My Fates-cursed mate lifts her sword and knocks the first witch out of the saddle with ease, his horse whinnying as it bolts away from them both, snorting and panting in terror as it flees.
One on one, we see the true power of the witch’s sword technique, the perfect dance as their swords clash and part and clash again. The male she faces is desperate as he hacks at her while her sword moves almost lazily through the air; she’s comfortable in the way only a true master of the art can be.
She doesn’t waste time drawing out the duel, cleaving her enemy’s head from his shoulders as she turns on her heel and her robes flare around her once more. The blood that drips onto the cobblestones is still red, the powerful witch a willing accomplice and still of sound mind.
I watch as the blood disappears between the cracks, the words of the Ravenswyrd Forest a lesson of what magic is taking place there. A sacrifice unwillingly made but accepted all the same, and hopefully one that sends the witch more power.
There are footsteps behind me, and Tauron and Tyton both fall into place at my side as they watch the witch fight. Tyton is rubbing his temples, but he’s awake and watching closely as the next rider approaches. The female jumps from her saddle willingly, holding up a sword confidently but with none of the technique of the warrior she faces.
Tyton turns to Tauron with narrowed eyes and snaps at his brother, “You heard what she said to Kharl. There's no denying her loyalties now. I told you the forest said she would save us all—the forest promised me she was honest and true and like nothing else in the Southern Lands. The last Ravenswyrd Mother cannot be overlooked or disrespected.”
Tauron grimaces, but for once he has nothing to say, his writhing anger dormant within him as the wrath of a witch the trees love scorches the enemies before us.
She speaks to this new witch, fury rolling off her once more. She lifts the scepter, and light arcs from the top and kills the approaching riders instantly in their saddles. She tears them apart with her power as though theirs is nothing. Kharl’s assumptions of what it will take to defeat her are so far from the truth.
My own assumptions are also being blown apart right now, though at least I’m not running away in terror from her wrath like the self-proclaimed High Witch did.
As the defeated female crawls away desperately, the witch finishes her off, her anger merciless in all the ways I thought she would be with the high fae, but here we stand, protected by her magic. She stands and waits, not letting the shield down, and when she’s sure that the riders have stopped coming, she turns to survey the village, careful in her assessment. When she confirms them all dead, the emerald of the scepter glows, and she burns the rotting witch-flesh and destroys the poison they leach. I’m sure this isn’t about helping us with the cleanup but rather protecting the land from taking in too much of that toxic blood.
The smoke and the stink become unbearable as she turns back to the fae door, the flames still burning high as the magic fuels them. She lifts her scepter again, only this time, we all feel the magic in our bones as she closes the door and pushes the magic back into the earth, the flames snuffing out as though they were never there in the first place. The earth accepts the old magic back into its depths, swallowing it down until there's no trace of it left.
Our shortcut through the kingdom is gone, but the witches' attacks are halted once more.
With small pops of light, her weapons disappear back into the ether where she hides them, the question of the missing dagger answered. Her hands flare out at her sides, and she tilts her head back and lets the early morning sun shine down on her face, her skin still glowing and a calm falling over her once more. The tense lines of fury melt away from her expression, and the serene female appears—her most dangerous form, because seeing her standing there that way turns the unspent fury within me into something I don’t want to admit to.
It's impossible to see on her black linen robes, but spatters of witch blood cover her face and hands in a gory display of her ruthless battles. There’s a tear in the skirts at her side, and the black leather boots she’s now wearing look nothing like the Unseelie high fae ones Airlie gave her. She’s dressed for war on her own terms, a female to be reckoned with.
Her hair is secured back in the same braid she wears as she tends to the injured and ill with gentle healer’s hands and a thorough eye, the same braid she wore while pouring magic into her garden and cultivating the plants that grow under her careful eyes, the same braid she wore as she eased my cousin's baby into the world, breaking curses and holding the infant with care.
All of these females are one and the same, each a facet of the same witch, driven out of the Southern Lands long ago by a war and a fate that terrified a child of the forest who’d known only peace and neutrality.
My Fates-blessed mate.
* * *
The witch doesn't move from the village. She continues to soak in the gentle rays of the sun, as the soldiers on the wall begin to dig our way out of the smoldering piles of ashes left behind.
The mounds block the gate, and we’re unable to get it open. Teams of soldiers are sent down the outer staircases to get to work, but they don't approach her. Instead, they choke back their reactions to the already rotting corpses as they clear the gate and then start to work on a path out.
When the iron door, creaking and damaged but still secure, swings open, there’s a collective sigh of relief. Sentries still cover the battlements and hold watch; the battle is over now, but our guard must never come down.
Kharl's fate must be ringing in his ears, tormenting him now that he's learned it still stalks him, and his armies are still plentiful. This battle might have been a defeat, but I’m sure he won't even notice the loss of his soldiers back in the Witch Ward. Every count we’ve made of his forces, every rumor we’ve heard and every tale of the writhing masses of his armies tells of far greater numbers than what we’ve seen today, a sobering thought for all.
I take grim satisfaction that his numbers may recover, but his mind certainly won't. I’ve lived through centuries of torture over my own fate, a promise of good things just outside my grasp, but there's nothing good coming his way. Nothing to keep him from falling further into his insanity.
When a path is finally cleared, I look back toward the witch only to find her gone, vanished as though she was never there in the first place. My heart clenches in revolt, but Tyton steps forward ahead of me, his eyes narrowed as he stares toward the outer wall. He glances at me before nodding in that direction, and I follow his gaze.
The witch moves to each high-fae soldier who was lost in the first wave of the witches’ attack, their bodies strewn over the cobblestones by the force of the wall coming down. There’s no sign of discomfort in her posture, not at the battle she just fought on her own or from the witcheswane that surrounds her, and I wonder if the magic of the land strengthens her against it.
I don’t need the tug of the Fates in my chest to lead me to her. I might have been wrong about her allegiances and her motives, but she’s definitely a beacon, only I’m the one drawn to her and unable to resist the pull.
I call for Ingor to bring me Nightspark as Tyton lets out a breath, raw and full of pain. “She's praying for our dead, to see them safely to Elysium. The same soldiers who've whispered their hopes for her suffering and death at your hands, and she's out there reading them their last rites to see them on their journey safely.”
I have nothing to say back to that, no way to describe the twisted mess that only grows more intricate inside my chest.
Ingor finally brings Nightspark to me, his head bowed and his skin still pale from shock but his eyes clear after our victory. He didn’t see the worst of it from the stables, but no one missed the shield of the witch’s power as it protected us, pushing Kharl’s forces back and saving the wall just as the gate had begun to break. We all know how close it came.
One of the sentries from the wall calls out, “Riders from the Outlands approach! Dozens arrive to Yregar. The Snowsong colors fly strong; Prince Roan is here.”
