the Witch Hunters’ distant voices carried towards him on the breeze. Once he was sure the men behind those voices were not headed in his direction, Declan pulled out his map and tried to assess where they were.

‘Maybe a day, a day and a half, from the border?’

Declan scratched behind his ear, then down his neck, and sighed at the memory of his barracks bed, the communal wooden tub, and even his old scrub brush.

‘Just hang in there one more day, Declan.’

A sudden shift in tension in the voices ahead drew Declan’s attention back to the Witch Hunters. He pressed his shoulder against the tree beside him and focused his wind magic in their direction. As always, the elusive magic ignored his request until the wind shifted direction again and carried the voices of the Pope’s hounds towards the half-witch.

“Richter, what happened?”

“We found Nero. Bastard drew us right into a fight with two of Arachne’s pure-bloods!”

“Where’s the Commander?”

“He sent us on ahead since Kurt was injured. He’s dealing with Nero now, I expect.”

“About bloody time. I’ll get Kurt’s tent and bed ready. He can rest until the Commander returns and gives us orders.”

“That arm of his doesn’t look good.”

“It might require amputation if we don’t get him back to Zarus quickly. Can’t take chances where Arachne’s witches are concerned. Today it’s his arm; tomorrow, it could be his lungs or heart.”

“Fucks sake! What did Nero pull us into?”

“Save your questions for when Ripper returns. Let’s set up camp now and wait for orders. No point in traveling in this storm unless Ripper insists. But this close to the border, there’s no telling which group of witches we’ll encounter in the dark if we push through.”

The Witch Hunters appeared to agree as they wandered about to perform their tasks and awaited their commander’s return.

Declan let out a tense breath as he crept back through the foliage towards his mount. ‘I didn’t even notice that three of their number had broken away from the group. How the hell did they make one horse sound like three? Damn it. I should have confirmed their number visually instead of trusting this bloody magic. Well, if two of them are back now and Ripper is returning later, then I won’t have lost sight of them—permanently. Even if they did split up, I wouldn’t know which group to follow.’

He sighed and straightened as he stretched his tired back. “Hopefully—after they cross the border—I’ll never set eyes on another witch or witch hunter again.”

The stallion snorted almost mockingly as Declan pulled his drinking flask free from the saddle and checked its diminished contents. “We need more water,” he grumbled as he tapped what little remained into his dry throat. “Perhaps if I were a half water-witch, I’d be able to sense a spring or stream nearby.”

‘Then again, those Witch Hunters also need to water their own horses.’

“I just have to track the one that wanders the farthest from the group,” Declan reasoned as he retied the water canteen to the saddle and headed towards the nearest sturdy tree that didn’t look too difficult to climb.

About eight feet up, the half-witch settled himself comfortably on a branch, gripped the bark tightly beneath his palms for balance, and closed his eyes to focus on the wind. As usual, the response was weak, but with patience, he became steadily aware of noticeable disturbances in the forest that moved at various distances from the Witch Hunters’ camp.

‘Ah, there we go!’ Declan grinned as he focused on one of the Witch Hunters that had moved a good distance to the north. ‘Let’s see if he found water.’

After a quick climb down, Declan pulled his water canteen from the saddle and left his mount there with a promise to lead Jester, as he had named his new riding companion, to whatever water source he found later after nightfall.

‘I know he’s thirsty, but I’m less likely to be spotted if I move on my own.’

The track towards where he had sensed the witch hunter proved a bit further than initially anticipated. Oddly enough, each time Declan climbed a tree to confirm he was headed in the right direction, the witch hunter remained in the same spot.

‘Is he taking a bath?’ Declan grumbled, feeling a tinge of jealousy. ‘Nevermind, I can grab one myself on the way back after these bastards finally cross the border.’

Before long, the wind carried the sound of a lively stream—or perhaps a river—to Declan’s ears. His mouth watered in anticipation, but the half-witch remained cautious, aware that a Witch Hunter still lingered nearby.

‘I wouldn’t want to fight one personally. I can only imagine what kind of training and environment they’re used to hunting witches all over the four kingdoms.’

With this cautious reminder, Declan almost belly crawled down the embankment towards the now visible river. He listened intently as he slid beneath the bowed branches of a gnarled tree covered in moss and leaves. No movement or sound betrayed the Witch Hunter’s presence, and when Declan closed his eyes and tried to sense the unseen foe, he was surprised to find all presence of his quarry’s existence had vanished.

‘Maybe he headed back just before I got here?’ Declan frowned, but another broader search still turned up no sign of the man he had expected to find. ‘Oh well, I did find water.’

Despite the reassurance that he was alone, Declan still approached the river carefully. He tested the water, which tasted better than the well water back at the knight’s compound, and filled his hands with several satisfying mouthfuls. Once his thirst was quenched, Declan dipped his canteen into a less cloudy section of the water to fill it.

‘I’ll have to bring Jester here later after—’

Declan stiffened as a cloud of disturbed river soil flooded over his canteen. His gaze snapped up towards the two red eyes and flowing white hair of the submerged man who observed him from the center of the river.

‘Shit, that’s—’

Declan sprang back, but the white-haired witch hunter crossed the distance between them with inhuman speed. Before the half-witch could dart under the mossy tree branch, a hand grabbed his shoulder, and then the witch hunter lifted Declan like a child and hurled him into the river.

‘Shit!’ Declan’s body slammed against the water. He grimaced as the murky river rushed over him. The half-witch twisted under the surface, planting his feet against the stony bottom before he kicked upwards, drawing his sword as he emerged.

The Witch Hunter sat calmly on the now snapped tree branch. His pale white hair streaked down around his hardened face, those alarming red eyes, and his muscular shoulders and torso. His features made him instantly recognizable as the Witch Hunter’s Commander, a man otherwise called Ripper. Declan could only imagine how such a man obtained his position along with such a morbid identity. He didn’t want to find out either way.

‘Bastard must have hidden under the water to avoid being detected,’ Declan realized as he glanced about the river, hoping to find a path of retreat.

“You’ve been following us for days now. You needed a bath,” Ripper observed in a mocking tone as he flipped his white hair over a shoulder and wrung the river water from it. “As much as your pitiful grasp of wind magic allowed you to track us, it also allowed us to smell you from a mile away.”

Declan glowered, even as he acknowledged his mistake. ‘What the hell would I know? I was a soldier, not a scout in the army.’

“Let me guess. The Crown Prince told you to follow us to the border?” Ripper continued conversationally.

Declan blinked but saw little point in denying the obvious. “Yes,” he grumbled, trying to maintain his balance as he treaded water towards the shallows on the opposite side.

“There’s no point in running,” Ripper commented with a cynical smile. “You might as well join us for the remainder of the trip. We have no interest in harming you.”

‘How comforting. If only I believed you.’

Ripper laughed, perhaps seeing Declan’s doubt written across his face. “Suit yourself, but tonight promises to be a bit of a thunderstorm. If you prefer to sleep in the rain, then who am I to judge, but you will at least join us for supper, that—I insist upon.”

A ripple of fear slid down Declan’s spine, and before he could fight against it, he was wading back towards the embankment where the white-haired witch hunter waited.

The wet river stones provided a somewhat tricky path as Declan lumbered up to the shore. Ripper was standing by the time he fully emerged. The Witch Hunter showed little concern for the sword Declan still gripped and merely gestured for the half-witch to follow as Ripper climbed the embankment and circled the river to where the rest of his uniform layout beneath a tree.

Declan shivered in his damp clothes while Ripper got fully dressed, paying Declan no more attention beyond a passing glance when the knight sneezed abruptly.

“Sorry—” Declan mumbled out only to feel like an idiot afterward. ‘Why am I apologizing? He’s the one who threw me into the river.’

“Your physical conditioning is pathetic,” Ripper observed as his red eyes ran over Declan. “But that is usually the case with half-air witches. The fact that you could keep up with us this long while maintaining a safe distance is commendable, though. If I didn’t have a trained half-air witch in my party and my own heightened senses, you might have gone undetected a bit longer.”

“Are you—evaluating me?”

“Yes,” Ripper replied with a grin that reminded Declan of a nightmare he once had as a child.

“Why?”

Ripper tightened the shoulder strap of his chest armor without comment, then pulled a dark cape from a satchel beside the tree and flung it over his shoulders.

“Where did you go?” Declan continued, feeling awkward as he stood there watching a stranger get dressed. “You broke away from the rest of the group.”

“I had some business to take care of before leaving Lafeara.”

“You mean—Nero?”

Ripper’s hand paused on the sword belt he wore around his waist before answering. “Yes.”

Declan opened his mouth to inquire what sort of business Ripper had with Nero, but a sharp glance from the Witch Hunter warned him that any further questions on that topic would be a bad idea.

Instead, the half-witch sheathed his sword and attempted to wring river water from his travel pants and jacket. Declan had already determined that he stood no chance against the Commander of the Pope’s Witch Hunters. And the fair bit of physical prowess Ripper had demonstrated earlier only affirmed Declan’s odds of survival if he pissed the man off.

‘I’ll just accompany them to the border and be done with it.’

He shifted uneasily as Ripper appeared distracted by—something tucked inside his satchel. The white-haired witch hunter closed the bag and tossed it over his shoulder before he motioned for Declan to follow him again.

“Ahh—where’s your horse?” Declan asked as the witch hunter walked confidently in the direction of his comrade’s camp.

“I left it with the others,” Ripper replied with another devilish grin over his shoulder. “It would have only slowed me down, and in any case—it appears to have worked since you didn’t notice us leaving.”

‘So that’s why the number of horses didn’t appear to change.’ Declan refrained from slapping himself at the now obvious oversight and trailed behind the intimidating witch hunter.

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“What’s this?” grumbled the first witch hunter to notice their approach. “I thought we were leaving the drenched skunk alone?” Declan recognized the man as Richter, one of the two witch hunters he had encountered at Lafeara’s cathedral when he had first been pulled into the church’s inquisition.

“The Commander changed his mind. What’s it to you?” Everett grumbled as he shot Ripper a respectful salute. “I trust your mission was successful?”

“It was,” Ripper replied as he brushed past the man. “And Sir Declan will be joining us for the remainder of our journey.”

Richter laughed at some joke that Declan appeared to have missed. “Aye, he can share a tent with Kurt then.”

“Where is Kurt?”

“In the only tent that’s up. We made him as comfortable as we could,” Richter answered with a glimmer of anger. “But I’m not sure we can save his arm unless—”

“Stay here!” Ripper ordered with a sharp look at the Witch Hunter.

“What are you—” Richter broke off as Ripper drew his sword and swept through the tent’s flaps.

“Shit!” Everett muttered while Declan looked on in confusion.

A muffled sound of pain proceeded the sickening ring of steel through flesh. Declan’s mouth dropped open as the Commander reappeared before them, his blade now stained a bloody red. “Burn it,” he commanded with a nod to the tent. “And Richter—”

Everette flinched but nodded. “Yes, Commander.”

“Drink this,” Ripper pulled a vial from his belt and tossed it to a startled Richter.

Everett eyed the vial his comrade greedily consumed while Declan stared at Ripper’s bloody sword, horrified.

“You—killed him? Why?” Declan sputtered.

“He was carrying the Witch Plague,” Ripper replied without a glimmer of remorse.

‘Witch Plague?!’ Declan could feel the blood draining from his face as Ripper turned his attention to the two grim-faced hunters.

“You both know that there is no cure for such a disease, nor could I allow it to return with us to Zarus. I made his death quick and merciful.”

“That—tentacle witch?” Richter asked in a tone brimming in anger. “Shit—this is all Nero’s blasted fault. I hope you ripped out his lungs or at least tore off his balls before sending him off to the underworld.”

“Nero was the source of the plague,” Ripper replied dispassionately.

“Fuck!” Richter stared down at the empty vial and shook his head. “How far has it spread?”

“Not far. The carrier just finished the final stage of incubation.” Ripper lifted the corner of Kurt’s tent and wiped his blade clean. “Now burn that, and let’s get dinner going.”

Declan’s gut clenched as Everett calmly seized the end of a log from a freshly started campfire and carried it over to the tent. The Witch Hunter pulled a bottle from his belt and sprinkled something that resembled red sand inside the tent before he tossed the torch inside and stepped back.

A brief explosion rippled through the tent before the quivering fabric caught flame and turned into a hellish blaze.

“It will take about a week before people realize the Witch Plague has started. Perhaps two before the nobles and crown prince take notice and try to fight against it,” Ripper commented in a casual tone as he took a seat beside the fire and prodded the flames with the tip of his sword. “That gives us more than enough time to report back to Jericho and prepare for a second inquisition.”

“A second—” Declan whirled around towards the albino Witch Hunter. “Why would you—” he stopped himself as a sudden sinking feeling filled his stomach. “Thank you for the invitation to dinner—but I’ve decided that I should return to Lafeara as soon as—”

“Sit down,” Everett growled as he grabbed Declan’s shoulder and pushed the half-witch closer to the campfire.

“Idiot, you’re not going nowhere,” Richter confirmed as he tossed a bag of dried meat over to Ripper.

“What?” Declan glanced between them as his hand moved to his sword, only to find the blade missing.

“Looking for this?” Everett taunted as he sank the blade into the forest floor and sat down beside it. “It’s a pretty sword.”

“Doesn’t suit a witch hunter, though,” Richter commented dryly.

“I’m a knight, not a witch hunter,” Declan snapped, even as he gave up on the idea of regaining his weapon. ‘I have to get back to Lafeara and warn the Crown Prince as soon as possible. The sooner we identify where the plague is coming from and stop it—if we can stop it—’

“The way I see it, Lafeara took two Witch Hunters and a priest from Zarus,” Ripper said coldly as his red eyes leveled with Declan’s panicked gaze. “While this would hardly count as a fair trade, perhaps you have more potential than what you’ve shown me thus far.”

“What?” Declan sputtered, not comprehending—or refusing to acknowledge—the albino Witch Hunter’s meaning.

“He means you’ll be taking Kurt’s place,” Everett spelled out with a glower. “He was a half-air witch.”

“Congratulations, Sir Declan,” Richter added with a malicious smile. “You’ve just been volunteered into the Witch Hunter Order.”

“What? Like Hell I am—I refuse!” Declan shouted, his gaze burning into each of them in turn before Ripper rose to his feet.

The tip of the Commander’s sword glowed orange from the fire and gave off a metallic smoke as it hovered in front of Declan’s face.

“You can swear the oath,” Ripper said coldly. “Or you can join him.” He gestured to the blazing tent, where the smell of Kurt’s burning flesh floated towards them. “Your choice, Declan.”

Declan’s entire body trembled with rage as he realized the futility of his position.

‘No, perhaps—’ Declan’s gaze drifted over Ripper’s shoulder towards the dark specter that lurked behind the trees along the edge of the campsite, ‘—Perhaps this has always been my destiny.’

The ghost of his mother smiled in cold acknowledgment before she withered up in a cloud of dark flames and left Declan to his fate.

 

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Chapter 103: The Seed of Calamity

 

Nero’s clammy right hand tightened around the knife as the Witch Hunter clenched his teeth. He straightened his spine and stood a few inches taller than he had in days. As the numb opiate of fear washed over his rotting organs, momentarily dulling the pain, Nero’s mind sharpened with the gleeful anticipation of death that awaited him in this abandoned alley.

‘But not before I take one of these bastards with me.’

It had been by a mere fluke he smelled the witch earlier and noticed Ivy chasing the boy past him into this deserted corner of the market with boarded-up shops. He remembered the maid’s face vividly from their first encounter and the smell of the ice witch she had carried back then. Curiosity and foolish hope that she might lead him to the frozen heart he desired so desperately had driven Nero after the pair—and into two pure-blood water witches.

‘No, they’re more than that. They both reek of Arachne’s toxic magic. These must be what the church refers to as Arachne’s children.’

Benjamin curled his lips in a savage leer as his body swayed in an attempt to draw Nero’s gaze away from the water witch’s feet, but the one-armed Witch Hunter was no amateur. Water witches were trained in a fighting style meant to throw off their opponent. All Nero had to do was ignore the distraction and anticipate which direction his opponent was likely to attack from by analyzing the situation from Benjamin’s perspective. And it certainly made sense for the water witch to target Nero’s left side since the Witch Hunter had no weapon or arm to protect him there.

‘But I can’t ignore his magic either.’ Unlike Tristan, Arachne’s children wouldn’t care about innocent casualties. ‘At least with the festival ongoing, most people won’t bother to travel in this direction or notice the extra noise.’

“Come on then, brat,” Nero taunted as he summoned what little magic remained in the enchanted dagger he held. “Give me a good death.”

“Kneel and beg for it, Witch Hunter,” Benjamin replied as he pulled a vial from his trousers and poured venom-yellow liquid across his elongated fingernails. The excess toxin splashed onto the street, where it hissed and smoked as the cobblestone below eroded. “I’ll make it quick if you ask nicely.”

Nero took his eyes off the water witch for only a moment as he glanced towards the tentacle witch and her captured prey. He closed his eyes and pressed the hilt of his dagger against his lips as he muttered out a quick spell.

“Benjamin, even a one-armed Witch Hunter can be dangerous,” Jade hissed in warning. “Deal with him quickly.”

Her protégé narrowed his brown eyes and lurched towards the witch hunter. Benjamin’s body wove and blurred as the water witch shifted directions, slid past Nero’s swing, pushed off the corner of the wall behind the witch hunter, and then sprang upwards to land on Nero’s back.

Benjamin’s nails seared as they dug into Nero’s face and neck. The acid they had been coated with burned away at skin, muscle, and bone. The Witch Hunter growled, flipped over onto his back, and crushed the water witch beneath his weight. Benjamin let go with a faint grunt. Nero rolled and wobbled to his feet as pain burned from the dripping lashes across his face and blurred his vision.

A leg kick took out the Witch Hunter’s feet and slammed Nero onto his stomach against the pavement. Benjamin quickly rolled over onto the Witch Hunter’s back, and this time his poisoned fingers wrapped around Nero’s throat and dug into his flesh.

Nero rammed his dagger back towards the knee pressed against his ribs and smiled at the satisfying strangled scream of agony that erupted from the witch above him.

But Benjamin did not let go. Instead, he lifted Nero’s head by the neck and then slammed the Witch Hunter’s face down into the cobblestone again and again. The pounding in Nero’s ears bled into the burning pain of his face and vision. Benjamin yanked Nero’s right arm behind him and bit into the wrist that held the dagger.

‘Fuck this toxic devil bastard!’ Nero tightened his grip on the dagger and activated the defensive enchantment. A shrilling surge of wind blasted against Benjamin and hurtled the startled water witch through the air into the side of a wall.

Nero rubbed his already numbing right hand towards his bleeding neck as he crawled to his feet. The Witch Hunter glanced warily towards the tentacle witch, who appeared more focused on forcing something into Ivy’s mouth than the fight between Nero and her protégée.

‘What is that—an egg?’

His mentor’s old stories about the legends of water witches resurfaced in Nero’s muddled mind as Jade, Ivy, and the well all swayed and blurred before him. ‘Something about Arachne’s children taking over the shells of the living after they hatched inside of them.’

“Well, shit.” Nero glanced towards the rooftops around them, at Benjamin, who had risen to his feet, and finally at the dagger in his hand. “Fuck.”

The Witch Hunter wasn’t sure his plan would work, nor did he understand why he even cared enough to try, but as Benjamin sprinted back towards him, Nero shifted his stance and flung the dagger towards Ivy.

The tentacle witch howled in fury as the blade buried itself into the black egg. Yolk and the unborn monstrosity of clammy flesh dripped out of the broken shell. Benjamin snarled as he grabbed Nero’s arm and hurled the Witch Hunter across the street through a boarded-up window.

Nero crashed through the aged wood and dropped down against an old set of table and chairs. Wooden legs snapped beneath his weight and dropped the winded Witch hunter onto the floor, where he rolled over and vomited up black blood.

‘Get up!’ Nero growled internally as he blinked past the pain. He grabbed onto an intact chair and pulled himself upright as a shadow passed through the window behind him. Instinct made the Witch Hunter turn, flinging the chair he still held into Benjamin’s snarling figure.

The chair broke across the water witch’s raised arm. Benjamin lunged at Nero with all the ferocity of a crazed dog as both men tumbled to the ground. Nero barely registered the thud of the wooden floor beneath his head as the water witch’s teeth sank into his throat. With no weapon and only one arm, the Witch Hunter grabbed the nearest object he could find—a broken chair leg—and stabbed it into Benjamin’s ribs.

The water witch drew back and spat out Nero’s flesh along with a mouthful of black blood. Benjamin’s blackened teeth flashed before the Witch Hunter’s eyes as his vision blurred in and out of focus.

‘What a futile way to die.’

A painful, forceful exhale of air against his face pulled Nero back from the curtains of the underworld. Benjamin sat back on the Witch Hunter’s legs and grasped the spearhead sprouting from his chest with a confused expression. The sharp metal tip twisted and then yanked free as Benjamin gagged and turned slowly to the side to look back at his attacker, then dropped limply to the floor.

Nero cracked a weak smile as the shadowy, towering figure of a man with white hair and scarlet armor stared down at him.

‘You’re finally here—Ripper.’

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Ivy was no longer sure if she was still living in reality or trapped in a nightmare. She barely recognized the one-armed Witch Hunter as he fought, rather poorly, against Benjamin. But she had never been more grateful for his presence than when his dagger shattered the egg Jade had been trying to force through Ivy’s clenched teeth.

The smell of the broken yolk was nauseating, but even more disturbing was the eel-like head and tentacle arms that slithered free from the broken shell.

‘Blessed Saints—if this is a nightmare—please let me wake up!’

She whimpered as Benjamin threw Nero through a boarded-up window. Then shrieked as Jade’s tentacles lifted her off the ground and hung Ivy upside down.

“A foolish act of heroism on his part,” Jade spat venomously. “I have more than one child waiting to be born. And you have more than one orifice by which to carry my spawn.”

Ivy swallowed a cry of despair as another black egg appeared on one of Jade’s many tentacles. The tentacle witch’s face loomed in with a vindictive, sickening grin as she wiped tears from the dangling girl’s cheeks.

“Oh, is there really any reason for you to cry? You’re going to become a mother,” Jade soothed as her tentacles tightened around Ivy’s legs and pulled them firmly apart. “Only this time—you won’t be able to murder your unborn child.”

“H-help! Help!!” Ivy shrieked as she kicked and twisted and sobbed and prayed for Nero, Percy, Maura—anyone to come and save her.

A sudden hiss froze the tentacle witch in place as the second egg broke, this time with an arrow spliced perfectly through its shell. Jade’s face twisted in an expression of rage and disbelief as her blazing jade-green eyes whirled towards the rooftops above them. Three cloaked figures jumped down around the well, their dark capes fluttering open to reveal the familiar scarlet armor Ivy easily recognized.

Ivy had never been happier to be surrounded by Witch Hunters in her entire life.

“I think it’s time you let her go,” one of the Witch Hunter’s called out calmly. “Unless you have more eggs you’d like us to crack.”

“It seems you’re not fit to be a mother after all,” Jade hissed. The tentacle witch held Ivy suspended in front of her while her twitching limbs squirmed around them, creating a defensive barrier. “But it is too soon to reap her tears now.”

Ivy’s confusion turned quickly to terror as Jade flung her prisoner towards a far building. Ivy closed her eyes and choked on a scream as her face and body slammed—not against a wall or cobblestone—but hard steel armor.

Howls of pain filled her ears as buildings spun around her, then a face shrouded by white hair filled Ivy’s vision.

The Witch Hunter who had caught Ivy quickly carried her to a street corner, where he braced her against a building wall. “Stay here,” he snarled, sharp teeth glinting far too close to Ivy’s woozy vision. She looked up into red eyes as the Witch Hunter turned, hefted his spear, and flung it past Jade towards the building where Nero and Benjamin had disappeared.

The image of the Witch Hunter sprinting after his weapon, white hair fluttering in the breeze as his hood fell down between his broad shoulders, was the last thing Ivy saw before she slumped to the ground in a faint.

❆❆❆❆❆

“Ripper!” The tentacle witch slapped away spears and arrows as the albino Witch Hunter reclaimed his spear from her dead son and hopped back through the window to join his comrades.

“Arachne’s bitch,” Ripper replied with a mocking smile. “So which of her daughters are you? Or did she even bother to give you a name?”

“Foul swine,” the witch hissed as Jade’s mouth stretched to reveal the eel-like head hidden within. “Always interfering with fates that are none of your concern.”

“I’m a witch hunter,” Ripper replied with a leer as he tapped a hand against his scarlet chest plate that rippled with glowing red magic. “And you’re a witch—or close enough anyway. Even one of Arachne’s offspring should know better than to attack my men if you don’t want to face me.”

“One of yours?” the eel hissed out a mocking laugh. “I wonder how much longer your protégée will survive now that he’s given up his location to you.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much about that,” Ripper replied with a subtle sign to the spearman who had moved into the tentacle witch’s blindside. The Witch Hunter hurled his spear towards the witch’s exposed back but caught one of her tentacles instead as Jade blocked his attack.

“Well, as much as I would enjoy savoring each and every one of you—my mission is far from finished,” the eel snarled.

“And what mission would that be?” Ripper asked conversationally as yet another unsuccessful attempt from the bowman failed. Ripper’s red eyes narrowed as the tentacle witch glanced towards the building where Nero had fallen.

“Oh, you will find out soon enough,” she hissed maliciously. The eel offered Ripper a fanged smile, then dropped down into the well. Jade’s head and torso quickly disappeared from view while her tentacles tangled up together as Ripper and the spearman laced their spears over the opening.

“Grab her!” Ripper yelled as he pressed his hip against the end of a spear and reached for one of the fleeing witch’s slippery limbs. The tentacle’s flesh ripped. The acid that flowed free quickly burned and snapped the spears that trapped her. The white-haired witch hunter stumbled back with his broken end as his prey vanished into the dark, murky water below. “Damn it!”

“Mercy’s tit!” The spearman cursed as he stumbled down on one knee, clutching his arm where the splattered acid had burned through his armor.

“Hold on!” The bowman ripped the melting armor away and poured a bottle of white liquid over the spearman’s burned flesh, neutralizing the toxic poison that had already burned through to the bone. “This is bad, Ripper.”

“Take him back to the others. I’ll be fine here,” Ripper growled, still glaring into the rippling water below.

“What about Nero?”

Ripper glanced sharply towards the bowman, who averted his gaze and focused on helping his comrade to his feet. “I’ll handle it. Tell the others I’ll meet them at the border by sunrise.”

“Yes, Commander,” the witch hunter bobbed his head submissively. Then the bowman looped his arm around his comrade’s waist and leapt up onto the rooftops.

Ripper watched them disappear, then strode back towards the building with the broken window.

Nero still laid inside beside the dead water witch. The one-armed Witch Hunter’s eyes were hazed over with pain and the sickness that radiated from him like the smell of death.

Ripper crawled through the window and stood over his fallen protégée.

“Ripper,” Nero whispered with a half-hearted smile. “Come to finish me off?”

“You were doing a fairly good job of getting killed all on your own,” Ripper observed. “How noble of you to drag an innocent into your mess.”

“No, they-they were—after her,” Nero wheezed out. “I just—got in the way.”

“Oh? So you were what—trying to save a mortal?” Ripper retorted doubtfully. “That would be a first.”

“I have enough bad karma—stored up for my—trip to the underworld,” Nero replied with what might have been an attempt at a shrug before his face went white. He coughed, spraying droplets of black blood onto his lips, chin, and cheeks. “Any amount—of good karma—I can grab now—”

“Where’s the Witch Star, Nero?” Ripper interrupted mirthlessly.

Nero grimaced and wiped a shaking hand across his mouth. “The bog witches have it.”

Ripper closed his eyes, inhaled slowly, then let out a sharp, angry growl. “Damn it, Nero. Why!?”

“Foolish desperation,” Nero whispered in a defeated tone. “I didn’t—I still don’t—want to die.” The dying Witch Hunter’s voice trembled with hopelessness and fear.

“You set yourself upon this path, knowing what that cursed jewel would do to you,” Ripper observed unsympathetically.

“You were the one—who told me how—it could make me stronger.”

“I also taught you that power comes at a price!”

“Yes, you did,” Nero acknowledged with a weak smile. “I wanted you to recognize me. I wanted to prove my mother wrong—instead, I disappointed you both and doomed myself.”

“Don’t guilt me with your excuses,” Ripper growled. “You betrayed my trust and your oath to the church!”

“As if you care whether the church or the Pope survives!” Nero snarled then coughed up more toxic blood.

“I care about the fate of this world. You and I both know what will happen if it is left in the hands of power-hungry witches. Power corrupts even the purest soul. Give a mortal a taste of immortality, and you will see what demons lurk behind his penitent smile.”

“But we can’t—beat them,” Nero coughed out.

Ripper slammed his spear down into the ground beside Nero’s head and leaned towards his dying protégée. “A Witch Hunter does not fear death or failure. The very purpose of our existence is to rid the world of these corrupted devils.”

“Save your speech for the new recruits,” Nero leered back. “Pope Jericho wants power just as much as any witch.”

Ripper’s left eye twitched even as he glared down at his dying protégée. “The Pope is the descendant of the Saints.”

“And yet Jericho is not a Saint himself,” Nero replied grimly. “And neither was his father.”

Ripper exhaled and changed his focus from Nero’s face to the black veins that streaked down the witch hunter’s neck. He reached down and ripped back the flimsy rags of clothes to reveal the pale purple and gray skin of a corpse. “Oh, Nero,” he whispered in disbelief.

“The bog witch’s tricked me—” Nero whispered back as his expression relaxed into a mask of defeat “—I asked them to cure me, but they—”

“They gave you the Witch’s Plague,” Ripper replied as he trailed his sharp nails down Nero’s icy cold chest. “How are you—still alive?”

“You forget—my mother was an ice witch,” Nero retorted with a cynical grin. “You’ll have to burn this corpse when I die—or else—”

“I will do what is necessary,” Ripper cut him off. “For now—you’ve suffered enough.”

“Are my sins washed clean then?” Nero raised a mocking brow.

“Your sins will follow you into the underworld and any life you are reborn into after that,” Ripper replied heartlessly.

“And I—deserve no less,” Nero whispered as he drew in a shaky breath and sighed. “Finish it then. Please.”

Ripper stared at his protégée for a long moment, then reached up to tidy the oily hair streaked across Nero’s face. At the same time, he deftly pulled Nero’s fallen dagger from his belt and plunged it cleanly into the side of the witch hunter’s neck.

Nero’s face barely registered the blow, or perhaps there was already too much pain within him to notice. Relief lit up the dying man’s electric-blue eyes as a smile touched his lips. Ripper pulled the dagger free and dropped it to the floor as he waited for the moment of death. When all life had gone from the dead man’s eyes, Ripper drew his sword and sliced Nero’s head from his body.

The albino Witch Hunter continued his bloody work, dismembering each limb, before finally piercing his sword through the corrupted corpse’s chest. His gloved hands reached inside and pried the ribs and sternum out of his way until he located the black and frozen organ that had been Nero’s heart.

“Our trip to Lafeara has borne unexpected fruit,” Ripper murmured as he pulled the cold, corrupted heart free and turned it over in his hand with a cynical smile. “Nothing brings mortals back to the Saints and the Pope quite like a Witch’s Plague.”

 

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Chapter 102: The Price of Naivety

 

“Hot pies! Get your hot pies! Taste the flavor of desert spices mixed with our homegrown Lafearian meat! Two for one special! Come share this explosive experience with your friends and family!” The enthusiastic boy shouted outside a busy baker’s shop, where a few potential customers were already sniffing the exotic aroma appreciatively.

“Ventrayna ale! Ventrayna wine! Limited supply! Come partake in the flavors of the Scorpion’s Desert!” A liquor distributor bellowed from his wagon across the street as men rolled barrels off the back to a waiting table of wooden tankards and copper cups.

The infectious, jovial atmosphere of the market street made Ivy smile as she wove her way through the crowds, careful to keep a hand firmly on her purse to avoid pickpockets. News of the crown prince’s successful negotiation with Ventrayna had already reached the populace, and a festival of entertainment, good food, and wine, was gearing up for a joyous few days of celebration.

Ivy’s smile faded as her feet brought her towards the herbal shop. The sign and shopkeeper outside had both changed. Instead of the rude old man from before, a shrewd, wrinkled woman with speckled gray hair sat on a bench beneath the shop’s front window smoking a pipe that emitted a blue smoke.

“Well, well, a customer!” The woman smiled as her gaze caught Ivy’s, then rose to her feet with surprising agility. “What might Madam Brie help you with today?”

“I’m on an errand for my master to buy these herbs,” Ivy explained as she handed over Serilda’s list.

The shopkeeper glanced at the items and lowered her pipe as she raised a brow. “These are expensive and—not altogether legal if you take my meaning.”

“I’ll take what you can give me,” Ivy replied firmly.

Madame Brie smiled as her eyes trailed over Ivy’s cloak and garments. “Well, I suppose your master is powerful enough to get away with buying a few prohibited ingredients. I have everything here except the Black Thistle Tail, but if you come back tomorrow, I know where to harvest enough to meet your request.”

“Yes, that should be fine.”

“Then that will be four hundred crescents for the lot, including the herbs which I’ll trust you to come and collect tomorrow. I don’t do deliveries, even for nobles.”

Ivy pressed her lips together, tempted to argue down the price.

“Of course, I won’t be repeating anything of your request to anyone in the future,” the shopkeeper added with a knowing smile. “It’s dangerous enough keeping such herbs on hand with the church investigating Lafeara for witches and the like.”

“But the Witch Hunters already left Lafeara,” Ivy protested as she opened her purse to dig out the required coin.

“You’ve never experienced an inquisition before,” Madame Brie muttered as she watched Ivy’s hands. “The church doesn’t turn tail and run just because a King or Emperor tells them to. Tsk.” The shopkeeper accepted the four strings of neatly bound crescents and ran a thumb over them to measure their length. “Mark my words, girlie. Those witch dogs left someone or something behind.” Brie nodded her head at the coins and tucked them into a satchel tied to her waist. “Just wait here a moment, and I’ll get your order ready. There’s a bench if your legs are feeling tired.”

Ivy moved to the indicated bench below the shop window. She settled down to watch the bustle of passing pedestrians: commoners in their faded but clean clothes and boots; slaves in their more tattered, even shoeless attire; merchants with boots that sparkled as much as the jewels they wore; knights in their eye-catching purple uniforms that rode on prancing horses; and even the occasional noble in their veiled, gilded carriages.

‘To think that little Maura is now more important than any of these people,’ Ivy mused with a satisfied sigh. ‘Lady Maura, a Duchess. It feels right somehow, even though—I suppose I’ll be seeing less of her than before.’

Ivy rubbed a speck of dust from her eye and leaned back on the warm bench to breathe in the scent of herbs, which dangled on colored yarn from the roof ledge to dry.

‘Well, I can at least look forward to seeing my little Miss again when the orphanage opens its doors.’

A trio of men dressed in military uniforms walked past, each carrying a tankard of ale. One of them noticed Ivy seated by the shop and winked in her direction. Ivy blinked back and quickly averted her eyes as the soldier’s comrades harassed him mercilessly.

“Stop winking! Your ugly mug is scaring off every woman in sight!”

“Well, at least I don’t look like you! What bear did your mother rump to produce such an ugly, hairy bastard!”

“Shut up, you two, and let’s get back to the square. There are plenty of experienced streetdolls there who would be glad to service us soldiers for a few coins.”

Ivy breathed a sigh of relief as she took a quick peek at the trio, who had moved on towards the next street. The clip-clop of hooves pulled her gaze towards a mounted knight who glowered at the drunken men from across the street. The trio hastily slipped away into the crowd as the knight tipped his helmet in Ivy’s direction and carried on his patrol.

‘It’s probably just as well that I’m always too busy to attend the festival. I can only imagine what sorts of trouble happens down here after dark.’

“Here you are, Miss!” Madame Brie reappeared from her shop, and Ivy rose to her feet as the woman presented her with two bulging bags of herbs. “I trust your Master knows what he’s doing. I won’t be held responsible for any side effects that may arise from the use of these particular herbs.” The woman leaned in closer and added grimly, “There’s a reason they’re banned, you know.”

“Yes,” Ivy nodded, though she knew little about the herbs beyond their names. ‘Maura would probably know. Anyway, it’s none of my business. I’m sure Lord Percy knows what he’s doing.’ “Thank you. I will be back tomorrow for the other herb.”

“Just come by before dark,” the shopkeeper replied with a sniff as her gaze turned towards the clamor of the festival. “I won’t be opening my doors to anyone with all these drunk soldiers dallying about.”

“Of course, I’ll come by before mid-day if that’s alright.”

“I might still be out collecting herbs, but you’re welcome to wait if you arrive before I get back.” Madame Brie shrugged and relaxed onto the bench as she relit her pipe and drew in another breath of blue smoke.

Her business here concluded, Ivy bobbed a quick curtsy out of habit before she turned to worm her way back through the congested crowds.

Laughter, shouts, and cheerful expletives rang into her ears as Ivy hugged the bags of herbs against her chest. Someone had started a small bonfire in the middle of the street, and several street performers circled about it playing various musical instruments to the joy of the crowd.

Several pairs of dancers, most of them soldiers, swirled and whopped around the open flame. Ivy scooted out of their way and hugged the wall as she continued back towards the main street. A barrier of men in uniform blocked her path as a hand groped her ass. Ivy whirled around to glare up into the flushed face of the soldier who had winked at her earlier.

“Please don’t touch me!” she hissed and glanced about for the nearest path onward.

“Ah now, don’t be shy, Miss. You’re out here on your own, aren’t you? How’s about a quick dance?”

“I’m sorry, but I’ll have to decline. I’m here on business,” Ivy informed him coldly with a nod to the bags of herbs she held. “Enjoy the festival.”

“Shot down again, Larry?” snickered one of the soldier’s comrades.

“On your way then, girlie,” added the third soldier with a dismissive wave. “The longer you hang around here, the less these men will care for your excuses. We’ve been looking forward to good ale and rowdy women for months.”

Ivy pressed her lips together and turned around as she shoved her way with a bit less concern for the laughing, energetic crowd that, for the most part, ignored her presence.

She had just managed to break away from the crowd when a small figure rammed into Ivy’s side. She stumbled, tripped, and cried out as her knee scraped against the paved corner of the street. The bags of herbs tumbled onto the road before her. Before Ivy could recover them both, a small pair of hands seized one of the bags as the boy who had run into Ivy earlier took off with his prize.

“No—Wait!” Ivy shouted as she scrambled to her feet in pursuit. “Please, they’re just herbs!”

The boy turned around. His bright brown eyes were strikingly familiar as he pulled a finger down his cheek mimicking a tear, stuck out his tongue, and then sprinted away.

“You!” Ivy clutched the remaining bag of herbs to her chest tightly, then lifted the hem of her dress and sprinted after him, ignoring the fire that burned down her knee. “Stop right now!”

As confident as Ivy was that her long legs would help her catch up to the boy, who appeared somewhere around ten years old, Ivy soon found herself gasping for breath as the street urchin spun around a corner towards the slums.

‘Damn it. Should I give up? Following him into the slums is a bad idea. But what if he eats those herbs and—’

“Giving up so soon!” the boy taunted as he peered around the corner at her.

‘He stopped running? Why?’

“If—its money—you need—I can buy—them back!” Ivy panted as she glanced around the street warily. It was surprisingly quiet given the festival that was taking place in the capital. “Please—there is someone very ill who needs them.”

“Some rich lord?” the boy taunted as he strutted in a circle. “Must be rich if he can afford this many herbs and a maid as pretty as you.”

“Look, will you sell them to me or not?” Ivy demanded as she took a few steps forward.

The boy narrowed his eyes and edged back.

“I have coin—” Ivy reached for her purse and pulled out another string of a hundred crescents. “See? You’ll get more from this than you will a few herbs.”

The boy eyed the herbs and Ivy with a glint of temptation.

“Please,” Ivy pressed. “This is all the coin I have on me.”

The boy scoffed, glanced at the bag he held, then Ivy. “Alright, but not here.”

“What?” Ivy blinked, confused, relieved, and a little bit troubled by the boy’s demeanor.

“Anything I trade on Flea Street, I have to give a percentage to the Fox Guild.”

“Fox Guild?”

“You really don’t know anything,” the boy muttered darkly. “I was wondering why you followed me this far.”

“I—” Ivy glanced about the empty street and felt a prickle of unease run down her neck. “Where then?”

“Follow me,” the boy replied cheerfully as he sprinted past her as slippery as an eel, then ran down another street.

“Saint’s Mercy,” Ivy whined as she grabbed her skirt again and chased after him. “Must we run?”

Ivy was beginning to worry about getting lost as the boy took one turn after another. He would pause long enough to let Ivy catch up at each turn, then continue on deaf to her continued protests. The sound of the festival grew closer once more, which told Ivy they must have backtracked towards the Market. She let out a sigh of relief as the boy sat down on a boarded-up well to wait for her.

“Alright, here is good,” the boy said as he hopped down and set the bag of herbs on the wooden lid that covered the well. “I’ll leave this here, you leave your coins right there on the street, and we trade places.”

“Yeah, okay, have it your way,” Ivy muttered, eager to be done and on her way back to Hawthorne Manor.

The boy grinned, and once more, Ivy felt a strange sense of familiarity as she looked at him.

“Have we—met before somewhere?” She asked curiously as they walked towards each other and their respective goals.

“Perhaps,” the boy shrugged as he passed her.

A trickle of doubt and something that made her skin crawl shivered down Ivy’s spine, but she focused on the well and picked up the bag of herbs with a sigh of relief.

“There, thank you,” Ivy said as she turned to face the boy, who stood beside the string of crescents that he had yet to pick up. “Go on, it’s yours. There’s plenty of food and toys at the festival you can—”

“You really are too naive,” the boy interrupted with a sinister smile. “That makes you a perfect tool to crack the ice witch’s heart.”

“Wha—” Ivy choked as the boy bent over and then—grew. His arms, legs, and torso stretched as his baggy, scruffy clothes tightened around the muscular, lean body of a man. Ivy backed away, bumping into the well, as the witch shook out his dark hair and grinned at her with bright brown eyes.

‘I know those eyes—but from where?’

The sound of wood breaking behind her proceeded the cold, wet tentacle that appeared before Ivy’s eyes as it whipped around her waist tightly. She dropped the bags of herbs with a panicked shriek as a cold, webbed hand slid around her neck and turned Ivy towards the horror that had broken through the abandoned well.

Jade’s grotesque yet familiar face smiled mockingly down at her. “We meet again, little slave.” Ivy quivered in shock and terror as the witch’s jade-green eyes slid past her towards the male witch. “Well done, my son.”

“All too easy, mother,” Benjamin snickered. He dragged a finger down his cheek and stuck out his tongue at Ivy. “Mortals are easy to manipulate.”

“What—what are you?” Ivy whispered and shuddered as the tentacle continued to wrap and climb up her waist, constricting around her ribs and lungs.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill you,” Jade whispered against her ear. “I just need you to carry one of my babies for me.”

“What?!” Ivy shrieked as another tentacle slid out of the well. This one carried a small black egg-like object that hovered towards her face.

“Once it hatches inside of you—well—by then, you won’t be able to feel anything.”

“No-no!” Ivy shrieked as she flailed against Jade’s grip and slapped the monstrous egg away. “Let me go!”

“No, no!” Benjamin mimicked in a taunting tone. His mocking smile faded a moment later as he whirled around just in time for a hatchet to bury itself into his shoulder and knocked the witch off his feet.

Jade shrieked with pain and rage. The witch’s fingers dug into Ivy’s shoulders as she focused on the figure of the one-armed man that stumbled into the alley, dressed in the rags of a beggar.

Ivy hardly recognized the witch hunter she had met outside the herb shop with Percy weeks ago. It was only the dangerous glint in those ice-blue eyes so similar to Maura’s that allowed her to identify him. That, and the dangerous-looking dagger held in the man’s right hand.

“Nero!” Jade hissed with disdain. The witch’s jade-green eyes glowed with malice as she rose above Ivy and leered at the swaying, pale witch hunter. “Have you come to beg for a merciful death?”

“Fuck you, Arachne!” Nero snarled as he wiped back the sticky mess of his oily brown hair. “Your threats and promises mean nothing to me anymore.”

Benjamin ripped the hatchet from his shoulder with a grunt of pain. Black blood oozed from the witch’s wound as he gripped the weapon tightly and got to his feet.

“Why interfere?” Jade hissed angrily. “In your current state, you can do nothing—”

“Just shut up and come get me already,” Nero taunted as he extended the curved dagger in his right hand. “If I’m going to die, I’d rather it be this way.”

Jade snickered as she rose up higher from the well. Long black tentacles curled over the stone wall and stretched across the cobbled street before Ivy. “Yes, perhaps it is time you served your true purpose,” the tentacle witch murmured as she turned towards her son. “Finish him.”

“With pleasure!” Benjamin snarled as he charged towards the dying witch hunter.

 

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Chapter 101: A Necessary Sacrifice

 

Serilda watched the spectacle of the Ambassador’s funeral dispassionately. The Ventrayna General stood before Haemish’s prized black stallion with two sharpened swords. The audience of Lafearian nobles murmured in shock and displeasure as the General slit the magnificent animal’s throat. The drugged beast balked, then shuddered and collapsed upon the prepared carpet where its four legs thrashed weakly.

When the once proud stallion finally breathed its last, the General’s soldiers took the horse’s legs and arranged the body on the carpet, grabbed the bloody corners, and lifted the sacrificial offering into the lower tier of the funeral pyre. There, atop the chests and platters of perishable, burnable treasures, Haemish’s stallion made its final journey alongside its Master to the underworld.

“Was that really necessary?” Captain Eustis muttered darkly from his seat beside his father, Marquess Winifred.

“Be grateful we are not in Ventrayna,” the Marquess replied somberly. “More than a dozen slaves would have accompanied that animal. Human sacrifice has always been viewed as the highest compliment since it was how our ancestors appeased the gods in the old days.”

Percy choked and coughed into his black handkerchief. Serilda glanced towards him hurriedly and signaled Ivy, who brought the Marchioness a prepared tonic to ease the Earl’s throat.

“Here, Percy,” Serilda urged as she opened the bottle and pressed it into his hands. “Drink.”

The Earl took a drink and grimaced at the bitter taste as he forced it down. After a few more sips, Percy’s coughing gradually eased, just in time for the smoke from the lit pyre to fill the field around them and trigger another attack.

“This air is no good for the Earl in his present state,” Serilda announced as she left her seat and took Percy’s arm. “I will escort him home to rest. Please give our sincere apology to the royal family and Lady Lavinia.”

“Of course,” Marquess Winifred said as he and Eustis rose from their seat and bowed their heads courteously to the still coughing Earl. “We hope that his Grace will recover quickly.”

Percy nodded against his handkerchief and allowed Serilda to guide him down the steps of their raised pavilion.

“You should have stayed home to rest,” Serilda admonished as she pulled the Earl’s cloak closer to his flushed neck.

“It is better if they see me, even in this state, than to allow them to gossip about my absence—and whisper as to the cause of my condition,” Percy replied hoarsely.

“And what is the cause of this illness? You still haven’t told me,” Serilda remarked crossly. Percy shook his head as his eyes turned towards the herbal tonic she still held. The Marchioness handed it over to him and then turned to Ivy, who trailed behind. “Have the carriage brought to us here.”

“Yes, my Lady.” Ivy bobbed a quick curtsey as she glanced with concern at the coughing Earl, then hurried down the uneven cleared field to where the carriages waited below.

“Well?” Serilda murmured tensely as Percy finished swallowing his medicine. “Will you tell me now?”

“It is better that you do not know.”

“Even when you’re like this?”

“It won’t kill me—” Percy coughed and smiled wryly. “We should focus on more important matters.”

‘More important than your health?’ Serilda scowled as she drew in an angry breath but then exhaled deflated. She had already concluded that the Earl’s health was in some way related to the disappearance of Jade and her little brat. That wretched homeless thief appeared to have made off with several pieces of Serilda’s jewelry and one of her new dresses. ‘And yet the Earl insisted we not waste the Coven’s resources hunting her down.’

Serilda huffed quietly and glanced worriedly at the sweat which lined Percy’s pale brow and darkened his collar. ‘This feels more like a curse than an illness. I can only hope that the strange medicine Percy had me prepare will do more than treat his symptoms.’ The Marchioness fidgeted with the lace edge of her gloves as she resisted the urge to wrap her arm around Percy’s waist. Instead, she glanced over to where Ivy was waving down their carriage driver, who quickly roused the team of horses and turned in their direction.

“So, Lady Maura is a Duchess now,” Serilda observed calmly. “Duchess Kirsi Valda.”

“It is beneficial to our plans,” Percy replied hoarsely. “Kirsi will need her own power to become Queen. The Duchy of Bastiallano will give her the power she needs to pull the nobles to her side, and I will unite the Covens behind her.”

Serilda frowned, surprised by how easily her cousin had switched over to Maura’s new name. “But—what about the Dowager?”

Percy frowned and coughed into his handkerchief.

“Isn’t it strange how they suddenly became so close?” Serilda pressed worriedly. “Octavia has never been particularly warm or nurturing to anyone—let alone a half-blood—”

“You forget that Octavia herself is an ice witch,” Percy replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

“So—suddenly they’re allies?” Serilda shook her head unconvinced. “Maura was always cautious of the Dowager before.”

“The Dowager did rescue Maura from the threat of prison. Now that Octavia has adopted her and made Maura a Duchess—what reason would Kirsi have to remain cautious?” Percy reasoned rationally.

“But then—what about our plans?”

“Has it not occurred to you, Seri, that the Dowager may want the same thing we want?” Percy turned his reddened winter-grey eyes towards Serilda and smiled.

“The Dowager wants Maura—to be Queen?” Serilda raised her brows and crossed her arms as she considered this. “But—to Nicholas?”

A quick glance at Percy revealed a glimmer of anger on the Earl’s face as he smothered another cough behind his handkerchief with white knuckles.

“We may have to push our plans forward then,” Serilda suggested.

“Perhaps,” Percy replied coldly. A sinister smile crossed the Earl’s lips as he glanced up towards the clear blue skies above them and scoffed. “Perhaps this is what the gods want.”

Serilda blinked and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Did you receive another message from Veles?”

“No, but—” Percy shrugged “—it has always been our plan to wipe out the Havardur bloodline. And I don’t need the help of Veles to deal with the Dowager.” He lowered his handkerchief as a confident grin spread across his pale face. “In fact, the Duchess’s promotion may have provided me with the perfect opportunity to clear a path to the throne.”

“You always have a plan,” Serilda replied with a note of resignation. The Marchioness shook her head as the Earl turned away to cough once more. “But first, you need to rest, Percy. If there is anything that needs preparing, leave that to me.”

“We have—time enough—to prepare,” Percy responded between coughs. “The Royal Hunt—that is when—” He clutched his throat as a painful cough ripped through him.

“Talk less and drink your medicine. The carriage is here,” Serilda murmured worriedly.

The Hawthorne carriage bumped along the jutted field and slowed to a halt before them. The footmen jumped down and hastily opened the carriage doors before assisting the Earl inside. Serilda entered and sat down beside Percy while Ivy remained in her seat across from them.

“On our way back, I will need you to pick up more herbs for the Earl’s medicine,” Serilda instructed as she draped another blanket over the shivering, coughing Earl.

“Of course,” Ivy replied hastily.

“I’ll drop you off by the markets when we get there. Do you have enough coin to pay your own way back to Hawthorne Manor?”

“Yes, Butler Russell prepared an adequate amount.”

“Add this to it,” Serilda murmured as she reached into her purse to pull out a banknote for one-thousand crescents. “And here is the list of herbs. Buy as much as you can find.”

“Yes, my Lady,” Ivy murmured as she folded the note and list together, then placed them inside her purse.

Percy drained the last of his medicine and closed his eyes as he leaned against the carriage seat. “Have them prepare a bath and a light meal when we get back.”

“As you wish,” Serilda replied as she pulled out her handkerchief to wipe his brow. “But then you must sleep.”

Percy scoffed as he captured her hand and pressed her fingers against his forehead.

“You’re burning up again,” Serilda murmured worriedly.

“Yes,” Percy hissed tiredly. He dropped her hand and leaned back against the carriage’s interior cushioned wall. “Wake me when we arrive.”

The carriage bumped and jostled as they made their way back towards a proper road. Percy scowled as his head banged against the wall, disrupting his attempts at sleep. The Earl coughed and grumbled as he turned and shifted and tried to get comfortable again.

“Don’t be so stubborn,” Serilda admonished as she pulled on Percy’s arm gently. “Come, use my lap. It will be more comfortable.”

Percy shook off her arm with an impatient sigh. “I’m not a little boy anymore, Seri.”

“I am well aware, cousin,” Serilda admonished with an amused smile. “But you are ill. Now come, lie down and get some rest.”

Percy’s eyes narrowed as her tone, laced with magic, soothed his fevered irritation. With a relenting sigh, the Earl leaned towards her and allowed Serilda to guide his head down upon her lap.

“Now, sleep, your Grace,” Serilda encouraged with an affectionate smile as she stroked his damp, mahogany-brown hair.

“You’re too pushy,” Percy grumbled as he grabbed her hand and placed it against his hot forehead. A few moments later, his fingers dropped from her wrist to his side as the Earl drifted off to sleep.

Percy’s relaxed face reminded Serilda of another time when they had both been naïve and happy children.

‘But now you’ve grown up and become entangled to this Maura—Kirsi. All because of her lineage and destiny. But how does she treat you, Percy? Not a word of concern when you stood before her just now as sick as you are.’

The Marchioness sighed as she brushed back the Earl’s dark bangs and traced her fingers lightly over his brow and nose.

‘You are already a Witch King, Percy. You don’t need Kirsi to take Lafeara. And there are plenty of other powerful witches who would gladly serve as your Queen.’

Serilda smiled as she continued to play with Percy’s hair and watched over him attentively as the Earl’s troubled breathing evened out. Only the occasional cough and bump in the road disturbed the sick man’s slumber, but Serilda quickly soothed Percy back to sleep each time he woke.

The countryside faded as the first buildings near the capital emerged. Then all trees and fields disappeared behind the blur and smog of the commoner’s districts as the carriage turned and pulled up outside the market streets.

Serilda pulled her gaze away from the Earl’s sleeping face and nodded to Ivy as the maid collected her things. A footman opened the door as the maid stepped towards it but hesitated as she glanced back towards the Earl.

“Is something wrong?” Serilda asked curiously as the maid’s eyes darted away.

“No, I—it’s just—”

“Spit it out,” the Marchioness commanded calmly.

“I wanted to ask the Earl—if Lord Barclay had returned from his trip?” Ivy answered hesitantly.

“Lord Barclay?” Serilda frowned but instantly connected the name with one of Percy’s underlings. “Not that I know of, but I can look into it if you like.”

Ivy’s face instantly brightened with relief as she nodded. “Thank you, Marchioness!”

“Of course. Focus on your task, Ivy, and try to return as quickly as possible,” Serilda replied with a dismissive wave as the footman took Ivy’s hand and assisted the maid down into the street. The door shut quickly behind Ivy as she headed determinedly up the road into the market square.

‘Naive little thing.’ Serilda sighed. ‘Would she be as concerned if she knew that Barclay was a witch?’ The Marchioness frowned as the carriage lurched forward and cradled Percy’s head and shoulders until their pace evened out once more. It was only after the carriage left the capital behind and took the north road to Hawthorne that Serilda considered the maid’s request more seriously. ‘Now that she’s mentioned it. Barclay and his group should have returned by now. How odd.’

 

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Chapter 100: A Grave of Mercy

 

The scent of pine and forest decomposition greeted Kirsi as Lumi halted just outside the dense forest. A barrier of prickled briar bushes and overgrown vines had formed a solid wall along the exterior.

“Well, this is bothersome,” Kirsi grumbled as she slid down the scriva’s back. The Scarlet Witch extended her hand and sunlight glittered off the translucent shaft of ice that appeared below her palm. Kirsi wrapped her fingers around the hilt of the weapon stretched into a long curved sword. “I’ll have to clear a path, go on ahead and be my eyes and ears, Lumi.”

The white wolf bowed its head and shimmered, becoming translucent as it shrank to the size of a rabbit. The Scarlet Witch watched the miniature wolf dig beneath the briar bushes then bound deeper into the forest.

With a resigned, drawn-out sigh, Kirsi glanced over her shoulder as the distant sound of singing from the funeral carried over the breeze. Her lips curled with disgust at the idea of a weak coven witch being honored by the Fire Coven’s warrior song.

‘Do the old ways of honor and respect hold no meaning anymore?’

The Scarlet Witch shook her head as she extended her sword arm and smiled at her reflection on the blade’s surface. “Should we teach them what true power looks like, old friend?” Kirsi’s eyes darted to the bracelet on her wrist, and she sighed. “Yes, I’m going. Pay attention to how I draw and control our magic, Carina. You will need to master it yourself.”

Kirsi lowered the ice weapon to her side then raised the sword smoothly upwards as she released the frozen heart’s power. A cold, sharp blade of pure blinding magic pulsed free of the sword’s edge and sliced its way through bushes, limbs, and tree. Before her, the two gnarled red alder trees groaned and twisted together as they fell, taking down a third tree between them and crashed against the woodland floor.

“You like flowers, don’t you, Carina,” Kirsi murmured with a smirk, “Well this is even easier than pruning a bush. Still, you’ll have to be careful how much power you release with each strike, or you might end up culling the forest.”

A squirrel scampered down a branch of the fallen alder tree and quickly dashed off through the underbrush. Kirsi hopped lightly over the fallen tree trunks, then grimaced as her heels caught in the muddy soil.

“These aren’t exactly built for battle or a stroll through the forest,” the Scarlet Witch muttered as she sat down on a fallen tree and removed the muddy black heels the Dowager had chosen to match her dress. “We need to upgrade your wardrobe to something a bit more conducive to battle and survival. But for now—” Kirsi wove her hand around her bare feet as ice materialized and folded into layers that formed a glittering pair of ice boots. “They won’t be comfortable, but we can move faster in these.”

The Scarlet Witch stood, glanced at the heels in her left hand, then hung them from a nearby branch and promptly forgot them.

Despite the abundant foliage above, which shielded Kirsi from the sun, the Scarlet Witch soon found herself out of breath and panting by the time Lumi caught sight of their target ahead.

‘This body is so out of shape it’s ridiculous. The lungs, muscles, and even the joints are weak. Was Carina starved as a child?’ Kirsi slapped a bit of cold magic against her cheeks and neck to cool down as she paused to catch her breath and focused on Lumi’s discovery.

Through the scriva’s eyes, Kirsi could see three men standing around a moderate-sized hole in the ground. ‘A grave?’ The largest of the three was the knight captain Carina had been so worried about, while Lumi identified the other two as earth witches. ‘I saw no trail on my way here nor any breakage in the barrier at the edge of the forest. I’m guessing these earth witches have something to do with that, but what do they want with a knight of Lafeara? Is the knight captain some sort of spy?’

With a mental command to Lumi to continue her observation without giving herself away, the Scarlet Witch moved forward steadily.

Perhaps because of her fatigue, or her rather unorthodox footwear which lumbered loudly through the forest, or more likely the fact that Kirsi was breathing as heavily as a cow about to give birth—but the earth witches ahead appeared to sense the Scarlet Witch’s presence and hurriedly pushed Beaumont into the hole.

Kirsi hissed with irritation as she picked up the pace and sliced through the obstructive tree branches. A few fallen trees later, she staggered out into the small clearing. Feeling elated, exhausted, and more than a little irritated, the Scarlet Witch glared at the two earth witches who appeared to be burying Captain Beaumont alive.

“Step away from him,” Kirsi commanded sharply as she straightened and raised her blade.

The two witches standing on either side of the shallow grave froze and then turned in her direction. Meanwhile, Captain Beaumont, who knelt half-buried inside the dug hole, gave no indication at all that he was aware of her arrival.

A flash of light pulled Kirsi’s gaze to the edge of the clearing where the Captain’s armor and shirt had been neatly set aside. ‘Well, that would explain why he’s half-naked, but what is he doing kneeling in a grave?’

“You-you can’t interfere!” snarled the first earth witch. His outstretched hands glowed with a muddy green color as the earth he had been pushing into the grave trembled and slid unevenly over the edge. The witch had long dark chestnut hair roughly braided in straps of leather adorned with gemstones and feathers. His garments were dark leather brown, painted to match the landscape of the forest.

‘A Tharyn warrior this far east?’

“Please,” murmured the second earth witch as he raised his hands placatingly. “We’re trying to save him.” This witch was dressed in similar leather pants, but with the pale fur of several gray foxes draped around his bare shoulders and chest, pinned with a glittering onyx stone embedded into a wreath of wooden leaves that identified him as a priest of Minerva.

“What are you doing to him?” Kirsi murmured curiously as she glanced from the witches to Captain Beaumont and noticed the long necklaces of seashells that hung down the knight’s back and chest.

“As I said, we’re trying to save him—so please let us finish our work,” the priest replied tensely. His braided blonde hair and blue eyes were unusual for an earth witch, but Kirsi could feel the Tharyn witch’s power trembling through the earth around the clearing.

“You’re trying to remove the Death Mark?” she queried as she circled the clearing towards them.

“Yes,” the priest replied firmly. “May we continue, or do you have a problem with that?”

The Scarlet Witch tilted her head as she studied the burning, swollen mark upon the Captain’s abdomen. “I have no interest in stopping you,” she replied dismissively.

The dark-haired earth witch narrowed his gaze at her sword. Kirsi laughed and dismissed the blade with a wave of her hand.

“Thank you,” the priest murmured and quickly resumed his work.

The Scarlet Witch watched as the dark-haired witch buried the kneeling knight in the earth while the priest carved runes into the soil around them.

“Not to interrupt,” Kirsi said conversationally as the pile of dirt covered the colorful seashells on the Captain’s chest. “But you know removing a Death Mark is impossible, especially for an inexperienced priest such as yourself.”

The blonde witch flinched but continued his work as he connected each of the runes drawn into the earth around Beaumont together. “Water,” he called out to his comrade, who carried over two heavy water skins from a tree branch.

The earth witches moved quickly but carefully as they poured the water into the hand-dug runes. Smoke billowed and rose from the earth compacted around the knight captain’s chest as the witches finished their work.

Kirsi moved around the edge of the runes until she was directly in front of Beaumont, whose eyes remained tightly closed as he focused on breathing through the burning pain that dripped off his brows, cheeks, nose, and chin.

“What did you expect to gain by taking on such a dangerous curse?” Kirsi muttered as she studied him.

“Please—don’t disturb him,” protested the earth priest as he noticed her changed location. “The slightest disturbance could break his concentration!”

Kirsi turned to study the fear in the witch’s blue eyes and laughed. “And why are you so concerned? Who is this knight that two Tharyn witches would risk capture and death to save him?”

“That has nothing to do with you,” snapped the dark-haired witch as he flung his empty water skin aside. “You must start the ritual, Vivek.”

“Yes,” Vivek, the priest nodded as he positioned himself at the edge of the runes, sat down with legs crossed, and dug his fingers into the damp earth. “ᛗᛁᚾᛖᚱᚡᚨ ᛗᛟᚦᛖᚱ ᚺᛠᚱᛗᛈᛚᛠ.”

“Interesting,” Kirsi murmured as she studied the Tharyn priest. “And who taught you the old language?”

“Stop interrupting him!” the brunette snapped angrily. “Are you trying to get them both killed?”

“His parents come from two covens, water and earth, yet he became a priest of Minerva,” Kirsi replied conversationally. “Water and earth are two strong counters to Kritanta’s fire magic. This rune—” she gestured to the symbols drawn in the soil that glowed as Vivek continued his prayer, “—might have worked if you had gotten to him sooner.”

“No, he is stronger than you think!”

“He must be to still be alive this long after receiving a Death Mark,” Kirsi muttered as she turned her gaze once more to the knight buried up to his neck in the earth. “Captain—Beaumont,” she tested the name but found no memory of it.

‘Then why do you feel so familiar?’

The earth around the knight captain turned black as more smoke poured free from the ground.

“Vivek?” the dark-haired witch whispered worriedly as his pale companion began to sweat visibly.

“You should stop your priest friend before he seriously hurts himself,” Kirsi commented without glancing in their direction.

“I can’t—let him die,” Vivek panted as he hoped his bloodshot blue eyes. “Fenn—the water—it’s drying up too quickly. Add more water!”

“We only have two waterskins left,” Fenn replied even as he moved to obey, stepping carefully around each rune as he reapplied water to the ones carved into the ground closest to Beaumont. The runes hissed as the smoke beneath them turned a cloudy white and billowed up towards the tree branches above.

“It’s not working,” Kirsi hummed in amusement as Vivek pulled out a trembling red hand from the soil. The ground had grown dry and brittle throughout the clearing. The Scarlet Witch knelt and brushed her fingers against the forest floor to get a sense of the powerful fire magic that pulsated from the knight’s trapped body. “Ahh—of course. How unfortunate.”

“What?” Vivek gasped with a sharp look in her direction.

“As I said, you’re inexperienced,” Kirsi replied with a shake of her head as she rubbed the dry dirt from her fingers. “This Death Mark was created by one of Kritanta’s consorts.” She tilted her head in the priest’s direction with a condescending smirk. “So unless one of you has been blessed by the Goddess Minerva herself—But wait, she’s dead.”

“You dare!” Fenn growled as he yanked a jagged metal ax from the strap on his back.

“Fenn, don’t!” Vivek protested with a wave of his hand. The priest groaned and clutched his chest before slowly pulling his left hand, which had gone a dark purple, from the dry soil.

“You’ve done enough,” Kirsi remarked with another shake of her head. “Any more than this, and you will lose a limb, if not your life.”

“My life is nothing—compared to his,” Vivek whispered as he cradled the burned hand to his chest. “Can you—help him? Isbrand Witch.”

Fenn flinched with evident surprise while Kirsi’s lips spread into a slow smile.

“Perceptive,” the Scarlet Witch murmured as she stood. Fenn glanced uneasily between the priest and Kirsi and tightened his grip on the ax. “I did come to see if I can help, but ultimately I have no interest in this knight’s survival—or should I say, it would benefit me more if he were not around to interfere with my goals.”

“Always so—calculating,” Beaumont muttered hoarsely.

Kirsi arched a brow as she turned to study the knight, whose chin now dropped against his chest behind the curtain of smoke. “I’m realistic, Captain. Why save you now when I will likely end up killing you later.”

“Then why come at all?”

“Because—” Kirsi blinked as the bracelet on her wrist flashed. She looked down at it and laughed in annoyance. “I was curious, I suppose. Why would I feel conflicted about saving someone who killed me in another life? And why should I help someone who killed a member of my bloodline?”

“Are you—asking on behalf of Maura—or Kirsi?” The knight raised his head and opened his violet eyes, which glowed like stars from the night sky.

“Ahh,” Kirsi murmured as her eyes widened in recognition. “So that is how it is.”

“Wait—” Vivek protested as the Scarlet Witch stepped briskly through the dried runes that scattered beneath her feet.

“Vivek—Fenn,” Beaumont called to them while his gaze remained fixed on Kirsi. “You should leave—now!”

“No!” Vivek protested even as Fenn grabbed him by the waist and slung the squirming earth priest over his shoulder. “I cannot!”

“Get as far from here as you can,” Beaumont commanded firmly before adding in a softer voice, “And thank you.”

Fenn bowed towards the knight and shot Kirsi a vengeful glare, then turned and sprinted through the forest.

“I suppose that means you’ve accepted your death?” Kirsi asked as her ice boots stopped a foot away from the knight’s head.

“What is death to us?” Beaumont replied with a raised brow.

“You interfered this time,” Kirsi growled as she folded her arms. “Why?”

“Maura wasn’t ready—to deal with something as dangerous as this,” Beaumont replied with a shrug of his head.

“Maura?” Kirsi laughed. “As close as you’ve been—you still haven’t figured it out.”

“That she and you are two halves of the same soul?” Beaumont countered, then shut his eyes with a sharp groan as the dry earth around his shoulders glowed red, then cracked and crumbled away. “I admit—I was slow to pick up on that—I thought—that you had changed this time.”

“Changed?” Kirsi threw back her head and laughed scornfully at the branches above them. “So it was the weak and pathetic version of me that finally convinced you to choose a side.”

“I haven’t taken a side—you know—I can’t,” Beaumont retorted sharply.

Kirsi stared down at him scornfully, then knelt slowly against the brittle hot ground as she stared into his eyes. “Then why?”

“For her,” the trapped knight growled and shook his head. “I have no other answer to give you.”

Kirsi’s lips twisted with scorn and anger as her eyes flashed with cold resentment. “What makes her more worthy of your—concern—than me?”

Beaumont closed his eyes for a moment, then met her gaze again with a resigned expression. “Because that part of you still remembers what it is to be a mortal.”

“She is weak!”

“She is stronger than you will ever be!”

“So says the dragon hiding behind a mortal shell,” Kirsi snarled as her left hand shot out to grip Beaumont’s throat. The knight’s dry skin chipped beneath the Scarlet Witch’s fingernails and fell onto the crumpled earth below him. Ice-blue eyes gazed into the amethyst glow of the buried immortal as Kirsi struggled against her desire to punish Minerva’s son for his arrogance and indifference. Only Carina’s compelling demands to save him stayed the Scarlet Witch’s hands.

❆❆❆❆❆

‘Kirsi, what are you doing!’ Carina shouted against the cold reflection that kept her submerged beneath the Scarlet Witch’s dominating will. ‘Help him!’

‘He is too far gone. Even those earth priests couldn’t save him.’

‘But we should still try!’

‘Not everyone is worth saving.’

‘Damn it, Kirsi. If you won’t even try, then switch places so that I can give it a go!’

‘Why?’

‘What do you mean why?’

‘Why save—him.’

‘Because he wouldn’t be in danger if he hadn’t helped me. Why is that so hard for you to understand!?’

A moment of silence passed before Carina heard Kirsi speak to Beaumont again. “Just to be clear, I’m only doing this to repay the debt of you helping the other me. Nothing more.”

Carina sighed in relief as Viktor’s cold magic flowed around her and transferred to the exterior world she could barely make out through the icy reflective barrier.

‘I’ve bought you some time, Carina.’ Kirsi’s voice echoed through the cold chamber as it shimmered and faded away from Carina’s vision. ‘But if you want to save him, then do it yourself.’

‘What?’ Carina blinked at the potent source of heat beneath her hands and stared with widening eyes as Beaumont’s face appeared before her, clutched between the ice witch’s cold fingers. ‘Kirsi!’

“If this is all you can do, then you should leave, Kirsi,” Beaumont whispered tiredly as he blinked slowly against the cold that seeped out from Carina’s hands. “I would prefer it if she didn’t witness how this ends.”

“No!” Carina hissed forcefully as she lowered her hands from the knight’s face and clawed away the dried earth around his chest. Broken shells fell away with the dirt, their color now faded and dull. Beneath them, glowing orange veins stood out against Beaumont’s muddy skin. The Death Mark had spread, leaving behind a charred blackened hole in the knight’s chest.

‘How is he even still conscious, let alone alive with this kind of burn?’

Carina quickly pressed her hands on either side of the Death Mark and focused on her connection to Viktor’s heart as she channeled and pushed the cold magic towards the blistering heat that rippled off Beaumont as if he were a lump of metal pulled from a furnace.

“You—” Beaumont studied her uncertainly. “Why are you here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Carina replied without meeting his gaze. She could feel the storm of fire blazing inside him. Some of it had been drawn out into pockets dug beneath the earth around them, but not enough. Still, despite Carina’s every effort to subdue the deadly magic burning away at Beaumont’s internal organs, she could feel the curse winning.

‘Why? With Viktor’s magic, we should be able to stop this!’

“It’s alright,” Beaumont whispered soothingly. “I told you not to worry—”

“You idiot, if we had done this sooner—”

“It’s not as if I don’t deserve it,” the knight captain interrupted with a wry smile. “After all, I did kill you in another life.”

“That wasn’t me, that—” Carina shook her head. “I’m not Maura.”

“You’re not the Kirsi I know either,” Beaumont replied with a faltering smile before he sucked in a sharp breath. “I’m running out of time—you should go.”

“No! There has to be another way!”

“You should be cautious of letting Kirsi have her way. She doesn’t have your empathy or—restraint.”

“Is that really what’s important right now?”

“Perhaps not. But—I don’t want to leave—without knowing your name.”

Carina flinched as the flow of magic through her hands faltered. “My name?”

“You’re not Kirsi or Maura,” Beaumont replied as his steady violet gaze filled her vision. “So—who are you?”

“I am—Kirsi.”

“No,” Beaumont shook his head with a smile. “I know Kirsi too well to believe that.”

Carina dropped her gaze and focused on forcing more magic from the frozen heart towards the Death Mark.

“Won’t you tell me? I promise to remember it next time we meet.”

She looked up again and watched as the violet glow of his eyes flickered and dimmed as his gaze grew unfocused. ‘No!’ Carina pulled her hands away from the knight’s burning chest and cradled his head in her arms as she enveloped him in the chilling embrace of her magic. “Don’t—don’t you dare—”

“Tell me—please,” Beaumont whispered beneath her arms.

‘Do not tell him, Carina!’ Kirsi snarled as the Scarlet Witch bulked against Carina’s restraint. ‘Nothing is more dangerous than giving him your name.’

‘Then, if you don’t want me to give him my name, tell me how to save him!’ Carina shot back defiantly. Frost spread beneath the ice witch’s skirt and spread around the runes before it sank deep into the earth. It coated Carina’s skin, hair, and dress but melted away the moment it touched Beaumont’s burning skin. ‘Now, Kirsi!’

A brittle chill of anger filled Carina’s stomach before the Scarlet Witch finally answered.

‘If you want to save him, you can’t just cool him externally.’

Carina blinked and pulled back as she focused on Beaumont’s closed eyelids. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Right, you’re a bloody virgin. I mean our magic has to go directly to the source of the Death Mark. Either cut open his stomach or—try kissing him. Mouth to mouth should work if you can maintain the connection long enough. Or you can dig him out and—’

‘I got it!’ Carina snapped back as she shut off the mental link to Kirsi and Lumi and focused on Beaumont. ‘Okay, it’s just a kiss. No—think of it more like CPR. I’m just doing this to keep him alive—no big deal.’

“Beaumont,” Carina whispered uncertainly as she focused on the knight captain’s closed, unmoving eyelids. He was already closer to her now than they had ever been. His flushed cheek rested against her arm, defenseless and pale. Carina brushed her fingers through his short, damp blonde hair as she drew in a breath. As battered and defeated as Beaumont looked then, somehow, he still maintained a presence of regal dignity. Perhaps it was his perfectly shaped nose or the way his blonde eyebrows were drawn together into their usual expression of focused disapproval. “Beaumont—can you hear me?”

‘Don’t blame me if he dies while you sit there hesitating—not that I think we should save him at all,’ Kirsi quipped pointedly.

“Beaumont, if you can hear me, then—focus on staying alive,” Carina whispered as she tilted his head awkwardly in her arms. The soft blue light of the ice witch’s heart illuminated Beaumont’s face as Carina leaned in and pressed her mouth against his parted lips, which burned to the touch, and breathed her magic into his soul. His lips tasted of earth, salt, and something sweet like honey.

A moment after the knight’s lips cooled to the touch, Beaumont’s shoulder jolted against her legs, and his eyes flew open. Carina gasped in surprise and pulled away as the earth below her shifted unsteadily. Then Beaumont’s arms wrapped around her as his rough hand turned her cheek towards him and his lips devoured hers. The same cold magic that had flowed into him steadily before was now being pulled in like the tide as Beaumont drank it in from her lips greedily. His mouth was rough but gentle as it moved over hers, kissing and tasting her one moment, then moaning softly as his arm tightened around her waist the next.

Beneath her hands, Carina could feel Beaumont channeling her magic into his core. Something dark writhed within the cold storm as it struggled to break free of her ice magic, then splintered and shattered as Beaumont pulled suddenly away.

Carina sagged against the ground as the knight captain released her. She watched numbly as Beaumont tore through the frozen earth around his waist with his bare hands, then crawled to the surface where he retched dark, clotted blood into one of the frost-covered runes.

Around them, the stillness of the forest faded beneath a gentle, reassuring breeze, as if someone, somewhere, had exhaled suddenly in relief. Carina blinked as she raised a trembling hand towards her mouth, feeling light-headed, shaken, and completely drained.

“That was—incredibly dangerous,” Beaumont murmured, his voice still raspy. He rolled slowly onto his side as he turned to face her. “You should be more careful; being drained of magic is one way to get yourself killed.”

“Is that a Thanks for saving my life?” Carina remarked wearily as she glanced towards his chest, relieved to see the burning veins of the curse gone. The Death Mark itself was still red and swollen but appeared more like a rather bad sunburn.

“Perhaps,” Beaumont whispered tiredly as he ran a hand over the Death Mark with an uncertain expression. “Vivek!” he barked suddenly, startling Carina. “I told you to get far away from here.”

Carina turned as the two earth witches stepped out cautiously from behind a tree. Vivek, the priest, stepped forward suddenly and dropped to his knees as he bowed towards Carina.

“Thank you, Isbrand Witch. I am—more grateful than I can express in your language.”

Carina raised a brow and glanced towards Beaumont.

The knight captain shook his head before turning his violet eyes back on the ice witch. “I am indebted to you as well—”

“No, with this, we’re even,” Carina corrected hastily as she rose unsteadily to her feet.

Beaumont nodded and rubbed the curse on his abdomen awkwardly. Fenn moved over to stand beside the priest but narrowed his hazel brown eyes at Carina suspiciously.

“Ahh,” Beaumont cleared his throat. “Could you give us a moment? They need to help me clear away any residual aftereffects.”

“Oh, of course,” Carina nodded and grimaced as her vision blurred slightly. “I should—be getting back.” She extended her hand and smiled as Lumi appeared to provide her with much-needed support. The scriva nuzzled Carina’s neck worriedly, then dipped her head under the ice witch’s arm to growl at Vivek and Fenn, who stared back with mingled alarm and delight.

“You can summon a scriva?” Vivek whispered with evident astonishment as he inched closer to the growling elemental. Fenn yanked the curious priest back and shook his head in warning.

“Vivek,” Beaumont growled as he clutched the remnants of the Death Mark. “Before it mutates.”

“Oh, yes!” Vivek scurried as he dug into the pouch at his side. Carina watched as the priest applied what looked like a mixture of mud and herbs to Beaumont’s abdomen. Once he was satisfied, Vivek pressed his hands over the earthy mound and whispered something in a strange language. “ᚱᛖᛗᛟᚡᛖ ᚨᛚᛚ ᛁᛗᛈᚢᚱᛁᛏᛠᛋ.”

“What are we supposed to do about her?” Fenn asked grimly as he crossed his arms, still glaring at Carina.

“Leave her be,” Beaumont answered with a sharp look at the earth witch.

“She saved him, Fenn,” Vivek admonished with a worried look at his comrade. “You saw it just as clearly as I did.”

“Strange form of help,” Fenn muttered darkly. “Taking advantage of someone trapped in the earth.”

“Fenn!”

Carina felt her cheeks burn as she nudged Lumi to kneel so she could climb onto the scriva’s back more easily. “Well—as you appear to be safe and in good hands now, Captain—I have to head back.”

“Wait!” Beaumont called out quickly as Lumi turned in the direction of the forest tree line. “You didn’t tell me your name.”

“No,” Carina replied with one last hesitant look at the half-naked knight. “Not today.” Lumi needed little encouragement as she bounded away. The pair became translucent and quickly left Beaumont and the two earth witches behind as the scriva wove through the forest to find the least hindered path back to the capital.

No matter how many times Carina told herself that what she had just experienced wasn’t a kiss—just life-saving magic—she couldn’t shake the feeling of Beaumont’s mouth upon her lips—or the thrilling feeling of serenity she had felt in his arms.

‘Damn it, Kirsi. This is all your fault.’

 

❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖

Chapter 99: A Dangerous Pedestal

 

Eleanora would have been less surprised to see a camel seated comfortably beside the Dowager rather than Lady Maura. Worse yet, the half-blood had shed her hesitant demeanor entirely. This other Maura, who sat facing a room of nobles, had a proud, confident demeanor as she surveyed the Dowager’s guests with an expression of arrogance.

“Where does that little vixen find the nerve?” Isabella hissed, having noticed the same offensive sight. “She ought to be shivering in the corner of her prison cell.”

“Isabella,” Alastair growled as he took Eleanora’s arm and nodded towards the corner of the tent where a pale Percy and extravagantly dressed Serilda stood close together, gazing in their direction. “We should go and greet them.”

“What?” Eleanora turned towards her father in surprise. “What do you mean. They should be coming to greet me!”

“Eleanora,” Alastair hissed with restrained impatience and then lowered his voice. “When it comes to Lafeara’s Covens, they don’t care where you sit on Lafeara’s throne. They will never pledge allegiance to anyone other than a Witch King and Queen.”

“That’s absurd,” Eleanora retorted quickly. “They bow before Nicholas all the time!”

“For appearances only,” Alastair replied with narrowed eyes and a cautioning motion for Eleanora to lower her voice. “Do bear in mind that it was a member of one of Lafeara’s covens who threw King Henri from the palace’s fortress walls.”

The crown princess blinked rapidly and gripped her father’s arm tighter as Lord Alastair turned her in the direction of the Earl.

“Crown Princess Eleanora!” the Dowager called out from her throne-like chair as she and the rest of the nobles looked towards Eleanora and her parents expectantly. “Are you not going to greet me?”

Alastair cleared his throat and gave Eleanora an affirming nod as he corrected their course. The Crown Princess did her best to ignore the unpleasant sight seated beside the Dowager as father and daughter stepped forward to bow and curtsy before the Dowager.

“Greetings, Queen Regent.”

“Grandmother.”

“Good, now that all necessary parties are here,” Octavia said brightly as she turned away from Lord Alastair and Eleanora to face the gathered nobles around her. “I have an important announcement to give before the funeral is underway.”

There were a few mutters, but for the most part, the nobles remained silent and grim, as if expecting the worst.

‘What on earth has she summoned us all here for?’ Eleanora wondered nervously as she rose to her feet beside her father and glanced to where Nicholas stood beside the still seated half-blood, conversing with Maura quietly. ‘And when did they get to be so close? I still haven’t had the chance to ask Nicholas why he summoned Maura to his palace after curfew.’

“As most of you know, I submitted an official request to make Lady Maura my goddaughter early this morning,” Octavia continued as she gestured towards her grandson. Nicholas straightened but remained firmly beside Lady Maura.

“That request is still up for discussion,” Prime Minister Attwood replied with a hint of unease. “There are many other pressing matters which the House of Lords must deal with first given recent events—”

“Your excuses were neither requested nor are they necessary,” Octavia interrupted him sharply with a cynical smile. “I made the request simply to be polite, not because I am required to by any Lafearian law.”

A sudden silence fell over the room as the audience of councilors quickly grasped her meaning.

“Your Grace,” Borghese stepped forward with a grim expression. “With all due respect—and before this goes any further—I must protest. The child in question is a half-blood!”

“She is not even a noble!” grumbled Viscount Kendall.

“Perhaps if the lady were at least married to a suitable noble family,” suggested Lord Enfield.

“I see,” Octavia murmured as she turned from the nobles to approach Lady Maura. “Although the House of Lords did not publicly refuse my request, their position on the matter has been made abundantly clear.”

“Your Grace,” Marquess Winifred said as he too stepped forward to address the Dowager. “It is merely a matter of properly investigating Lady Maura’s past and character. After all, we also only recently learned that the Crown Princess removed Lady Maura from her post and had her arrested.”

Several eyes turned towards Eleanora, who retained her defiant pose as she ignored the nobles and focused instead on Nicholas. Somehow the look of disapproval in her husband’s eyes did not surprise Eleanora.

‘Why? Why choose her over me of all people, Nicholas? I’m your wife. You ought to be taking my side!’

The Crown Prince looked away first as he turned his attention back to the Dowager.

‘So that’s how it’s going to be? You’re going to side with a half-blood over me now!’ Eleanora’s grip tightened around Alastair’s arm, and her father glanced down at her worriedly.

“As I have already stated, my request was merely an empty gesture of respect,” Octavia continued with a coy smile as she turned to face the nobles once more. “Now, I will tell you exactly what I will do.”

“Tell us—what exactly?” Lord Acheron asked curiously from beside the Prime Minister.

“That I am officially adopting Lady Maura as my grandchild,” Octavia replied to the mingled gasps and protests around the room.

“Your Grace!” Borghese protested as he strode forward to face the Dowager directly. “You cannot—”

Octavia’s ice-blue eyes flashed as she raised a hand sharply to cut him off. “Do you, Marquess Borghese, presume to tell a ruling monarch what I can and cannot do?” Her words were quiet, but they echoed around the room as Borghese clamped his mouth shut and hastily bowed.

“I meant only—that this half-blood is of no relation to the Havardur royal family—”

“I think we can all agree on that!” Octavia replied smugly.

“She cannot possibly inherit the throne, or any other title related to the royal family,” Borghese continued hesitantly, his gaze narrowing in suspicion at the Dowager’s sudden agreeability.

“Dear Marquess,” Octavia murmured with a chuckle. “I never said I would make Lady Maura a princess. But as my grandchild—” she smiled and extended a hand towards Lady Maura, who rose obediently to take it, “—surely the title of Duchess of Bastiallano will do since I have no other children to inherit my ancestral lands.”

“Saints preserve us!” A voice whispered from somewhere in the crowd behind Eleanora, who turned to her father out of confusion.

“What is Bastiallano, Father?”

“Hush, Eleanora,” Alastair said tensely, his gaze focused on the Dowager and Lady Maura.

“But—” Borghese appeared to choke on his words as the nobles around him turned to one another with expressions of disbelief. “Surely those lands now belong to the crown—to Lafeara!”

“Actually,” Prime Minister Attwood stepped forward with a courteous nod to the Dowager. “King Henri returned those lands to her Grace shortly after he took his father’s throne. They have remained the sole property of the Queen Regent ever since.”

“But—for a half-blood to become a Duchess!” Earl Coldwell whispered with a suspicious glance directed towards the Earl of Hawthorne seated quietly at the back of the tent. “The lands of Bastiallano provide more than half the grains which feed his Majesties army.”

“Not to mention the military forces of Bastiallano’s armies,” added Viscount Kendall. “Surely that much power can not be passed on to some beggar’s child.”

“Careful, Viscount,” Octavia said sharply as her ice-blue eyes narrowed in on the offending nobleman. “That is my grandchild you are insulting.”

Kendall blinked as if somehow caught off guard by this remark then stepped back behind Marquess Borghese.

“The lands of Bastiallano will continue to provide supplies to Lafeara’s armies as we always have,” Octavia replied with disinterest. “As to Lady Maura’s parentage, must I really trace back each and every one of your family trees?” She raised a sharp brow as she stared down Borghese. The Marquess bowed again before he gripped his cloak in silent anger and stepped back in defeat.

“The position of Duchess still requires the blessing and approval of the King, does it not?” Earl Percy called out hoarsely from his corner of the tent. “I’m not sure if a temporary Regent has the power to make that appointment, even if you are permitted to adopt the noble in question.”

Eleanora sighed in relief as Octavia appeared to hesitate for a moment at the unexpected protest. ‘At least Percy can still see sense—though I am rather surprised, given how such a title would make Lady Maura an even more desirable match for him.’ She shivered at the thought, then frowned as Octavia smothered a sudden laugh behind her fingers before turning towards Nicholas.

“Well, your Majesty?” Octavia inquired with a bemused smile. “Do you approve?”

Nicholas blinked, apparently caught off guard as he glanced from Maura to Percy, and then back to the Dowager. “The Queen Regent is within her rights to choose a successor for her ancestral lands since both the property and title do not belong to the crown,” he replied hesitantly.

Eleanora felt her blood run cold as Maura tilted her head at the crown prince with a sultry red smirk. “But the Dowager needs your approval so I can inherit her title, lands, and—everything else that goes with it, your Majesty.”

Nicholas appeared to find the attendant’s behavior amusing. Eleanora watched in disbelief as he laughed and shook his head before facing the audience with a somber expression. “I see no reason to disapprove of my grandmother’s choice, so I suppose—I do approve. Congratulations, Duchess of Bastiallano.”

“Hereafter to be known by her new name!” Octavia announced as she raised Maura’s hand with a victorious smile. “Lady Kirsi Valda, my granddaughter!”

“What?” Eleanora hissed out in disbelief as the newly minted Duchess smiled at the Dowager as if they were old friends.

The noble lords all murmured their disbelief as the Dowager released Lady Kirsi’s hand, and the Duchess turned and curtsied elegantly before Nicholas as she intoned the formal words, “Thank you, your Majesty. Long live the King.”

❆❆❆❆❆

Kirsi rose as the tent erupted in chaos. Captain Leo and Lieutenant Olund quickly pushed through the crowd of nobles to create a barrier around the new Duchess, Queen Regent, and Crown Prince. Nicholas hastily supported Kirsi and stepped in front of her with arms outstretched as the nobles thronged towards them.

“Noble Lords! Please remember who you are and before whom you are standing!” Nicholas shouted back at the crowd.

‘Really now, Nicholas is such an obedient grandson.’ Kirsi smirked as she studied the puny mortal who stood before her in some foolish display of bravery or chivalry. ‘It’s a shame he had to come from the Havardur family.’

“Stand back!” General Stryker shouted as he and a fresh group of knights quickly shoved their way inside the tent, creating a path through the nobles towards the royal family. “Calm yourselves, noble lords, or I will have you dragged out in chains.”

A heavy disquiet filled the tent as Stryker moved purposefully towards the Dowager with a hand upon the hilt of his sword.

“Your Grace, if you have nothing further to discuss with these dogs, then I request your permission to have them disperse,” Stryker announced grimly with a respectful bow to the Queen Regent.

“I will not be silenced!” Borghese snarled and glared at Kirsi. “I’m afraid I find it rather difficult, if not ridiculous, to acknowledge that of all the young noblewomen who have shown great admiration and respect to your Grace over the years, you would choose to adopt her. A half-blood who already stands accused of poisoning a member of the royal family!”

“Accused without evidence,” Nicholas growled. “And need I remind you of the penalty of accusing a noble, let alone a member of the royal family, without evidence Marquess Borghese?”

“Well—what if it is a member of the royal family that accused Lady Maura—”

“Lady Kirsi,” Nicholas corrected impatiently.

“—of the poisoning!” Borghese continued without repentance as he directed a trembling finger towards Eleanora, who stood between Alastair and Isabella near the front of the crowd.

“Yes, I will get to the bottom of that shortly,” Nicholas replied with a sharp glance towards his crown princess. “But as to the evidence submitted by the Crown Princess on the matter—you will have to wait to hear the results of Knight Commander Quentin’s findings at another time.”

The crown prince glanced towards Octavia, and the Dowager nodded as she turned to address the tent filled with nobles and knights. “My purpose for summoning you all here has concluded,” she announced with a smug smile. “The Ambassador’s funeral will be starting at any moment, and we would not want our grieving guest to feel slighted by our absence. You may depart.” She gestured towards the tent flaps, which two knights promptly held open as Viscount Bennet and Viscount Kendall glanced towards Borghese for their cue.

“I certainly have no desire to see all of his Majesty’s efforts for a favorable negotiation go to waste,” Lord Percy announced as he shouldered his way free from the corner. The Earl stepped lightly down the path cleared by Stryker’s knights and bowed courteously before the royal family; the blue-gray pallor of his skin more transparent up close. “Congratulations once more on your successful negotiations, your Majesty.”

“Thank you, Earl Hawthorne,” Nicholas replied, his shoulders relaxing as he nodded to the Earl.

‘The Earl of Hawthorne,’ Kirsi’s lips twitched with a smile as she caught the Earl glancing in her direction once more. ‘I once fought beside this boy’s ancestors. Perhaps the current Earl of Hawthorne may prove useful to me as well.’

Percy lowered his gaze as he straightened and turned swiftly towards the exit. Marchioness Serilda curtsied behind him and hastily followed the Earl outside. The rest of the nobles gradually followed suit, including Marquess Borghese, who looked far from pleased as he bowed sharply and then stomped an angry retreat.

Only when they were alone, aside from the few knights that General Stryker left stationed inside the tent, did Kirsi brush past Nicholas’s protective arm and move to the Dowager’s side.

“You did well, Kirsi,” Octavia murmured, looking a bit tired from the ordeal. “As did you, Nicholas.”

“Queen Regent,” Nicholas murmured with a shake of his head. “I don’t know whether to congratulate you or—you, Lady Kirsi. Marquess Borghese has long assumed that my grandmother intended to make his daughter, Lady Priscilla, the next Duchess of Bastiallano.”

“Well,” Octavia replied as she leaned on Kirsi’s arm for support. “That may have been the case when she was your fiancé, but now I find Lady Kirsi more suited to the position.”

Kirsi repressed a snort at the blatant lie. ‘There’s no way Octavia would hand over the lands and wealth I left behind to a mere mortal.’

“In any case,” the Dowager continued, “It was my fault that the Marquess felt confident enough to make such an assumption, so it was only right that I informed him of my decision personally.”

Nicholas scoffed. “I doubt he will thank you for it. Still, anything that makes Borghese easier to deal with is a good thing.”

Kirsi snickered as she helped the Dowager settle into her seat. “Oh, I very much doubt the Marquess will give up such wealth and power to a half-blood so easily.”

“Yes,” Nicholas agreed ruefully and scratched his neck. His gaze remained locked on Kirsi with a confused expression as she poured a glass of wine for his grandmother.

Kirsi ignored the crown prince’s stare as she leaned in to whisper against the Dowager’s ear, “Your Grace, I must leave for a moment to—check on something important.”

“Oh?” Octavia raised a worried brow but nodded. “Try not to miss the funeral, Kirsi.”

Kirsi kissed the Dowager’s cheek and whispered, “I make no promises, Grandmother.” She stepped back confidently and gave the Dowager and crown prince another curtsey before she turned sharply and headed past Lady Delphine and Lady Elouise through the tent exit.

Once outside, the Scarlet Witch turned immediately left and circled the tent away from the gathered crowd. A field of untouched rows of leafy beans stretched before her towards a tree line of woods.

“Lumi,” Kirsi whispered as she touched the bracelet once more. The translucent white wolf appeared and bowed its head before her. Kirsi cast a cautious glance around before grabbing the wolf’s fur, simultaneously turning translucent and then invisible as the scriva shifted its appearance.

The scarlet witch hastily climbed onto the elemental wolf’s back as Nicholas rounded the Dowager’s tent. He stumbled to a halt as he took in the vast empty field, scanned the surroundings in confusion, and then returned towards the crowd as Lieutenant Olund hastily jogged after him.

“Well, I’ll have to thank Viktor for creating such a capable scriva next time we meet,” Kirsi whispered cynically as she turned the wolf towards the forest. “Now, take me to this knight Carina is so worried about.”

 

❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖

Chapter 98: A Gathering of Wolves

 

Octavia could feel that she was smiling far too much. The servants were practically frantic in their attempts to prepare and set up a tent on a cleared section of the hill far enough from the pyre to avoid any possibility of catching fire. ‘One could never be too careful around fire witches.’

Added to the exorbitant size of the tent, which Octavia had requested be large enough to host twenty to thirty nobles comfortably, was the diplomatic management of seating arrangements. With Earl Percy Hawthorne swiftly pulling members of the House of Lords to his side, the previously calm and neutral relationships between the upper echelons of Lafeara’s nobility were slowly unraveling. The foremost supporter of the young Earl and newest member of the House of Lords was Marquess Winifred, who was more than a match for Marquess Borghese.

‘I look forward to watching their sandcastle crumble beneath the surprise that Kirsi and I will spring upon them,’ Octavia mused with a smirk as Lady Delphine brought over her usual cup of blue tea. “Lady Elouise, put away the nameplates. Let the nobles sit wherever they like.”

“Yes, your Grace.” Lady Elouise hastily retraced her steps to remove the handwritten cards. She then painstakingly double-checked the position of each chair and hurriedly wiped away any hint of dirt or dust.

“Are my guests on their way?” Octavia mused as she waved away the cup.

“Lady Maura should be arriving any moment, your Grace,” Delphine answered. “Captain Leo and Lady Tiffany will be coming with her as an escort.”

“Good, you arranged for them to make use of my second carriage?”

“Everything has been prepared as you instructed, your Grace.”

“Naturally,” Octavia smiled, not that she had stopped. She rubbed her cheeks thoughtfully at the growing unfamiliar ache. ‘Ah well, I suppose I’ve waited long enough to enjoy this moment. I really should have invited my brother, but Isaac was never one for these types of social engagements. Besides, there will be time enough for him to be reunited with Kirsi later.’

Captain Leo appeared through the tent flaps and held them open as Kirsi made her entrance, followed closely by Lady Tiffany. Octavia’s smile faltered as she took in the half-blood, who greeted her with an elegant curtsey. Perhaps if Octavia did not know Kirsi as well as she did, she might have overlooked the change in how the ice witch moved.

Lady Maura had the posture and grace of a dancer, alluring and gentle. A remarkable feat for one with such an unfortunate birth, no doubt due to Maura’s extensive training under Countess Constance. However, when the Scarlet Witch moved, every gesture, glance, and tone was asserted and filled with purpose and power. After all, the Kirsi that Octavia remembered had been a General of the Duchy of Bastiallano, which guarded the northern territories of Lafeara.

‘So this is what Kirsi meant earlier by us. How strange. I do not recall Kirsi ever sharing a body with its original host before.’

“Your Majesty, thank you for allowing us the use of your carriage,” Lady Maura said politely with a cautious glance towards the Dowager as she waited for permission to rise.

“Come, Lady Maura,” Octavia replied with a smile as she held out her hand. “Please, sit with me.”

A mere touch of the half-blood’s hand sent a ripple of cold power through Octavia’s fingers that made her blink back tears. ‘How long has it been since I last used my powers? Two decades? Three?’

“Thank you again for your hospitality, Queen Regent,” Maura said hesitantly as she pulled her hand away and took her seat beside the Dowager. “And the dress, they are all quite beautiful. Who is the designer?”

“A Lord Quinlan,” Octavia replied as she studied the red dress, which closely matched her own.

“Ahh,” Maura nodded in recognition as a curious smile crossed her lips briefly. “An excellent designer, though with a penchant for expensive materials.” The half-blood ran her fingers cautiously over the rubies sewn into the sheer black lace of her bodice.

“I have expensive tastes.” The Dowager smiled and reached over to grasp Maura’s hand. “How do you like the color, Maura?”

“It’s—” the half-blood blinked, her ice-blue eyes darting slightly to the side before they returned to meet Octavia’s gaze with a steady smile. “My favorite color. Of course, I love it.”

‘And Kirsi is also a better liar,’ Octavia observed with amusement as she retained her grasp on Maura’s hand, relishing the cold magic that entwined around her arm and seeped into her chest like a long-forgotten memory or dream.

Maura glanced her way once or twice with a curious expression but made no effort to remove her hand. ‘Kirsi would have ripped her hand away without a second thought for my feelings,’ Octavia reflected as the figures of a grieving child and the cold, sometimes even heartless General, flashed through her memory. ‘I formed myself in Kirsi’s image so that I might face the storm of persecution alone. And now all I want is to hold the hand of this half-blood a little bit longer.’

“How many nobles are you making your announcement to?” Maura asked, breaking the silence as she nodded to the rows of chairs that faced them.

“Only people of note,” Octavia replied dismissively. “Most of whom I’m sure you will have heard of in your studies with the Countess.”

“I see.” Maura nodded and glanced awkwardly at their joined hands.

“Are you prepared to face the day’s festivities, Lady Maura?” Octavia asked as she squeezed the girl’s hand gently, then released it as she rose to her feet.

“It is a funeral, is it not, your Majesty?” Maura inquired as she tilted her head.

“Yes, that is certainly true,” Octavia replied with a mischievous smile. “But if I did not take advantage of the lords gathering today, I would be forced to wait until the Royal Hunt, and I am feeling rather impatient.”

Maura nodded and exhaled nervously as she donned a determined smile of her own. “Then we must make the most of today, your Majesty.”

Octavia smiled at the nervous half-blood approvingly. ‘I suppose you’ve always had your courageous side, Maura, even if it pales when compared to Kirsi. Still, I wonder how long you will make me wait for her company.’

“Come, I have a gift for you.” The Dowager said as she clapped her hands. Lady Delphine promptly carried over a small, polished oak box that the Dowager took and placed on the table beside Maura. “After today, you will be my goddaughter, even if that does not make you a member of the royal family, this—” Octavia flipped the box open to reveal a delicate gold circlet of diamond swords, “—will remind all of them that your rank falls no lower than that of a princess.”

“It’s—lovely,” Maura whispered as she reached hesitantly towards the circlet. The half-blood’s hands grew suddenly steady as her ice-blue eyes hardened over a faint sneer. “The crown of a princess?”

Lady Delphine blinked and hastily lowered her gaze as the Scarlet Witch seized the circlet and placed it on her ash-brown curls.

“I suppose it will do—for now,” Kirsi replied as she turned and offered Octavia an amused smile. “How do I look, godmother?”

“Magnificent,” Octavia whispered, then quickly dropped her gaze. ‘The eyes and face are the same, but when Kirsi looks at me—all I see is the General standing in a field of dead witches.’

“The nobility of Lafeara are making us wait, godmother,” Kirsi observed with a cynical smile.

“Many of them are still arriving for the funeral,” Octavia explained reassuringly. “They must give their greeting to the crown prince—”

“That Havardur bastard?”

Octavia blinked and sent Lady Delphine a quick glance.

“Her Majesty would like a moment alone with Lady Maura,” Delphine announced as she stepped away to clear the tent. “Lady Tiffany and Captain Leo, you may both step outside and visit your respective families. Lady Elouise, please wait by the entrance and inform any guests that they will need to wait a moment.”

“Yes, let’s go find Malcolm!” Tiffany murmured as she took Leo’s hand and pulled the knight, currently frowning in Kirsi’s direction, towards the exit. “I haven’t seen him since our engagement!”

“This is tiresome,” Kirsi remarked as she watched the tent empty. “Surely it would be simpler to kill this prince and seize the throne ourselves. From what I gather, Lafeara’s position has weakened considerably since King Leon’s death.”

“That—” Octavia drew in a quick breath at the mention of her long-dead husband. “While it would achieve our goals, it is not just the nobles supporting Nicholas you have to worry about. There is also the Emperor.”

‘You were never particularly interested in seizing the throne before, despite my family’s ardent wish to make you Queen. Why the sudden change?’

“Are you implying that I’m incapable of removing another one of Kritanta’s witless consorts from this world?”

“Not at all—but Emperor Arius is not the only danger you will face should your return become public knowledge.”

“Ahh! You’re referring to Harmonia’s descendants?” Kirsi snorted. “The unimpressive remnants of my most formidable opponent.” The Scarlet Witch tapped her fingers impatiently against the table then sighed. “I suppose patience and preparation would be preferred if I want to avoid giving Ramiel an excuse to summon yet another Saint.”

“I believe that would be for the best,” Octavia replied with a nervous sigh of relief.

“Then I will begin by strengthening the ice witches that remain in Lafeara,” Kirsi continued with a note of determination. “What do our numbers stand at currently?”

“I-I’m afraid I don’t know, your Majesty,” Octavia answered hesitantly.

“What?”

“Many of them went to ground after you—General Kirsi Valda died. The ice witches that remain have all scattered to the far reaches of the kingdom to avoid being hunted down by the church and Emperor.”

“I see—” Kirsi’s gaze hardened with a look of grim understanding. “That is why they did not come to my aid when I called them.”

“You called the Covens, your Majesty?” Octavia repeated with a frown of confusion. “When? I did not—”

“You could not,” Kirsi interjected sharply. “Hampered as you are by the aconitum flower that robs you of your powers.” The Scarlet Witches eyes narrowed on Octavia, who could only bow her head in shame.

“I am sorry, Kirsi. I have failed you—”

“No,” the Scarlet Witch shook her head dismissively. “It is I who have failed the covens. I wasn’t strong enough.” Kirsi pressed a hand over her chest, and the bright flash of her legendary immortal heart flickered brightly through the ice witch’s trembling fingers. “I will not fail this time.”

‘We may not have another chance.’ Octavia smiled encouragingly even as her heart tightened with fear. ‘If Maura is the last of the Isbrand bloodline. If she dies without an heir—if that happens—then Kirsi will not have another chance—and neither will Viktor.’’

“Your Majesty!” Lady Elouise rushed through the tent flap and offered a hasty curtsey. “His Majesty, Crown Prince Nicholas wishes for an audience with your Grace.”

“Tell my grandson he may enter. We—I have been waiting most impatiently!” Octavia commanded as she moved to take her seat beside Kirsi.

The servants pulled the tent flaps aside once more as Nicholas strode inside, followed as ever by his loyal giant, Captain Beaumont. The Dowager blinked in surprise as she took in the knight’s rather pale and clammy complexion, along with the dark shadows that surrounded his violet eyes.

“Queen Regent,” Nicholas greeted as he bowed respectfully, his hazel-blue eyes shifting swiftly towards Kirsi, who regarded him with a cold, dispassionate look.

‘Kirsi, please do not forget yourself,’ Octavia silently begged and then exhaled with relief as the Scarlet Witch left her seat and offered a belated curtsey.

“Your Majesty,” the half-blood murmured demurely. Octavia blinked in surprise as she beheld yet another sudden shift in the ice witch’s demeanor.

“Lady Maura,” Nicholas replied with a faint smile as he motioned for her to rise. “The past eight hours have been eventful, I see.”

“They were challenging, your Majesty,” Maura replied, somewhat defensively, as she straightened.

“Nevermind that now,” Octavia interrupted as she motioned for Maura to sit. “What about my request, Nicholas?”

The Crown Prince glanced between them with a sigh. “It was—rather unexpected, Grandmother. You already have one goddaughter, Lady Priscilla Borghese.”

‘Only because I promised her mother on her deathbed.’

“Are you saying I cannot have two?” Octavia remarked with a hint of cynicism.

“Borghese certainly took it as an insult when I presented your request to the House of Lords this morning,” Nicholas replied with a hint of amusement. “The Marquess finds it rather disrespectful that you offered a half-blood of questionable nobility the same rank as his daughter.”

“Oh, did he?” Octavia replied with a cynical smile.

Nicholas crossed his arms and shook his head. “You knew he would protest—didn’t you?”

Octavia’s smile widened for a moment before she shook her head. ‘He is learning, isn’t he? How tedious for us.’ Lady Maura glanced between the two of them curiously, her brows furrowed in uncertainty. “So then, the House of Lord’s refused my request?”

“They decided to—table the idea until a later date,” Nicholas explained with an apologetic smile. “But they did agree to reinstate Lady Maura as Baroness so that she might serve as an attendant in your palace and keep you company—”

“Nonsense!” Octavia interrupted sharply as her smile evaporated.

“Grandmother,” Nicholas pressed with a rather pleading look in Maura’s direction. “I am already in the process of granting Lady Maura a title as Viscountess. That will be difficult enough to push past the nobles since it comes with lands and responsibilities, and Lady Maura is still unmarried.”

“So, I must be satisfied with Lady Maura holding a position lower than the Marquess’s daughter simply because he is offended?” Octavia sneered coldly.

Nicholas blinked, somewhat taken aback by the Dowager’s angry demeanor.

A painful, dry cough came from Captain Beaumont and pulled the crown prince’s attention away as he motioned impatiently to Lady Delphine. “Would you bring the Captain a cup of water, please?”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

Nicholas nodded and motioned Beaumont towards one of the chairs. “Rest. If you were this unwell, you should have taken the day off, Captain.”

“Apologies, your Majesty,” Beaumont said hoarsely as he rubbed his chest with a painful grimace. “Would it be alright if I—stepped outside for a moment and asked Lieutenant Olund to take my place?”

“Yes! Please do!” Nicholas said with an exasperated sigh. “And I expect you to go to a doctor this time, Beaumont. Don’t even bother setting foot inside the palace tomorrow if you have not done so!”

The Captain bowed his head silently.

“Go, quickly. Get some rest and get well!” Nicholas ordered impatiently, then shook his head as the Captain accepted the glass from Lady Delphine, downed it rather greedily, and turned quickly towards the tent exit. “Now, what would you have me do, Grandmother?” the crown prince asked as he turned to face the Dowager again.

“You might try behaving like a king, Nicholas,” Octavia replied sharply.

Nicholas stiffened, his hands tightening into fists as he stared back at her in hollow disbelief.

“But since you are neither capable nor ready to act as King, then allow your grandmother to provide you with a demonstration as Queen Regent,” Octavia continued mercilessly with an annoyed glance in the direction of the still coughing Captain as Beaumont slipped through the tent flaps.

“I find it curious that you would trust me to handle negotiations when I would be forced to make a sacrifice for the good of Lafeara. But now you tell me I am not yet ready to be King when it comes to you having to make a personal sacrifice,” Nicholas remarked with heavy resentment. “Fortunately, we are but weeks away from my coronation, and ready or not, I will be King.”

Octavia raised a brow and glanced at Maura worriedly, but the half-blood appeared distracted as she gazed in the direction the knight captain had taken with a worried expression.

“In any case, today is not the appropriate time or venue for such decisions, your Grace,” Nicholas resumed with a bit more composure as he faced his grandmother squarely. “I hope the Queen Regent can at least be patient while we deal with the rather delicate matter of the Ambassador’s funeral.”

“Grandson,” the Dowager murmured, the cold inflection of her tone drawing a tight grimace upon the crown prince’s face. “A lesson I would impart, from one monarch to another.” Octavia rose from her seat and approached him, mimicking Kirsi’s strength and confidence as she swept towards the crown prince and watched Nicholas flinch back a step. “There is only one suitable time or place for anything to be done in this kingdom, and that is when and where its King or Queen commands it!”

“You cannot bully the House of Lords,” Nicholas growled impatiently. “Not over an orphan half-blood.”

A soft laugh echoed through the tent behind Octavia and sent a ripple of fear down the Dowager’s spine. She turned instantly as Kirsi—not Maura—rose from her chair and approached them with a mocking smile.

Nicholas’s gaze shifted instantly from the Dowager to the Scarlet Witch, with noted confusion.

“The Dowager is right,” Kirsi observed as her lips pulled into a scarlet smile. “Your Majesty must decide once and for all who rules this country. The Emperor? The Pope? The House of Lords?” She circled past the crown prince, her ice-blue eyes pulling his gaze after her. “The Dowager?” She lifted a brow in the direction of Octavia, who held her breath. “Or you?” She stopped in front of Nicholas with her hands locked behind her back. An almost child-like smile spread across Kirsi’s face as she curtsied and whispered, “Your Majesty.”

Kirsi rose swiftly and, with a single step, placed herself less than an inch from the crown prince’s startled gaze as she offered him a challenging smile.

Nicholas blinked at Kirsi in bewilderment as he took a half-step back and then stopped as he frowned. “Lady—Maura?”

“E-excuse me, your Majesties,” Lady Elouise interjected fearfully as she stepped through the tent entrance to stand beside Lady Delphine. “But Marquess Borghese and Earl Coldwell are waiting outside. They are here for an audience with the Queen Regent.”

“Send them in,” Octavia commanded as Nicholas shook his gaze from Kirsi and turned towards his grandmother with a frown. “I sent for them,” the Dowager explained with a shrug. “They will not turn me down so easily.”

The Marquess and Earl entered and glanced between the Dowager, crown prince, and Kirsi uncertainly before they moved forward by rank to bow and greet the royal family.

“Your Majesties,” Borghese greeted stiffly. “I hope today finds you both in good health.”

“In perfect health, Marquess,” Octavia replied with a dangerous smile as she met the deceitful lord’s gaze. “Please, gentlemen, take a seat. I am expecting other guests to arrive shortly.”

“Marquess Winifred, Earl Hawthorne, and Marchioness Serilda are outside requesting an audience with your Grace,” Elouise announced shrilly as she entered through the tent entrance frantically.

“It seems your Grace has a surprise in store for us,” Borghese observed with a sharp glance in Kirsi’s direction.

“Prime Minister and Lord Acheron request an audience—”

“Viscount Marlowe and Viscount Gladstone have arrived—”

“Viscount Tomberline and Lord Enfield request permission—”

Borghese’s gaze hardened resentfully as Octavia took Kirsi’s hand and led the Scarlet Witch back to their seats.

“We should find ourselves a place to sit, my Lord,” Earl Coldwell suggested hesitantly.

A sharp cough turned the pair to where a pale Lord Percy leaned heavily upon his cane while a worried Marchioness Serilda held onto his arm.

“By the blessed Saints?” Borghese murmured as he surveyed the sweating Earl. “It would seem you are unwell, Lord Percy.”

“If you have eyes, then you would move out of our way so we may give our greetings and allow the Earl to rest,” Marquess Winifred barked impatiently.

Borghese returned the man’s snarl with a look of disgust, then moved off to find a chair in the second row.

“Lord Percy,” Octavia greeted as she watched the troublesome Earl cough loudly into a handkerchief. “If you are unwell, perhaps you should return home to rest.”

“Thank you—your Grace,” Percy replied as he hurriedly wiped his lips. “But my place is here—” his winter grey eyes turned towards Kirsi. The Scarlet Witch studied him in return with narrowed eyes, then looked pointedly away.

“We thank your Grace for the invitation,” Marchioness Serilda said swiftly. “And we wish both of your Majesties good health.” The three offered respectful bows and moved toward the back of the tent to take their seat.

The noble lords and ladies stepped forward in turn to greet the Dowager and crown prince, more than a few of them making pointed glances towards Kirsi, who studied them each in turn with the unsettling gaze of a predator assessing her potential foes or allies.

“Viscount Gilwren is outside and requesting an audience, your Grace,” Elouise announced, her tired voice straining over the murmur of conversations as the tent quickly filled with nobles.

“Send him in,” Octavia commanded, her voice temporarily quieting the lords as they turned with surprise toward Lord Rykard Gilwren, who entered and presented himself gracefully to the Dowager upon bended knee.

“Your Grace, I received your summons. How might I—” Rykard halted as his hazel-brown eyes widened in surprise on Kirsi. Uncertainty and fear flickered across the Viscount’s face as he hastily returned his gaze to the floor. “How might this servant be of use to your Grace?”

“You may act as a witness along with the other nobles present here,” Octavia replied grimly, then motioned him away with a wave of her hand.

“What are you planning, Grandmother?” Nicholas asked through clenched teeth as Kirsi gave Maura’s departing grandfather a passing glance of disinterest before she returned to studying the nobles throughout the room with sharp, cunning ice-blue eyes.

“You will find out soon enough,” Octavia replied as she reached across the table to grasp Kirsi’s hand. The Scarlet Witch looked down in surprise and frowned before pulling her hand firmly away. ‘Ahh, I need to be more careful,’ Octavia observed ruefully as she motioned to Delphine for a drink. “We are nearly ready.”

“And who are we waiting on?” Nicholas asked as he edged closer toward them.

Kirsi turned her ice-blue eyes toward the crown prince with a bemused smirk. “Which important figure are we missing, your Majesty?”

Nicholas stared back at her for a long moment with a confounded expression before the crown prince blinked and then shrugged as he cleared his throat. “We appear to have every member of government here—”

“Except—your wife—your Majesty,” Kirsi murmured with a cynical laugh. “Her Royal Highness, Crown Princess Eleanora?”

Octavia glanced from the scarlet witch’s sarcastic smile to Nicholas’s suddenly flushed cheeks as her grandson cleared his throat again and looked away. ‘Ah, what a shame, Queen Tabitha, it appears your grandchild is headed towards his ruin.’ She smiled and turned as Lady Delphine approached with a pitcher of wine and two glasses. “Some wine for his Majesty while we wait.”

The Dowager clenched her hands together impatiently, feeling far more alive than she had in years. Perhaps it was Kirsi’s magic that had transferred from Maura’s hand into hers so naturally. It might also have been the familiar looks of hatred from so many of the nobles Octavia had summoned to her tent. The Monarch tapped her glass and raised it to Kirsi as she envisioned her long-awaited revenge on so many of the guests assembled here today. King Leon Havardur’s grandson among them.

Kirsi flinched suddenly as she reached down to cover the bracelet on her left wrist with a troubled frown.

“What is it?” Octavia whispered as she studied the magical artifact curiously, wondering how she had not noticed it until now.

“Nothing,” Kirsi murmured, though her expression seemed far from pleased. “We should hurry this along. I appear to be running out of time.”

“Pardon?” Octavia murmured, startled by Kirsi’s rather curious choice of words.

“Lord Alastair and Lady Isabella Kensington are here along with her Highness, Crown Princess Eleanora,” Captain Leo announced loudly as he followed a rather tired Lady Elouise into the tent. “They request permission—”

“Send them in!” Octavia commanded as she set down her glass and stood. “We have waited long enough.”

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Chapter 97: The Veil of Diplomacy

 

Lavinia smiled behind her veil as she turned to survey the luxurious tent that had been set up for the late Ambassador’s bereaved family. “Well, at least we have some privacy,” she murmured to Marco, whose arm she held if only to ensure the boy remained upright. While Lavinia had finished up the finer details of negotiations with Crown Prince Nicholas that morning, Marco had taken advantage of his mother’s absence to empty quite a few bottles of wine provided to him by the over helpful staff in Lily Palace.

“It’s a nice tent,” Marco commented somberly before his face cracked into an absurd smile as he snorted and laughed against his hand.

“Marco, please,” Lavinia hissed as she guided her intoxicated son over to a table with two chairs. “You can’t behave like this in public.”

“Yes, Ambassador—” Marco snorted again and reached for the bottle of wine left in a gift basket on the table. Lavinia swiftly snatched it from his fingers and carried the basket over to a table prepared with some light snacks and a pitcher of water. She filled a glass with the clear fluids and carried it over to Marco, who slouched against his armrest, still giggling.

“What did you take?” Lavinia asked as she took one of his hands and pressed the glass into it. “This is more than just wine.”

“Oh, just some—fine Lafearian smoke,” Marco replied between chuckles before he frowned at the glass in his hand. “I paid one of the staff an exorbitant amount of Ventrayna gold to get me something to help brighten my mood.”

Lavinia pressed her lips together as she straightened the black pearls around her dress and smoothed out the silk fabric of her mourning veil and gown. “Well, whatever flower you’re smoking, it should burn out quickly thanks to the fire in your witch blood—”

“Half-witch blood,” Marco corrected.

“Just—drink the water, Marco. You’ll need it,” Lavinia urged and moved back to the table to fill a plate with some bread, cheese, and sliced cooked meat. “Here, something for your stomach. Eat and rest while you can. They should be almost finished with preparations soon.”

Ventrayna General Garold had taken charge of preparing the ambassador’s ceremonial funeral pyre. A simple two-tier structure formed from timber the general’s men had cut down from the nearby woods with the crown prince’s permission. A suitably high hill had been cleared of crops, and the farmer paid more than triple the harvest worth out of Lavinia’s own pocket.

The timber was stacked, creating a bottom layer for the precious treasure, usually silks, tapestries, food, books, and other burnable material and sacrifices. The pyre’s top tier was built with lighter wood but was still sturdy enough to support a woven bed upon which the deceased body now rested, wrapped in fine gold cloth, with two Ventrayna coins placed over Haemish’s eyes and a sword wrapped in the dead man’s hands, laid upon his chest.

‘If I’m going to burn Haemish’s body before the Emperor’s men get a chance to examine it, then its best I do so before a public audience who will witness the respect with which I send the bastard off. I’ll be sure to scatter the ashes across the desert on our return trip while I play the part of the grieving widow.’

“You’re giving him the funeral of a noble warrior. Father would be pleased,” Marco observed with a hint of mockery as he sipped water from his glass.

“It is the Emperor I’m trying to appease not—” Lavinia moved back to the closed tend entrance and glanced outside. “It appears we have some uninvited guests on their way. Watch your tongue, Marco.”

Marco grunted as he picked up a strip of bacon with his fingers and shoved it unceremoniously into his mouth.

“Manners, Marco. The people here already view us as savages. Must you enforce that perception,” Lavinia hissed as she moved to sit across from her son.

“Why are you so concerned? We’ll be leaving after the funeral, so does it even matter?” Marco growled as he wiped his fingers on a napkin.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Lavinia replied as she watched him anxiously. “You can be elegant and well-mannered when you want to be, Marco. Let’s do our part to show these Lafearians we are more than just savage witches.”

“By offering sacrifices and burning a corpse?” Marco snorted as he stabbed a piece of cheese with a small two-pronged fork.

“By allowing them to partake in one of our most sacred customs.” Lavinia sighed as she picked up a napkin and leaned across the table to wipe grease from his chin.

“Mother!” Marco growled as he shoved her hand away. “Please stop—treating me like a child!”

“Then stop behaving like one!” Lavinia snapped as she threw down the handkerchief and rose to her feet. “You expect me to leave you here on your own when you’re behaving like this!”

“On my own?” Her son’s countenance clouded over as he lowered his gaze and glared at the black boots he wore trimmed with gold. “So that was the plan you devised in your secret meetings with the crown prince.” He nodded grimly and took a drink of water. “Well, I’m ever so grateful for your concern, Mother. But it’s a bit late for you to be worried about my safety—isn’t it.”

“Marco!”

“Excuse me, Ambassador,” the bodyguard, Reith, called out as he slid through the tent’s flaps. “Lady Isabella Kensington and her Highness, Crown Princess Eleanora, are here to see you.”

Lavinia pressed a hand against her stomach as she subdued her frustration and composed herself. “Send them in.”

Reith bowed and quickly stepped back outside.

“Let’s see what my dead husband’s sister wants now,” Lavinia muttered as she retook her seat and tucked the handkerchief back into the sleeve of her black mourning dress.

Marco snorted as he set down his glass and straightened in his chair with an air of indifference.

Lady Isabella swept into the tent and glanced about with a frown at the lavish furnishings. “You always did travel in style, Lavinia. I shouldn’t be surprised to find you so comfortably situated for my brother’s funeral.”

“You’re mistaken, Isabella. This tent was prepared by your daughter’s husband, the Crown Prince. Still, after suffering needlessly while Haemish was alive, I see no reason to continue living in self-imposed purgatory now that he is dead,” Lavinia replied with a calm smile.

“That would certainly explain why you’re in such a hurry to hold his funeral here,” Isabella growled as she crossed the tent towards them.

“Mother!” Eleanora cut in after wiping the mud on her boots onto the rug by the tent door. “That is not why we are here.”

“Why are you here then, dear Eleanora?” Lavinia inquired curiously as the crown princess lowered the hem of her black gown and moved to join Isabella.

“To ask why you did not consult me before finalizing negotiations with Nicholas!” Eleanora replied sharply as she folded her arms. “You know how unstable my position is currently. We could have worked together to ensure—”

“Your marriage is consummated,” Lavinia interrupted in a flat tone. “Any stability I could have given you would have only ensured the noble families of Lafeara resented you more than they already do.”

“But you had no problem using your power to ensure a beneficial marriage alliance for your son!” Isabella accused sharply.

Marco grimaced but remained silent as his gaze spanned between the three women, then turned towards the wine bottle on the table across the tent longingly.

“I asked his Majesty for a favor. I did not make any demands,” Lavinia countered with a dismissive snort. “I’m not the one in bed with his Majesty, Eleanora.” She ignored Isabella’s indignant gasp. “If you want something from your husband, you must learn how to ask him for it yourself.”

“That’s not fair, Lavinia!” Isabella protested.

“You’re right!” Lavinia snapped as she rose to her feet. “Marriage isn’t about fairness. It isn’t about being spoiled, treated like a princess, or given even one ounce of respect, kindness, love, or pity. Marriage is all about endurance and who holds the most power.”

“Speak for yourself,” Isabella muttered as she looked away.

“I am, Lady Isabella,” Lavinia replied as her voice trembled. “My marriage was not of my choosing, Eleanora, and neither was yours.”

The crown princess stiffened as her amber eyes flickered over to Marco and then away.

‘Ahh, so Isabella finally told you.’

Lavinia brushed past the two women to pour herself a drink of wine and distract them from Marco. “Make no mistake, Eleanora. I have done everything in my power to help you, but when it comes to the throne of Lafeara—if you want to be considered a worthy Queen, then you must earn that position for yourself.”

Eleanora nodded gloomily while Isabella snorted in disbelief. “And what exactly have you done for Eleanora, Lavinia? Aside from cover up my brother’s murder?”

Lavinia swallowed the bittersweet wine and smiled as she lowered the glass. “For starters, I’ve convinced Nicholas to allow your husband to retire from his position as Ambassador—”

“What?” Isabella protested.

“—so that Lord Alastair might remain in Lafeara with his wife and married daughter,” Lavinia finished as she turned and raised her glass towards them. “That way, Eleanora will have a strong source of support among the Kensington family.”

“How dare you meddle in my—”

“Isabella!” A man’s sharp voice turned them all towards the tent flap, which opened as Lord Alastair stepped inside. “Forgive the intrusion, Lady Lavinia Zenon. And pardon my forwardness, but I just placed a ward around the tent. Your conversation could be heard by anyone passing outside.”

“Thank you, Alastair,” Lavinia replied with a relaxed smile.

“Zenon?” Isabella growled in disbelief.

“Yes, as my husband is dead, I’ve taken the liberty to return to my maiden name,” Lavinia replied with evident satisfaction. “As has my son, Marco.”

Isabella glanced at the boy, who avoided everyone’s gaze as he picked up his cup of water and glared at it resentfully.

“I trust you were successful, Lord Alastair?” Lavinia continued as the pure-blood noble stepped forward to kiss the back of her hand formally.

“Husband?” Isabella echoed, confused as she and Eleanora glanced between the pair.

“Yes,” Alastair replied as he released Lavinia’s hand and stepped back. “I am to be Marco’s guardian until such time a suitable bride and family are found. Nicholas has agreed to draw up the papers granting Marco the province of Vishera and the title of Viscount, to be granted tomorrow in a special ceremony he intends to use for that purpose.”

“A Viscount?” Isabella gasped. “Just like that—”

“And where is Vishera?” Marco interrupted with an inquisitive frown.

“It’s not far from the capital. I will take you there tomorrow after the ceremony,” Alastair replied with a casual shrug. “The position of Viscount grants you lordship over three Barons and their provinces. I will arrange a meeting with them later. I chose Vishera for you because those Barons already have a strong connection to Ventrayna through trade, and they will not be so opposed to a foreign Lord with such useful experience becoming their master.”

“Or so you hope,” Marco murmured with a faint snort. “Why not just give me the title, a house, and some gold. I don’t want to be in charge of other people who will resent me because of my—” he dragged three fingers down his cheek and shrugged “—ethnicity.”

“Because titles mean responsibility in Lafeara,” Alastair replied with a shrug. “And your mother wanted you to have one.”

“A title represents power, wealth, and position here among nobles,” Lavinia hastily explained. “It will keep you safe, Marco.”

“There is no guarantee of that, here or anywhere else,” Alastair replied bluntly. “But—as agreed—I will ensure that Marco has everything he requires to take over his new position. I will also provide him with a suitable number of guards to ensure his safety.”

“And what about me?” Eleanora cut in; her voice strained as she blinked past tears to stare at her father. “Who will keep me safe?”

“Why do you think I accepted Lavinia’s offer to remove me from my post as Ambassador? Eleanora!” Alastair quickly moved to stand beside his daughter and gently took the crown princess’s hand. “You will have Lord Percy and myself backing you now. Not to mention Lady Serilda is set to take over the Kensington household and coven. If you can pull the Marchioness into your circle, you will have the support of the coven nobels without question.”

“Serilda is not to be trusted. She wanted the position of the queen for herself not so very long ago!” Isabella interrupted sharply.

“That was neither Serilda’s intentions nor her doing,” Alastair growled. “And I will remind you not to speak such malicious gossip about my dead brother’s child, Isabella!”

His words echoed with the sharp sound of a whip, and Lavinia smiled, quite satisfied to see that Isabella’s “happy marriage” was not all smiles and roses.

“Don’t you dare use your magic to shout at me, Alastair!” Isabella hissed with a sharp look at Lavinia. “We should be going. You should have brought a tent for us as well! The ground here is practically mud.”

“If you want to camp out by your brother’s ashes, be my guest,” Alastair growled as he offered his arm to Eleanora. “I will be escorting her Highness to the Dowager’s tent. My original purpose for coming here was to inform you that you have been summoned, Eleanora. We should get going.”

“Summoned?” Eleanora faltered as her hand dropped away from her father’s arm. “Why?”

“The Dowager has an announcement she wants to make before the members of the House of Lords and the royal family—which now includes you.”

“Then we should get going!” Isabella declared as she took Eleanora’s arm and pulled her daughter towards the tent entrance. “We mustn’t keep this deprived mother and son from grieving,” she added with a parting glare over her shoulder.

Lavinia laughed and nodded to Alastair, who bowed his head politely then followed his family beyond the tent flap. “Well, that was something,” she muttered as Marco left his seat to join her and picked up a bottle of wine. “Marco—”

“If you can drink, so can I,” he growled and yanked the cork free with his teeth before downing the fine wine from the bottle itself. “Fuck facing that lot of self-absorbed, preening nobles sober.”

Lavinia sighed and shook her head in defeat. “Just—try to keep an eye out for someone suitable, pretty, and rich,” she muttered as she held her glass towards him for a refill.

“Not someone titled?” Marco inquired with a raised brow as he added more wine to her glass.

“Why do you think you were made a Viscount,” Lavinia returned with a quick smile. “But bear in mind, Marco, the sooner you marry a noble here, the less likely you will be pulled into a marriage arranged by the Empress.”

Marco scoffed. “No one back in Ventrayna wants to marry a half-witch—”

“They might try if it means forcing you to go back to appease the Duke,” Lavinia cautioned.

Marco’s grip on the wine bottle tightened as his arm trembled ever so slightly. “I’m never going back,” he whispered. “Not alive, at least.”

Lavinia set down her cup and embraced him gently as Marco lifted the wine bottle once more and did his best to drain half of its remaining contents. “It will get better, my son. Once you find your place here and make some new friends—”

“Mother,” Marco cut across sharply and hastily wiped his chin. “This title, lands, wealth, a marriage—none of it is going to fix me.”

“I know, but it will keep you safe.”

Marco shook his head as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Why must you go back, Mother? It’s not like the Emperor will keep you on as his Ambassador. My brothers will inherit all of Father’s wealth and lands. What is there in Ventrayna for you to return to?”

“I chose to fill the role of Ambassador,” Lavinia replied as she pulled the bottle from his hand and set it on the table behind them. “However temporary, part of the Ambassador’s responsibility is carrying the negotiations back to Ventrayna and delivering them to the Emperor personally.”

“And then you’ll return to Lafeara?”

Lavinia smiled, grateful for every word that assured her she would be missed. She nodded and offered him the kindness of a lie, “I’ll be back before you know it.”

‘After Duke Zenaku’s body lies dead in the street.’

 

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Chapter 96: Blood Stains and Visions

 

“I don’t understand. What do you mean Maura wasn’t arrested!” Eleanora demanded furiously as Lady Evelynn attempted to correct the streak of eyeliner that had gone awry as the crown princess snapped her head towards Major Garrett. “Didn’t you send over the evidence this morning?”

“We did, your Highness,” Garrett responded plainly. “And I left one of our knights there to report back when Knight Commander Quentin made the arrest, as you instructed. The Knight Commander did leave for Iris Palace but returned without Lady Maura. An officer then informed our knight that the matter was being taken before the crown prince due to Lady Maura’s elevated status.”

“Elevated—status?” Eleanora nearly choked on the words as she waved aside Evelynn retouches and rose from her chair. “Maura is a commoner now, not a court attendant, noble, or even a lady! What sort of status could she possibly lay claim to?”

“I do not know, your Highness. The officer would not say,” Garrett replied somberly.

“Your Highness,” Evelynn whispered as she set aside the charcoal stick for rouge powder. “We need to finish preparing for—”

“Yes, yes!” Eleanora snapped as she turned her glare from Garrett to the mirror. “If you don’t have an answer, Major, then go find out!” She gestured sharply towards the door and exhaled her frustration as she sank into the chair. “Must I do everything?”

Eleanora shook her head as Garrett withdrew, and Evelynn finished her makeup for this morning’s meeting with the House of Lords. “I didn’t think about this before, but Lavinia possesses full authority to ensure and even enforce my coronation. I should speak to her before the negotiations resume—or begin this morning.” She exhaled nervously and turned her head from side to side with a nod of approval at the black and gold makeup and the matching hairpins which adorned her tightly wrapped curls.

‘Gold is the color shared between Lafeara and Ventrayna. Gold represents power, sovereignty, and prestige. If I am to become queen, I might as well act the part.’

The radiant, confident woman in the mirror narrowed her eyes as her thoughts returned once more to the troublesome half-blood who was proving difficult to be rid of.

‘Perhaps Maura was the Dowager’s spy all along? But why would the Countess support her if that was the case? Or did Maura perhaps change sides after entering the palace?’ Eleanora groaned and massaged her temples, still fatigued from the little sleep she had gotten the previous night. ‘But what could the Dowager possibly gain by protecting her now?’

A knock at the door preceded Lady Meredith’s arrival as she carried in a letter with Nicholas’s royal seal. “This just arrived for you, your Highness.”

Eleanora exhaled nervously as she picked up the unexpected letter and broke the seal. Her eyes flashed with disbelief, followed quickly by anger as she read part of the brief message aloud.

“Negotiations have already concluded. There is no need for you to attend this morning’s council meeting—Concluded?” Eleanora growled as the letter trembled in her hand. “When did they—”

‘Lavinia, what did you do? Why would you leave me in the dark like this?’

Eleanora slowly lowered the letter into her lap as the parchment crumpled between her tightly clenched fingers.

‘No one takes my position here seriously. Even as Lafeara’s future queen, I’m still nothing more than a pawn for my family to move about as they please!’ The crown princess scoffed and set the letter aside as she rose once more from her chair. “There’s no need to prepare for this morning’s audience,” Eleanora announced to her worried ladies. “Instead, we should focus on preparing for the Ambassador’s funeral this afternoon. Knowing my aunt, every high-ranking noble in Lafeara will have been invited and expected to attend.”

‘How did Lavinia and Nicholas reach such a quick agreement when the Dowager is blocking Tiffany’s engagement to Marco?’

“Your Highness,” Evelynn whispered uncertainly as Meredith returned to the closet to find another suitable black dress. “What about Lady—what about Maura?”

Eleanora scoffed as she rubbed her forehead, then frowned at the moist sweat she found there. She wiped her fingers against the back of her chair, then gripped it with a frustrated sigh. “What does it matter at this point? I’ve removed the half-blood from my palace. Let the Dowager do what she wants with her little spy. Maura won’t dare show herself in front of me in the future.”

‘As long as I can keep her away from Hana, that’s all that matters.’

“Has Lady Hana woken up yet?” Eleanora inquired with a sharp look between her attendants.

“No, your Highness. The medicine Lady Isabella gave her last night appears to have been—stronger than anticipated,” Meredith replied with an uncertain shrug.

“I see,” Eleanora twisted around to face the mirror and scowled at her reflection as guilt twisted in her stomach.

‘No. It was necessary. As quickly as Hana went to Maura’s defense at dinner yesterday—there’s no way she would have remained uninvolved while I had Maura arrested.’ The crown princess looked down at the pale knuckles of her hand wrapped around the chair’s back and sighed as she unclenched her fingers.

“Finish preparations and then have breakfast sent up to Hana’s room. I’m going to sit with her for a while,” Eleanora announced as she headed towards the door.

“Oh—very well, your Highness,” Meredith replied.

There was something in the attendant’s disapproving tone and expression that caught Eleanora’s suspicious gaze, but she dismissed it quickly. ‘If either of them dare to create further problems, then I’ll get rid of them the same way I got rid of Maura.’

Eleanora pulled the spare key off the hook inside her bedroom, then crossed the hall, and unlocked Hana’s door. Inside, as predicted, the slumbering blonde attendant did not stir as the crown princess shut the door and crossed the room to sit on the side of the bed.

“I’m so glad you’re alright,” Eleanora whispered as she scooped up Hana’s hand and kissed the back of it tenderly. “I promised to keep you safe, so let me do that, Hana.”

The sleeping woman gave no reply. Hana’s chest continued to rise and fall with silent shallow breaths while her golden lashes barely stirred. Eleanora brushed away the loose strands of blonde hair that caressed her sleeping lover’s lips, then leaned in towards them for a reassuring kiss.

Thud.

A book toppled off the nightstand behind her. Eleanora hovered above Hana’s face, then turned to regard the book on the floor with confusion. The title The Lover’s Lament stared up at her with mocking scrutiny. The crown princess kissed Hana’s forehead lightly, then rose from the bed and picked up the fallen book and the paper marker that had dropped from its pages.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Eleanora stiffened at the bizarre sound, then turned sharply towards the bedroom window. Warm morning sunlight poured through the clear glass panes with not a single waving branch in sight. The crown princess scoffed at her own nervousness, shut the marker inside the book, which she then returned to the stack of books on the dresser.

‘Such an odd sound. For a moment, I thought someone was tapping on the window. It was probably a bird or—’ Eleanora turned away from the dresser and froze as her gaze caught upon the full-size mirror in the corner of the room, mostly hidden behind a cream-colored blanket. Beneath the covering, a pair of chilling black eyes stared back at the crown princess as a pale gray hand reached through the mirror and grasped the blanket with curled fingernails that resembled an animal’s claws.

Thud.

Eleanora hissed sharply as she started and turned to find The Lover’s Lament lying on the floor once more. She whirled back to the mirror but found no specter lurking there, though the edge of the frame appeared smudged with a black mold while the glass had clouded with age.

‘W-was that a ghost?’ Eleanora backed towards the bed, her eyes glued to the mirror as she reached for the familiar, reassuring warmth of Hana’s hand.

Ice-cold fingers seized her wrist, and Eleanora let out a strangled scream as she turned to find the dark specter crouched over Hana’s body. The vengeful ghost hovered like a dark spiny cloud. Its face and body were barely human beneath the prickly black quills that covered nearly every inch of the specter’s skin. At the center of those piercing spikes, two red eyes focused upon the crown princess with suffocating malice that made Eleanora turn cold with dread.

The crown princess ripped her hand away and, without a second thought, bolted towards the bedroom door.

“That’s right, Eleanora, run! Run away and save your own skin. You never had the courage to protect any of us in the end! You’re nothing but a charlatan. A queen with only empty words and an empty crown, sitting on an empty throne controlled like a puppet by your own fears and insecurities.”

The accusing words hissed against Eleanora’s ears as she yanked the door open. Two cold hands slammed against the crown princess’s back as she crossed the threshold and then fell, tripping over the hem of her golden dress to sprawl across the hall carpet. Eleanora flinched as Hana’s door slammed shut behind her. The sound of the lock sliding into place beneath those cold dead hands sent a shiver through the crown princess as Eleanora rolled over and backed away from the door.

“Your Highness!” Garrett’s voice and accompanying footsteps quickly reached the crown princess’s side as the Major knelt beside her worriedly. “Your Highness, are you alright?”

“I—I think I saw—a ghost—” Eleanora panted as the Major gently took her arm and assisted the trembling crown princess to her feet. “In—in Hana’s room.”

“A ghost?” Garrett repeated, his brows narrowing in apparent confusion.

“Ahh—” Eleanora winced as her right hand brushed against her dress. ‘It doesn’t make sense—but for a moment—I thought that ghost looked just like Maura—’ She hissed at the pain that burned down her back.

“Your Highness,” Garrett’s voice dropped, but the tension in it did not escape Eleanora’s notice as she gritted her trembling teeth and clutched her throbbing hand.

“What is it?”

“Your back—there’s blood on your dress—and your hand. Are you injured?”

“Blood—” Eleanora stared down at her right hand in disbelief. The sunlight reflected off the dark wet dripping crimson fluid that covered her hands, nails, and fingers. “How did I—”

The crown princess lifted her palm higher still to inspect the tiny holes below her wrist that bled freely. A memory stirred at the back of her mind. The flickering scene of a dark tunnel. Shadows masked Maura’s familiar ice-blue eyes as the half-blood, now dressed as a maid, stared down at Eleanora from behind a hidden door, which slowly shut between them. Choking desperation filled the back of the crown princess’s throat as she stretched her injured hand towards the closing barrier.

“Long live the Queen.” Maura smiled grotesquely against the burned scar on the right side of her face as the door to a secret tunnel slammed shut, sealing Eleanora outside as another door broke open to the young queen’s right, and pain exploded from the cross bolt that pierced her shoulder.

“Your Highness!” Garrett’s voice raised with alarm even as it was buried behind a torrent of whispers that resounded behind Eleanora’s ears as her knees gave way.

She stared down at the golden dress she wore, recognizing it from the dream—no, the horribly detailed and chilling nightmare that felt inexplicably familiar—in which she died as Lafeara’s queen.

❆❆❆❆❆

Kirsi returned to what was now the half-blood’s permanent room inside Iris palace. Behind the ice witch, two maids Octavia had assigned to assist her trailed behind with curious expressions.

“You will both wait out here. I shall rest a while and write a few letters,” Kirsi said as she turned to face them before the door. “You may knock if anything important should arise, but do not enter without my permission. Is that clear?”

“Yes, my Lady.”

Kirsi nodded, quickly entered the bedroom, and shut the door firmly behind her. A glimmer of discomfort crossed her face as she reached for her chest and scowled. “Alright, I get it, Carina—just give me a minute to—” The Scarlet Witch stumbled towards the vanity desk, sank into the chair, and faced the mirror with a frustrated sigh.

The reflection frowned, ash-brown brows furrowing in concentration as the ice witch leaned towards the mirror and shuddered for a moment before straightening in her seat.

Carina raised her hand and tentatively pinched her cheek. With a quick sigh of relief, she faced the mirror in angry protest. “The Dowager is my—our godmother? Really? Can we trust her?”

“First of all, I used to be her godmother. Octavia Valda comes from an old, proud ice witch family that dedicated their lives to protecting the last of the Isbrand witches.”

Carina glanced down at the black diamond ring upon her right hand as Kirsi’s answer echoed through her mind. “So, what you’re saying is that Octavia has been protecting me all along because she thought that I might be an Isbrand witch myself? How would she even know?”

“I can see that I’ll have to teach you how to smell a witch’s scent. It’s a skill all witches and even half-witches possess. A trace of our unique power exists as an aura around us, even when we don’t use magic. However, it becomes more potent when a witch uses their powers. You’ll need to pick up this skill quickly if you want to survive. Now that I’m awake, Arachne and Veles are certain to become more aggressive in their attempts to convince you to die on Viktor’s behalf.”

“I see,” Carina replied as she rose from the chair to pace behind it. “Well, having the Dowager’s protection does solve the immediate problem of being arrested. Eleanora will find it difficult to blackmail or threaten me now.”

‘But it still feels weird, trusting Octavia.’

“I think you’ll find the benefits could potentially go much further than merely avoiding false imprisonment,” Kirsi countered with a hint of amusement. “But enough of that. The biggest hurdle before us is repairing the rift between our souls.”

“What do you mean?” Carina asked as she nervously rubbed her chest.

“I mean, existing as separate entities possessing the same body doesn’t make any sense. We need to become a single soul again. We may have been reunited, but it’s still not enough. If we were to merge back into one soul, we should be able to unlock the true power of an immortal—”

“But what happens when we—merge?” Carina interrupted critically. “How would we do it, and—what would that mean for our separate identities?”

“We would still exist, but as one person,” Kirsi replied confidently. “You would gain my knowledge and experience, and I would gain a repaired soul that can better harness Viktor’s power.”

“But—would I still be me?”

“I don’t know, Carina. Perhaps—we would become who we were always meant to be before Arachne interfered.”

Carina shook her head silently. Earlier, when Kirsi had first woken up, the Scarlet Witch had tried to kill her. The memory of being smothered—as if her soul were being erased from existence by Kirsi’s superior power—wasn’t one she’d soon forget. Even now, when Kirsi took over Maura’s body, it felt like the stronger Scarlet Witch was pushing Carina further and further below a cold surface of magic—as if she were trying to lock Carina away.

“As to how we would do it,” Kirsi continued patiently. “That should happen naturally on its own given time. However, if we wanted to speed the process along, I believe a bit of internal meditation to connect our souls would help.”

“I’ll—think about it,” Carina murmured and moved to the bedroom window with a restless sigh. “I have other matters to worry about at present.”

“Like your deal with the Crown Prince?”

Carina didn’t miss the hint of scorn in Kirsi’s voice. “What about it?”

“I’m just curious what you hope to gain by allying with a Havardur King? Especially one that became a tyrant in our host’s previous life.”

“The Crown Prince I’ve met isn’t that tyrant Maura remembers,” Carina replied as she pushed aside the curtains to study the stately courtyard of roses below. “A lot of things have changed from Maura’s past. I know I can’t depend on her memories for everything. I’m trying to change the future, and that means allowing others the possibility to change in this timeframe.”

“Situations and events may change, but who people are to their core rarely does.”

Carina scoffed and turned back to face the room. “You’re like the more cynical version of me.”

“Also, stronger, wiser, and prettier.”

“We’re sharing the same body!” Carina protested with a confused scowl.

“Speaking of which,” Kirsi replied without amusement. “We need to get rid of this body’s ghost.”

“Maura?”

“Was that her name? Well, I suppose you’d know. Yes, Maura. We need to send her to the underworld where she belongs.”

“But—” Carina felt a familiar prickle of guilt run through her core. “Why?”

“You really are the nicer, more naive version of me,” Kirsi observed cynically. “To be blunt, that ghost—Maura—is dangerous. The longer a spirit lingers after death, the more malignant it becomes to whatever living soul it’s become attached to.”

“Is Maura attached to me then?”

“In a way, though certainly not to the extent she could harm you. It’s her old life that Maura is attached to. That’s why she can’t follow you now that you’re in Lily Palace. She never set foot inside this place herself while she was alive. Maura’s memories are what’s keeping her attached to this world, but they will deteriorate the longer she remains, as will her ability to reason to empathize with the living.”

“How does that make her dangerous?”

“You probably haven’t noticed because you’ve been too busy feeling sorry for her, but ghosts can’t remain in this world without drawing life force from someone. Mortals are the easiest source from which to feed. Even more so if they happen to be the ghost’s family members.”

“Their family?” Carina paused by her bed and turned to sit down. “How would you be able to tell if someone was—being drained by a ghost?”

“In the case of a normal haunting, the signs would be abnormal fatigue, irritability, and disinterest in people or things they would normally care about. However, a malignant ghost doesn’t just take; it infects its victims with its own negative energy. For example, a normally violent person would become even more physically abusive and cruel. An insecure individual becomes more prone to jealousy and paranoia. A malignant ghost makes its victims destructive to themselves and those around them.”

Carina wrapped her arms around her chest as certain memories from her childhood in the Turnbell family resurfaced. “Would it be possible for all that negative energy to focus on just one person rather than everyone the ghost’s victims were around?”

“It’s entirely possible. Especially if it’s someone the ghost feels a heavy sense of resentment towards.”

Carina shivered and then turned towards the door as the sound of someone knocking pulled her attention. “Come in.”

A smiling Tiffany appeared dressed entirely in black. “The Dowager asked me to help you prepare for the funeral. It seems she intends to present you as her goddaughter to the nobles there.”

“Ah, yes, thank you,” Carina replied as she stood up from the bed. “You look—lovely, by the way.”

Despite the gloomy black dress and veil which Tiffany had folded back over a small black hat to which it was sewn, the blonde attendant was practically glowing. She sailed into the room with a confident smile as she made her way to the wardrobe.

“Thank you! I probably shouldn’t be this happy on a day the Ambassador’s family is burning his body, but—” Tiffany pulled a glittering black dress from the wardrobe and turned around with a broad smile and glistening eyes “—it would be impossible for me to hide how happy I am.”

“She could try hiding it under a veil,” Kirsi remarked with a hint of cynicism.

“Why don’t you share the good news,” Carina suggested as she moved to shut the bedroom door.

Tiffany laughed and nodded eagerly as she carried Carina’s dress over and whispered into the ice witch’s ear, “Captain Leo proposed!”

Carina feigned a smile of surprise. “Really? That’s—I assume you accepted?”

Tiffany beamed and nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! Although—I’m still waiting for Father to grant his permission,” Tiffany explained hesitantly, her happiness not at all muted. “But I have no doubt the Captain will convince him. Leo is escorting me home this afternoon, after the funeral, to present his proposal to my parents properly, and the Dowager has written a letter on our behalf as well.”

‘I don’t really see how they could refuse the Dowager.’

Carina smiled, and although they were not close enough to embrace or call each other friends, she felt a moment of happy relief for Tiffany, who would not have to become the traitor the half-blood always feared she would be.

‘Still, how strange the way some aspects of Maura’s past continue forward as if nothing has changed.’ Carina shook her head and took the dress from Tiffany’s trembling hands with a smile. “Well, I wish you both a wonderful marriage and all the happiness you deserve!”

“Thank you, Lady Maura,” Tiffany murmured and sniffed as she reached for her handkerchief. “And I hope you will come—to our wedding—when the happy day arrives.”

‘I’m probably overthinking it—I’ve had far too much on my mind of late.’

“I would be delighted,” Carina replied, though she wasn’t sure how Captain Leo would feel about the invitation. “But first, we have a funeral to get through.”

“Yes, let’s get you changed. I promised the Dowager I would make you look like a princess!” Tiffany declared with a glint of determination. “Let’s see if Lady Meredith and Lady Evelynn dare turn their noses up at us now that we have the Dowager’s backing.”

‘Someone’s grown out of their shell,’ Carina observed with a faint smile as she turned so that Tiffany could undo the buttons at the back of her dress. ‘But the person I really want to see is Hana. I’m starting to wonder if leaving her behind with Maura was a mistake.’

❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖

Chapter 95: A Rose with Thorns

 

Dowager Octavia was always up before dawn, the curse of the elderly, although the term hardly applied to someone over two hundred years old who still appeared to be in her early 60s. She waved away Lady Delphine, who had finished brushing out the monarch’s pale white hair. The Dowager sighed as she rubbed her thumb against her index finger restlessly.

‘I would almost believe last night was but a dream—if Maura’s room hadn’t been empty when I checked. I wonder where Kirsi went? Why did it take her this long to wake up? And what did she mean by an imposter?’

The ice-blue eyes of the regent’s reflection narrowed back at her in silent contemplation. ‘When Kirsi was Queen of Lafeara, the world trembled before the power of the ice witch covens. Still, the longer I live, the fewer of us remain. The great Valda bloodline has all but been extinguished—aside from my disappointing son Nero and my brother. Neither of whom can be trusted to carry on the family’s name and legacy.’

Lady Elouise rushed into the room and clutched her bountiful bosom breathlessly as she trembled into a curtsey before the Dowager.

“L-Lady Maura has just returned—I don’t know how she got out—but she appeared on the palace steps out of thin air, soaking wet in her nightgown. She’s demanding a bath and some wine—she’s ordering the servants about as if she were a queen!”

“She’s back?” Octavia rose swiftly from her seat and combed through her hair with a shaking hand before snatching it away as she hastily composed herself. “See that Lady Maura is given all that she requires and dress me. I would have breakfast with our esteemed guest after she finishes her bath.”

Lady Elouise blinked questioningly and hastily bobbed a courtesy before she turned hesitantly towards the bedroom door.

“Don’t doddle about like a fool!” The Dowager snapped and shook her head as the attendant sprinted from the room. ‘Disappearing and then appearing out of thin air? That’s an interesting trick for an ice witch.’

Lady Delphine moved towards the ajar door and shut it with a sigh. “It would seem your guess was correct, your Grace.”

Octavia turned a wary glance towards the air witch who served as her attendant. “I trust you will keep your lips shut regarding this. That Earl who imagines himself a Witch King already knows far too much.”

“Of course, your Grace,” Delphine replied as she returned to pin Octavia’s frail white hair up into a bun before placing a powdered wig over it. “I have sworn to serve you until my last breath.”

“You are the only one that remains I can truly trust,” Octavia whispered as her gaze drifted towards the small painted portrait of a woman with blonde hair holding a bouquet of purple roses. “To have seen Kirsi twice in my lifetime. I am truly blessed.”

‘Though if Kirsi fails to fulfill her destiny—there will be no ice witches left to serve her in her next life.’

“What gown would you like to wear today, your Grace?” Lady Delphine asked as Octavia adjusted the wing and then pinned it into place.

The Dowager smiled as she contemplated her reflection and pinched her pale cheeks. “I’m in the mood for something—red.”

❆❆❆❆❆

In the end, Kirsi made the Dowager wait. Octavia repressed a nervous sigh as Captain Leo knocked on the open dining room door. She quickly gestured him towards her.

“Knight Commander Quentin has arrived,” Leo explained as he knelt before the monarch. “He requests an audience with your Grace.”

“Tell him to wait,” Octavia replied with a frown. “I’ve not yet had breakfast.”

Captain Leo glanced towards the second place set beside the Dowager’s seat and nodded silently as he rose to his feet. The brisk sound of approaching dainty heels turned them both towards the door as Lady Delphine entered, followed by the small, fragile figure of Lady Maura.

‘Compared to her previous life as a General of Lafeara, I must admit, a small, helpless half-blood doesn’t really suit the Scarlet Witch.’

“So glad you could finally join us,” Octavia remarked with a dismissive wave to the Captain, who bowed and retreated towards the dining room doors. “I trust you slept well despite—”

“Octavia.” Kirsi interrupted with a smile as she glanced about the glittering room and then focused on the surprised Dowager. “Might we have a word—in private?”

The half-blood’s calm yet domineering tone was enough to draw expressions of utter disbelief from Octavia’s staff, aside from Lady Delphine, who brushed a smile from her lips. Captain Leo paused in the doorway on his way out to stare at the young attendant with a startled frown.

“Lady Maura and I require some privacy,” Octavia acknowledged as she waved her attendants away.

“But do tell the chef to send in breakfast when he is ready,” Krisi added as she swept around the table, pulled out her chair, sat down, and then promptly placed both elbows on the table as she folded her hands together. “And the best wine you have on hand.”

The Dowager’s gaze rested once more on the black diamond ring the half-blood wore. A sense of restless desire quivered through it, knowing that whatever ice witch possessed that ring would inherit some of Kirsi’s formidable powers.

The annoyed frown that graced the Scarlet Witch’s face quickly drew Octavia’s attention to where Delphine waited awkwardly beside her while Captain Leo and the rest of the servants stood transfixed by the half-blood’s blatant rudeness.

“Do I need to repeat myself?” Octavia commented with a cold glare.

The servants scattered, and Lady Delphine pushed Captain Leo firmly into the hall before she shut the dining room doors quickly behind them. Kirsi smirked as she leaned back in her chair and rolled her neck towards the Dowager with a relaxed smile. “Are you enjoying the position of Queen Mother, Octavia?”

Octavia let out a nervous breath as she gazed into the Scarlet Witch’s ice-blue eyes and felt more than saw the significant shift in power that the half-blood had obtained seemingly overnight. “Regretfully, I have no children worthy of inheriting my family name or Lafeara’s throne. If you remember, Henri was the child of another queen I—removed from my path.”

“Ah yes, Queen Lucy—Lucillia?”

“Queen Lucette,” Octavia corrected.

Kirsi nodded thoughtfully as she unclasped her hands and drummed the table.

‘Her mannerisms have certainly changed. Lady Maura had significantly more grace and self-awareness.’

“And how long did it take you to get rid of King Leon, your husband?” Kirsi asked as she clasped her fingers together once more and stared at the kitchen door with a ravenous look.

“I had to wait until King Leon named Henri as crown prince,” Octavia answered with a sigh. “Once he passed beneath the aconitum flower, I decided to enjoy my newfound power as Queen Mother while I waited for you to return.”

“You could have just smothered the babe and ended the Havardur bloodline,” Kirsi observed with a faint frown. “Wasn’t that your greatest ambition?”

“My ambition, as you call it, is to see an Isbrand heir back on the throne,” Octavia replied with conviction. She smiled and reached across the table to take hold of Kirsi’s right hand. “And now we finally have that opportunity.”

“You could have taken it for yourself,” Kirsi replied with less enthusiasm.

Octavia shook her head. “Yes, I tried that—but Valda doesn’t have the same ring of power as Isbrand. The air witch covens would rather place one of their own on the throne over an all but dead family line.”

“You never had any children of your own?”

“A girl who died in childbirth before I became Queen, and—a bastard son, who was unfortunately born a half-witch.”

“A bastard half-witch?” Kirsi narrowed her eyes. “You fell in love with a mortal.”

“It was no fault of that child’s father,” Octavia replied with a note of bitterness as she withdrew her hand and turned it over to offer Kirsi her wrist. The scarlet witch frowned and glanced down at the offered hand, her eyes flashing bright blue for a moment before she sighed and looked away.

“You poisoned yourself with the Aconitum flower. Octavia, why?”

“The Pope’s bloodline became more powerful after your last defeat,” Octavia answered. “Aconitum was the only way to suppress my magic so that I might pass the church’s inspection and become a royal consort. King Leon threw his support behind Pope Ivan and received regular visits from the Divine Heir and his witch hunters. Even with a new identity, background, and family name—I couldn’t take that risk. Ivan himself killed an Isbrand prince to make his eldest son immortal—not that it spared the boy from Kritanta’s consort.”

“Well,” Kirsi shook her head wistfully and glanced around the gold chromed walls, ceiling, chandelier, and furniture. “At least you managed to survive surrounded by splendor and luxury.”

“You’re not—disappointed?” Octavia asked timidly as she dropped her hand to her lap.

Kirsi turned back to the Dowager and smiled. “Unlike the gods and my obstinate father, I don’t expect you or anyone else to suffer for me.”

Octavia exhaled, nodded, and then laughed as she studied Kirsi critically. “Well, perhaps we can help each other reach our goals this time around?”

“I can only die trying?” Kirsi muttered with a cynical smile. “Which reminds me,” she gestured to her temple. “My—host appears to have encountered some trouble before I woke up.”

“Ah, yes—” Octavia frowned as she glanced towards the dining-room door. A cunning smile spread across the Dowager’s face as she turned back to Kirsi and arched a single silver brow. “How would you feel about calling me godmother?”

Kirsi blinked, snorted out a chuckle, and nodded as she straightened in her chair. “It feels a little backward, but I think that will suit our needs just fine, little Octavia.”

“Our needs?” The Dowager replied with an inquisitive frown.

“I’ll explain later,” Kirsi responded and drew in a deep sigh before her attention shifted entirely to the opening kitchen door and the servants carrying out trays of food. “Finally!”

❆❆❆❆❆

Knight Commander Quentin paced the small greeting room in a tight triangle. He was less than pleased with the purpose of his visit. According to his subordinates, the Crown Princess’s accusations against Lady Maura had appeared seemingly overnight and were not so coincidentally linked to the attendant’s late-night visit to the Crown Prince’s palace.

‘I did wonder how long that half-blood would remain inside the palace without creating further problems.’ Quentin sighed as he took in the portrait of a much younger Queen Octavia, with a three-year-old Crown Prince Henri seated on her lap. ‘Both the Earl and Countess of Hawthorne asked that I keep an eye out for Lady Maura. Countess Constance even ordered me to cover up Lady Maura’s involvement in her half-brother’s death—and now the Dowager appears to be shielding her. She’s quite the resilient survivor.’

The faint sound of footsteps approaching from the hall turned Quentin towards the door as Captain Leo appeared with a tight smile.

“The Dowager will see you now, Knight Commander,” Leo announced with a brisk salute. “If you would follow me.”

“Excellent,” Quentin replied with a sense of relief. Dowager Octavia was reasonable and would most likely handle this matter without the Knight Commander being forced to make a public arrest. The less Quentin became involved in the jealous disputes between a wife and potential mistress, the better for his sanity. His current workload was already taxing enough with the added mystery of the Ambassador’s mysterious death still hanging over the capital.

‘In any case, the Dowager has the final say on Nicholas’s consorts until his coronation, so she will either acknowledge the half-blood or kick her out.’

The Knight Commander followed the young Captain in the familiar direction of the Dowager’s private indoor garden. The open glass doors carried out the cheerful sounds of a violin as the men walked through. Quentin beheld the Dowager, in a stunning red dress, seated upon a flowing white chair while a young noblewoman, ‘probably the half-blood,’ he reasoned, played her instrument with startling proficiency for one so young.

“Ahh, Commander Quentin!” Octavia greeted with a relaxed smile as he stepped forward to kiss the monarch’s offered hand. “Thank you for waiting.”

“Not at all, your Grace,” Quentin responded politely as he stepped back and glanced towards the young lady with ash brown hair and startlingly familiar ice-blue eyes. ‘Right, Declan did mention in his report that she might be an ice witch. Perhaps that’s why the Dowager is shielding her.’

“You are here to speak to Lady Maura, is that correct, Commander?” Octavia pressed pointedly as she motioned for the servants to bring over two chairs. “I will permit you to speak with her, but I must ask that you put aside any notion of arrest or detainment.”

‘Straight to the point as always.’ Quentin nodded and waited for Lady Maura to be seated before he took the chair beside her. “I do have a few questions for you, Lady Maura. I also hope that your Grace might assist me in finding a more peaceful solution to the current—situation.” He glanced towards the servants hesitantly.

“Lady Delphine.” Octavia smiled as her attendant hurriedly dismissed all the servants and, once more, shut the garden doors on her way out. “You may continue, Commander.”

Quentin cleared his throat as he turned to the half-blood, trying not to stare at those unnerving blue eyes, and framed his first question. “I meant to speak with you prior to this meeting, Lady Maura, concerning the ongoing investigation into the death of your half-brother, Lord Lincoln, which took place on the evening before you first entered the palace.”

The corner of Maura’s mouth twitched. For a moment, her gaze shifted over his shoulder as if searching for an answer or memory. Then the half-blood’s expression twisted with such extreme displeasure that Quentin momentarily lost his train of thought. A chill ran down his spine as the half-blood’s ice-blue eyes focused on him with a keen sense of resentment.

“Ahem—that is, I wanted to inquire about your whereabouts on the night of your brother’s death.”

“In the alley,” Lady Maura replied as she brushed a stray petal from her dress.

Quentin stiffened and glanced sharply towards the Dowager, who also appeared surprised by the attendant’s response. “I beg your pardon, Lady Maura,” he murmured as he refocused his attention on the young woman sharply. “Are you saying you were in the slums along with your half-brother the night that Lincoln Turnbell was murdered?”

“That is correct, Commander.” Maura smiled, her expression almost condescending as she folded her hands and continued. “No, to be completely honest and clear, I am saying that I killed the disgusting animal.”

“Kir—” Octavia cut herself off quickly. “Maura, you can’t—openly admit to murdering a—”

Quentin held up a hand and sent the Dowager a pleading look as he turned back to the half-blood. “Would you mind explaining your reasons for doing so, Lady Maura?”

“He tried to rape us—me,” Maura replied as her expression shifted from rage to disgust and then disappointment. “I panicked—and killed him while attempting to defend myself.”

Quentin exhaled as he rubbed the back of his neck and leaned back in his chair. He might have accepted this story without question a few days earlier. The evidence collected by Lieutenant Declan had heavily supported such a theory before the church became involved, and Quentin discreetly destroyed all the evidence related to Lincoln’s death at the Countess’s command.

But the terrified half-blood he had imagined was nothing at all like the young woman who sat before him calmly, with an air of impatience even, as she waited for him to continue.

“Was there something else you wished to ask me, Commander?”

“Why admit to it?” Quentin replied quickly, unable to hold back his confusion.

“Because you won’t tell anyone,” Maura replied with a shrug. “If you did, you would have to expose me as a witch. Since you have not done so already, you must be under orders from someone you dare not refuse to protect my secret.”

Quentin scoffed, his bewilderment only amplified by her confident tone and pose. “And why would you think that, Lady Maura?”

The attendant laughed, her ice-blue eyes glinting as she raised a single brow. “Because you are a witch yourself, Commander.”

Quentin clamped his jaw shut and then laughed sharply as he leaned back in his chair and turned towards the Dowager. Octavia smiled sympathetically but shook her head. “I ahh—” the Knight Commander cleared his throat. “Very well. Consider my questions related to the murder of Lincoln Turnbell finished. But what about the Crown Princess’s accusations, Lady Maura?”

“Has Eleanora provided any evidence?” the half-blood replied with a cunning smile.

“I sent my knights over to collect the evidence this morning—but I have not seen it personally myself,” Quentin admitted. “Why would her Highness report you for poisoning a member of the royal family if she did not have proof?”

“Because she was attempting to blackmail me, and it didn’t work,” Maura replied with a dismissive shrug. “Rest assured, whatever evidence they may forge to ensure my conviction will be destroyed before I ever step foot into court.”

“You are—speaking of destroying evidence, Lady Maura,” Quentin replied grimly with a glance to the Dowager.

“Forged evidence, Commander,” the half-blood replied with a cynical smile.

“Ah,” the Knight Commander shook his head. “In any event, a trial is only granted to nobles. The letter I received from her Highness stated quite clearly that she had revoked your title as Baroness. Which means her word alone is enough to convict—”

“I am still a noble. My mother’s title was restored after her death,” Maura interrupted impatiently.

“But you have not inherited a title yourself,” Quentin explained cautiously. “Your—status—and your grandfather’s reluctance to acknowledge either of his granddaughters as part of the Gilwren family makes that—insufficient to protect you.”

“We thought you might say that,” Octavia interrupted with an amused smile. “Which is why you will be the first to hear my good news.”

“Oh?” Quentin turned back to the Dowager, both curious and eager to wash his hands of this mess.

“I’ve decided to formally adopt Lady Maura as my goddaughter,” Octavia announced as she rose and held out her hand to the half-blood. “The paperwork has already been sent to the Crown Prince, who will no doubt approve.”

‘Goddaughter? A half-blood witch?’ Quentin’s eyes narrowed as he focused on the confident young woman who stood beside Lafeara’s longest-reigning and perhaps most dangerous monarch. ‘Well, they’re both ice witches—I suppose I should have expected this much.’

“My congratulations to your Grace and to you, Lady Maura—”

“Lady Maura Valda,” Octavia corrected with a gleaming smile. “I’ve also decided to give her my old family name since Viscount Gilwren is unable to recognize her worth.”

‘I just know this is going to create a lot more headaches in my future,’ Quentin thought grimly as he bowed before the Queen Regent and her troublesome new weapon. ‘How unfortunate for the Crown Princess to have made such a formidable enemy.’