Every high fae soldier who stood behind the bloodwitches is gone. Baylor and the other disgraced fae now stand marooned in a crimson sea, the blood seeping into the churned forest floor and answering the demand of the land.
There's no bones or flesh, no marker of where each high fae perished, nothing but the heated stink of blood. It's sprayed far enough that it covers the horses and all the riders sitting at the front of our battalion, and Baylor is covered entirely.
Blood rushing in my ears, my mind still struggling to grasp the scene playing out before me, another of the Reborn shifts away from the group to stand directly before Rooke, his eyes cold even as they glow red with his blood magic.
When Roan shifts on his feet, Gideon doesn’t react from where he still stands covering his wife, only whispering in a hoarse tone for high fae hearing alone, “That’s Ignis Reborn… his brother Jamis is behind him, and the mist-wielder is Oskar. If you want to live through this, Snowsong, then don’t draw any attention to yourself. Those slashes along their faces mark the royal high fae bloodlines they’ve ended.”
My gaze flicks as though commanded to the lines carved onto Ignis’ face casting a deep red glow over his features, catching to pool within a multitude of white scars he bears. Much like Davyna, power emanates from him in waves, too much for his body to contain without it spilling forth, and my own magic rises to the surface in response. Physically, he looks every bit the nightmare Gage warned the Reborn to be, but standing before them now, it’s their magic that promises every word of the rumors rings true.
Rooke stares back at him, solemn but with the same respect she shows all fae folk.
Oskar watches my croí obsessively, the swell of magic within him jarring. He’s just reduced an entire battalion of high fae to a liquid offering to the land, yet far more of that violent power is ready to strike at his command. My gaze catches on the witch marking carved into the triangle of skin between his thumb and index finger, glowing red with power. Careful not to turn my head too far, I find the same one on all of them; an oak leaf glowing blood red.
Ignis dismisses all the high fae royalty before him entirely, his eyes only on Rooke as he bows deeply to her. He doesn’t clasp his hand over his heart, and she doesn’t bow back to him, insteadholding her hand out to him. He takes it, pressing the back of it to his forehead.
Then he kisses it.
As he straightens back up, it doesn’t escape my notice that his thumb rubs over that same spot but before my magic lashes out, he speaks in the old language.
“Are you certain, Mother Ravenswyrd?”
She swallows, a pained action not one of fear, and she nods, holding out the hand he isn’t clutching. With a pop of light, a cluster of arrows appears; thin ash with raven’s feathers for thatching. The tips are missing, the shafts splintered and stained with blood, some marked where they went through their victim to bury into the ground as they fell.
Every Reborn turns as one to stare at those arrows, their magic surging out of them to wash over us all. Ignis reaches to take the splintered pieces of wood from Rooke’s palm gently, the careful action at odds with the trembling fury in his voice.
Still covered in Vyrain’s blood, Baylor chest heaves in his panic as a rambling plea falls from his lips that he surely doesn’t believe could save him. “A drop of Reborn blood and you’d listen to a Ravenswyrd over a true bloodwitch? I was the one to call you home!”
The response is instant; every Reborn witch turns their backs on us, and their stances fall seamlessly into a fighting position. The pulsing beat grows louder, a call for blood my magic still strains to answer, and the wood of the arrows creaks dangerously in Ignis’ tightened fist as he stares at Baylor with violent intent.
"Every true bloodwitch knows the way of our coven, our forests and the reason they gave us life. No matter the cost, the Reborn always answer a Favored Child's call... butthisone, Betrayer? This Favored Child could ask for the blood in my own veins and I’d open them for her without question."
Baylor glances over Ignis’ shoulder at Rooke, his eyes peeled back so far that even at this distance I can see the mania dancing within the white globes. None of the Reborn like his gaze touching her, snarls tearing out of them, and Jamis moves to cover my Fates-blessed mate from the male entirely.
When Ignis takes a step back to Baylor every bloodwitch stares at him as though he speaks for the Fates themselves, hanging on his every word as they wait for his command for blood.
Lifting the arrows, he plucks one from the pile and his witch marks flare before he snarls, “Estri.”
Casting it to the ground with the vehemence of an executioner swinging a sword, he grips another, taking a step as his magic flares again.
“Violet.”
Swish, step.
“Thatch.”
Swish, step.
“Clove.”
Swish, step.
“Tawnie.”
Gut clenching, my gaze snaps to Rooke at the same time as Reed’s does at her sister’s name, the meaning of this ceremony growing clearer.
Swish, step.
“Willow.”
