It‘ll be one of the first things I do once I take the throne—send soldiers back here to wipe this market clean. The idea of the flesh trade having something to do with keeping my mate from me is enough to warrant the decimation of the place.
There's a commotion toward the edge of the market, gasps and jeering breaking through the noise, and I feel the tug in my chest.
I ignore Tauron’s muttered curses and take off in that direction, oblivious to everything but that invisible thread pulling me forward. My friends surround me to ensure that my uncle can’t finally let his executioner's sword swing for my neck.
My senses tunnel down until I’m plowing through the crowd regardless of who’s in my way.
The mutters and gasps turn into screams of terror, anyone who sees the savage determination on my face blanching and scurrying back in fear, and the crowd parts before me.
Three mercenaries stand there, swords buckled at their sides and disheveled leather clothing that has seen better days covering them like low-grade armor. They look fed and well-kept in a way no one else around us does, so they’re either outsiders, or taking bribes from someone more fortunate than themselves. They stare at me like I’m their worst nightmare come true—an apt observation on their part—but my eyes focus between them, and I forget the vengeance that burns within me.
Flanked by the mercenaries is a female about a foot shorter than I am, with her back to me. A black braid secured with a leather strap hangs down one side.
At the commotion of the crowd, she turns to face me, and a few wisps of those inky locks tumble over her sun-kissed cheeks. There’s no hunger in the rosiness of her complexion or the curves of her body beneath the dark folds of fabric that cover her. Her face is unmarked and vibrant with good health, her natural beauty shining through as she stands before me. A smattering of freckles stands out over her nose and under her sooty lashes as she blinks, but my gaze is pulled down to the gag stuffed in her mouth. The tight fabric digs into her cheeks, and a bruise blooms at her throat.
The further down I look, the deeper into my rage I fall.
Her hands are bound in front of her with iron, the thick bands clamped directly on the tender skin, and blood drips down her slender fingers and falls to the cracked cobblestones at her feet. The copper tang of her blood breaks through the assault of scents in the market and fills my lungs with the call of my mate.
The Fates scream within me, demanding I kill the males touching her and all those who look on, gouge out their eyes for daring to look upon what is mine and for me alone.
My Unseelie nature kicks in, and my hand drops to the pommel of my sword, the sapphire there warm to the touch as the power of my ancestors lingers. Bloodlust blinds me for a moment before my senses finally return and, with them, the true horror of what stands before me.
Staring back at me, with contempt in her undeniably silver eyes, is my Fates-blessed mate.
A witch.
Every inch of me rejects my reaction to her. My lip curls, a snarl bubbling out of the fiery pits of my gut, only for the wall in my mind that has separated us for two hundred excruciatingly long years to disappear and the voice I’ve dreamed of to finally echo inside my head once more.
The blood in my veins turns to ice.
Hello, Donn.
CHAPTERTHREE
Rooke
I know when my Fates-blessed mate arrives in the village.
Like a bolt of lightning running through my blood, a tingling starts in the scar at my waist and works its way through my limbs until I feel as though my skin is going to slide right off my bones. There’s a tugging feeling at the center of my chest, as though my fate is pulling me to him, and my stomach clenches around the fluttering feeling there. The physical reaction is out of my control—I know exactly which male is hunting me through the crowd, and I’d rather cut off a limb than feel this way abouthim. The sensation is uncomfortable, to say the least, and it's only the presence of the three mercenaries that stops me from shaking out my limbs to ease the feeling.
I’m beyond the point of running.
I did that as a young girl when I first learned my fate, but now, after centuries in the Northern Lands fighting against the Ureen in the Fate Wars, I’ve come to accept that certain things cannot be changed. Not without a catastrophic loss of lives and land, a burden I could never carry.
The mercenaries pull me behind them, a swagger in their gait as they parade their prize through the crowd that gathers as though by accident. There's a murmuring from the villagers as they stop and stare, their eyes looking unnaturally large in their faces due to how thin they all are. The high fae guards we pass are all in perfect health, clean and vigorous as they accept silver coins from my captors and wave us past without really looking in my direction. The stark difference in their physical condition sets my teeth on edge, my contempt at the call of my fate simmering even hotter.
The iron shackles around my wrists itch, though they do little more than irritate my skin because my magic is strong enough to keep the metal from burning me. The real pain flooding my body radiates from my scar, the mottled skin on my stomach and my back from my time in the Fate Wars. I was struck by a Ureen, one of the mindless creatures that descended from the tear in the sky over the Northern Lands, and now I have a close relationship with the Fates themselves. I sense their whims and desires in ways I never could have imagined before.
It’s a useful but constant reminder of the numbness that has filled me since the war ended, still holding my mind apart from my body as I catalog the sensations without truly feeling them or caring about the damage being done to me. Even when the mercenary tugs at the iron chains and the shackles break my skin, my blood dripping freely from the wounds, I do little more than murmur a prayer to the Fates in the old language for the land to accept the blood as an offering so it isn’t wasted.
At first, the shock and whispers that move like waves through the crowd are centered on me. I suspect this is the welcome any witch gets in the Southern Lands, thanks to Kharl and the evils of the war. I don't blame these people for their reactions, not even those who call out for my death. The endless attacks on the lower fae and part-bloods and the devastation to the land that has destroyed the food supply here can be blamed directly on the witches, and I can’t find any emotion within myself for the villagers but pity.
I also don't cower or drop my gaze from any of them.
I am a Ravenswyrd witch, the last Mother of the coven.
We’ve always held neutrality in this land, caretakers and healers to all without question, and I’m not ashamed of the blood that runs through my veins. No whispers or war can change that.
