It was the same name on every lip. Kharl Balzog of the Renfyre Coven.
In his witchling days, he traveled long and far to cultivate a deep-seated hatred of the high fae, the Unseelie Court and the Southern Lands bearing the brunt of his animosity. In the whispers passed on to Pemba and me from other refugee witches, his reasons were never clear, but he started an uprising with nothing but his magic, his charismatic personality, his ability to convince covens that the Fates are on his side, and a wanton disrespect for life and the land.
His name is carved into my soul right next to the mate the Fates picked out for me, two facets of the same fate to end the war and save the fae folk from senseless death and violence. A path laid out before me that is so terrifying, I ran from it the moment the Seer dismissed me from her temple.
Many other witches fled the war before we did, hundreds from all the different covens in the forests, but not many made it out after us. Pemba obsessively questioned them about what happened, trying to glean the truth of Kharl’s plans and how he’d convinced so many covens to follow him. Each and every witch Pemba questioned looked at him as though he was stupid, and it was only when they heard the Ravenswyrd name that they understood our naïvety.
The forest protected us from the horror of the truth.
For hundreds of years, unrest simmered until it boiled over and turned into all-out war, and yet we’d known none of it. I often questioned myself about whether our parents could have known. There's no way to tell; they never let it slip to us. Not once did we catch any of the elders murmuring amongst themselves about evil acts, the curses and the distortion of our ways poisoning the witches so deeply that their blood turned black and rotted in their veins even as their hearts still beat in their chests. Part of me believes they couldn't possibly have known how bad things were, because Pemba and I couldn’t have missed whispers of that.
If they had known, maybe they would’ve survived. Maybe our coven wouldn't have been so trusting of outsiders, and we would’ve questioned whether the forest could keep us safe from our own kind. Maybe the Favored Children would have made it through the night.
Instead, we were betrayed.
I unpack the small bedroll from my backpack, feeling the cooler summer night air of the Southern Lands over my exposed skin. It feels like months ago that I packed my bag, careful to bring only the most basic essentials. I left so much behind in the Northern Lands, every luxury I fought to earn for myself, as well as everyone I love.
I left my brother behind.
Memories are the only thing that can break through the hard shell I’ve encased myself in. One thought, and tears fill my eyes. I blink them away with a soft curse. I can’t afford weakness right now, but the tears keep coming.
I take off my cloak and bundle it to cushion my head, then lie down and look up at the stars still bright overhead. By habit, my hand drifts to the pocket of my dress, seeking out the small ribbon I usually keep there as a talisman but finding nothing. When I first arrived in the Northern Lands and found myself homesick for the forest and the old ways, Pemba tried to cheer me by continuing our coven traditions, asking soldiers in our training ranks until he’d gathered a small collection of supplies. I spent my meager free time in the Sol Army desperately holding on to the traditions of the Ravenswyrd, and the ribbon became a testament to that, a long, thin scrap of silk that I embroidered. It wasn’t valuable to anyone but me, a record of my story told in the images woven in the threads.
The morning I left Sol City, I tied the ribbon to the Ravenswyrd scepter, my family’s most precious relic, and tucked them both away inside my magic for safe keeping. It was the first time I’d been without the ribbon in decades, and I’m bereft without the feel of the silk against my fingers.
The scepter itself is an ancient object of great power, and though I once feared it, I learned to wield it with confidence. It’s far too valuable to carry visibly in the Southern Lands, and I made my peace with traveling without the ancient wood warming my hands long before I stepped foot on the ship.
I force my mind to empty so I can fall asleep, one of the greatest tricks my time as a soldier taught me. We all learned to sleep at a moment's notice under any conditions, to shut our brains off just enough to get the rest we needed while still being aware enough to sense the enemy creeping up on us.
It’s come in handy more times than I can count, and it takes only a breath or two before I fall into a dreamless sleep. I get a few short hours of rest before I feel the presence of others in my proximity.
I keep my eyes shut tight, my heart beating slowly in my chest as I control my reactions. I don't need to be scared.
I will trust in the Fates to see me through this without harm.
The sounds of branches crunching and leaves rustling underfoot break through the silence of the night. Whoever these people are, they’re doing themselves a disservice. With all the noise they’re making, I could’ve drawn a blade and killed them with my eyes shut.
Through my hearing alone, I can tell that three are approaching. One is heavyset and breathing with difficulty, one has a limp, and the third has already drawn a weapon and is inching towards me on feet that are less clumsy than his companions’ but still far too loud to do any good.
“What do we have here, boys? Wearing robes like that, it’s a witch! I thought there were none left out here. You're a long way from your comrades, girlie.”
I open my eyes and sit up on the bedroll, then stare down the speaker until a flicker of nervousness enters his eyes. He’s a part-blood with elf and goblin heritage that has given his body unique proportions. His huge hands look even stronger at the ends of his smaller arms, and his head looks petite where it sits over a set of massive shoulders. Looking at him, I’m grateful I won’t be relying on my own physical strength to get me out of trouble.
The longer I hold his gaze, unwavering and without a drop of fear in me, the more obvious his discomfort becomes, a twitch in his jaw quickening until a snarl rips out of his chest. His lip curls as he fights the fear that’s slowly filling his aura, clearly thinking himself to be a brave, alpha sort of male and enraged that I don’t view him the same.
“Dragon's fire! A witch all the way out here without one of the Savage Prince’s soldiers finding her first—the Fates have blessed us today, boys! One of you get a gag in her mouth before she can use magic against us.”
The larger male snaps back with a smirk, “Their kind don't have any magic left. They give it all to the High Witch for his stores. I’m not putting my hands on one ofthosebeasts, thank you.”
High Witch.
There's no such thing, it’s just some stupid title that Kharl gave himself in an attempt to seem more important than he actually is. None of Kharl’s long and twisted deceptions have done anything to bring me to his cause; they’ve only convinced me of his deranged state.
Before I returned here, I visited the Seer again, in her new temple in the Northern Lands. She filled me in on some vital details.
I keep my mouth shut and move very slowly, pulling myself onto my knees and then getting to my feet, holding my hands out so they won’t assume I'm trying to hurt them. I’d rather not waste magic on any of these men tonight, not when there are far greater dangers in my future.
“If you're going to take me prisoner, can I at least pack up my bedroll? I'd rather not lose it.”
