Instead, I focus on releasing these witches from the torment he has them locked within, black spittle oozing from their mouths and their eyes as they swarm to me. As the steel length of my sword bites into them and tears their flesh apart, arcs of the earth's true power radiate down the blade to magnify the damage and send them on their way back to the Fates. They may return to Elysium, but their souls can never be cleared of the evil Kharl sowed there, and I can’t help but wonder if the Fates will look kindly on the witches who willingly turned from their way.
I don’t have the heart for such a question; their death is all I crave as penance for their crimes, but it’ll never be enough. No amount of bloodshed and torture could ever atone for the Ravenswyrd Coven and the hundreds of others lost here.
The witches who were born within the Witch Ward know nothing but this chaos, and they snarl at me in their final moments, but I see other witches amongst the crowd, a glimmer of fear tempering the madness before their deaths, and “Mother” on their lips as the power arcs from my scepter. My robes spin and twirl as I become nothing more than the force of retribution, my sword swinging elegantly as I perform an old dance. One I can never unlearn, and I thank the Fates for that.
I feel the moment Kharl crosses the fae door once more, the smoke curling into the air but the scent of it obscured now by the burning flesh of the witches. They’ve been destroyed by the witcheswane and the dragon oil, the stink of it all consuming as it coats the back of my throat until bile threatens to choke me, but the magic the earth gave me holds off the effects of it for now.
The blood of the witches begins to poison the land underneath us, stinking and rotting and doing more damage to Yregar. Another devastating blow against the healing I’ve so desperately tried to offer it, and some of the calm I'd slipped into during the power exchange wavers. My temper flares as the magic of the land protests within me at such treatment.
They've takeneverythingfrom us—taken away the rites, taken away those who cared for us, until there was nothing left of our great legacy. My mind fills with the song of the trees as they mourn the damage to the kingdom. I hear their pain through the power given to me, the deep-rooted oaks spread throughout the Southern Lands older than the kingdom itself burning in misery as Kharl leaves nothing but destruction in his wake.
His death will be mine, and the trees will sing their glory once more.
The cobblestones of the village are slick beneath my feet, every inch of my body covered in blackened and poisoned blood, and the stink of it is streaked across my cheeks. My stomach protests the moment I take notice of it, roiling dangerously. The piles of dead are everywhere as I cast my magic out to be sure none are left behind, none are left to take root here and spread Kharl’s poison further.
The village is destroyed.
My own temper, unaided by the land, flares, and the next witch I find still mumbling under his breath takes the brunt of it. He stares up at the sky pleadingly, the pain across his face ending at the vicious swing of my sword as I put every ounce of my fury behind it.
The inequity of it all sinks its teeth into me, biting down until I’m holding on to my clear head by a thread. The high fae castle stands untouched, while the villagers and the refugees are left with nothing, always losing out in this vicious war with no one to defend them or the lands. It will take months just to repair the buildings and replace the belongings that were lost today, and the cold grip of winter fast approaches.
High fae soldiers stream down the stairs on the inner wall, but the shield stays true, keeping them securely held within the protection of my power.
There's a loudpopahead, and through the wreckage of the wall I see the fae door open once more, magic sustaining it even as it burns. I look over to find riders coming through, no longer the raving masses but witches who sit securely in their saddles with a calm that none of the other witches have held.
Kharl has sent his generals for me, witches with magic strong enough to face me and change his fate once and for all. I count as six of them cross on horseback, wearing the same black cloaks as he did, their power rippling through the battlefield of Yregar. They cross one by one, not waiting for each other as they each ride toward me at a breakneck pace.
Shouts sound along in a wall as soldiers attempt to cross the shield, swords drawn to join me in the fight. Dozens more stand waiting, arrows drawn and desperate to fire, but the shield doesn’t just keep the enemy out, but them within. I don’t want help, I don’t need the distraction, and I turn my back on them all as my magic holds the shield in place.
It will not fall.
I don't look back as I focus on those six riders, their horses snorting and snarling beneath them as they push them harder. The beasts are bred for war, riding hard enough to kill themselves, and the calls of the high fae grow louder. Reed’s voice is in the mix as he desperately tries to get my attention, but I ignore him as I move. I step into the path to the fae door to meet my enemy upon their arrival, lifting my scepter toward the sky and letting out a burst of power. The once raving masses of the dead jerk and twitch before falling still once more, one final check to be sure the army is dealt with as the generals approach. A single twisted witch with a dagger could be the end of me if I’m taken by surprise in the middle of a fight.
Power isn’t something to be taken lightly, and I know no arrogance in this fight. My eyes slip shut for just a moment as I murmur a prayer to the Fates. This isn’t my time; many battles lie ahead, Kharl's death at my hands to restore the lands just one part of the greater whole, my fate too intricate to end it all now.
I faced the Ureen and the possible end of all time in the Northern Lands. I survived the very worst that war can bring with my friends at my side and under my brother's watchful presence. I’m not going to die here and now by these generals. I won’t cross to Elysium until I’ve seen my brother again, not until I bring him home to the forest with the land renewed and the war here over. I'm not going to die today and let the Fates tear the sky open once more.
I open my eyes just in time for the first of the generals to reach me, steel arcing through the air vibrating and glowing red with power, but I lift my own sword to block the blow, pushing my magic into the strike and watching as he tumbles from his saddle. He catches himself to land on his feet in a telling action.
These are not the raving hordes lying dead around me, these are soldiers and powerful witches in their own right. This witch doesn't wear a hood, and the markings on his face proclaim him a member of the Nightsyde Coven. He’s long since betrayed them to their demise, but they once lived in the Mistwyrd Forest nestled within the Blood Valley, an ancient forest of great sacrifice that stands tall and proud.
That power is distorted in this man whose eyes flash silver, framed by dark marks and a cruel twist of his lip.
“Mother,” he taunts, the word a curse on his lips.
There's no relic in his hand as he lifts his sword and strikes at me, stronger and taller than me, but I was trained by the Seelie high fae, who are far stronger and taller than any witch could ever be. I take the blow without fault, letting his momentum pull him forward to shift his balance. I widen my stance as I spin around him, watching as he barely blocks my own blow. Our robes fan out as we spin and hack at one another, power running down the length of our swords as we use every skill at our disposal. Any misstep now will be my last. I block out the screams of the high fae on the wall until I know nothing but my sword and scepter.
When he finally loses his temper and swings at me recklessly, I duck and slash at his ribs, the bite of my Seelie blade slicing through the robes, and blood, still red, pours from his side in a confession of his compliance.
Kharl didn’t have to twist this male’s mind—he followed willingly.
The blood soaks into the land, an unwilling sacrifice, but still not enough. I turn, and the two of us are side by side as I lift my sword and spin. My arms are numbed by the magic pumping through me, so I barely feel the strain as the sword hits home this time, slicing through his neck and cleaving his head from his body in a single powerful stroke.
There's no time for me to rest, no time to take stock of the situation, as the sound of hooves on cobblestone echoes louder, more of their kind coming for me. I don't need to think; I learned that long ago. My body acts on instinct alone, honed for centuries, and the sound of my sword clashing with another rings through the decimated streets of Yregar Village, echoing through the burning buildings and bouncing off the cobblestones.
My boots move smoothly underneath me, my footwork so ingrained in me I don’t have to think about it as I spin and turn, facing the witch as she flings herself from her horse. The beast gallops away, terrified and frantic as it weaves through the piles of bodies. Long tresses of red hair spill out from the witch’s dark hood, and the witch markings on her hands glow black with her power.
Her hand runs down the length of her blade, ornate and ceremonial but sharpened for this purpose, the embedded stones of citrine and smoky quartz lighting up in the hilt as her magic takes hold of the weapon.
