Moyr turns and vomits at their feet.
Hanede doesn’t move or make a single sound, and when Moyr straightens, there’s no disgust on the boy’s face as he blinks up at him. He’s clutching the relic of the Brindlewyrd, a scepter carved from white ash with a large purple gem set into the top. Thanks to the magic of the relic, it’s barely longer than the boy’s arm but the power of the Brindlewyrd Coven singsthrough it regardless, the stone glowing brightly at the boy’s command.
Hanede shouldn’t be able to hold it, let alone wield it—no male should—but Moyr doesn’t need to see the blood staining the wood to be reminded of how the relic came to be in the boy’s possession. He feels it in his blood, as all in the coven will. Regardless of who is left of their coven, the line of the womb has ended.
Moyr glances up to see Hanede’s lip tremble before his forearm swipes across his eyes, bloodshot, though no tears fall. Six years old, he’s practically a baby, and yet he’s pulled himself together enough to get the relic here safely. The power and majestic nature of the Loche witches didn’t end with the death of the Mother; Hanede is still here to guide them, no matter how small he may be.
They must make it to the Favored Children. Only then will the Brindlewyrd Coven live on.
Moyr grasps Hanede’s hand tightly and steps closer so the boy’s magic can keep them both out of sight, and he gently takes the lead. He knows the way out of the forest well, and he follows his uncle’s instructions, wisdom given with his dying breath. He fought to buy them time to get out, and Moyr won’t squander that sacrifice.
But it’s too late.
As the trees around them begin to thin out, they also whisper a warning, but their meaning slips past the boys.
They have betrayed us.
The trees have whispered such things for centuries, angry at all fae folk who’ve turned away from the old traditions and no longer honor the seasons passing to keep the magic within the kingdom strong, but now they whisper fervently,they have betrayed us all.
Hanede gasps, clutching at Moyr’s hand and halting their advance.
At the edge of the forest, a battalion of high fae soldiers waits, as still as the winter morning in their saddles as the sounds of the dying coven still ring out of the depths of the trees. Moyr's lungs seize in his chest at their beauty, impossible to look at, a phenomenon Soren has never felt in the presence of a high fae before. For a moment, the boy thinks they've come to help the witches and to kill those who have come for his coven.
Then the first of the fleeing children crosses the tree line.
Spatters of blood mar the front of her robes, her feet caked in mud and cuts running over her bared arms. Gwyn is eleven, terrified, and she sobs as she runs with a haphazard motion of limbs. Moyr can’t look away from her, his friend, a female he’s known his entire life, and so the first arrow that strikes her in the chest takes him by surprise as well.
The grunting-gasp noise she makes ricochets through his skull as though he’s the one who’s been struck, and he can’t move, can’t make a sound as his gaze swings up to the group of high-fae soldiers waiting there, arrows nocked only to release at the leader’s hand signal.
Gwyn’s body thuds to the ground, her eyes staring sightlessly at the sky, and bile burns in Moyr’s throat as arrows stream towards the trees, more bodies fall… the children, Fates mercies, dozens of children arrive at the edge of the trees and are slaughtered by the high fae waiting there. A scream lodges itself in Moyr’s throat, impossible to let out, his heart a violent cacophony in his chest, and Hanede’s hand squeezes his fingers so hard the bones bend.
One of the soldiers turns towards Moyr and Hanede, staring right at them. They stop breathing, terrified as they realize their mistake.
The high fae cannot see them, but they canhearthem.
He glances down at Hanede to find wide eyes staring up at him in terror, his lip trembling, and a sense of calm washes over him suddenly. His responsibility is to his coven and the Mother who leads them all. Moyr will protect her son, and the relic of his coven.
Motioning at Hanede to stay silent, he waits until the boy jerks his head in the semblance of a nod before he presses a hand over his chest, magic flowing between them. Moyr doesn’t have a lot but the forest knows, and it’s desperate to help them however it can. It boosts the paltry offering Moyr gives Han and masks the sounds of life within his body that only the high fae could possibly hear.
Then, with bravery no boy of twelve years should have, Moyr steps out of the invisible barrier and into the view of the soldiers.
As the arrows rain around him and strike his chest, the last thing Moyr sees is the cold apathy in my uncle's eyes as he gives the command to enter the forest, to hunt any surviving children, to be sure none are left alive. With no ashes to speed his journey to Elysium, Moyr dies, surrounded by dozens of children, and the Brindlewyrd Forest will never recover from their loss.
It will never forget the Celestial prince who did this.
Consciousness slowly returns to me,and awareness of two things floods me instantly; smoke that fills my lungs and complete darkness engulfing me. As disorientated as I am, for a moment I’m sure the smoke is a funeral pyre burning and my mind is surely trapped in the memory of the horror that tore the heart out of this forest. Then the pounding in my head intensifies and becomes impossible to overlook, morepain assaulting me as I gasp and jolt my aching bones. Surely I was crushed under something, or fell from a cliff, from how miserable I feel as my eyelids finally flutter open.
The canopy of trees and clear winter night sky above are as familiar to me now as the halls of Yregar, as welcoming as any home could be, and the song of the forest thrums a steady beat within my own heart. That I can feel so wretched and at peace at once must be an act of magic—an impressive one.
Letting out another groan, I roll slowly and hoist myself up into a sitting position. My stomach lurches and my mind scrambles from the pounding there. I cradle my head in my hands and fight a wave of gut-wrenching nausea, sure that my skull has been cleaved in two. My vision blurs, whites out, corrects itself, then again before I manage to collect my wits.
“Lay back down, Soren. Take rest while you can.” Rooke’s voice is low and soothing, like a balm, and I reach toward the sound without looking up.
I need her—not her healing or coddling, just her voice and her presence, because if this is the state I’m going to die in, then I want her close by.
Cold fingers caress my temple gently and, even with my eyes closed, I see the flash of light before some of my pain lifts away, her magic melting like ice against my skin. It’s a small pulse, droplets of her power, but I can finally meet her eyes and feel the soft fur of her cloak where I’m clutching her shoulder desperately.
“Don’t waste your magic on me.”
