With his witch markings glowing blood-red and a curl to his lip, there’s no mistaking what magic flows through this male’s veins, and the troubles we face at Yris rise to a new, horrifying high as the bloodwitch grins at me.
The magicthat shook me to my core in the city below still hangs in the air here, but the high fae in attendance are both alive and complicit in the regent’s theatrics, despite how rigidly they stand or how unerring the silence of the room. Gone is thefear of magic that had them gasping at my control slip earlier, and the murmurs at Ayron’s claims of danger—ridiculous, considering who now stands amongst them.
A dozen witches of varying age and appearance, I recognize none of them, nor can I find anything familiar about them besides the wealth of magic pooled between them. Clad in fighting robes, the construction similar to mine but with far more leather bands reinforcing the stress points, clearly designed for the type of blood shed and war mongering only a bloodwitch could know. The group stands more like a troop of soldiers than a coven, but the blood-red witch marks scored across their faces declares them all bloodwitches with much blood spilled between them.
Instead of relief, I’m sickened by the color of those lines. Black witch marks mean Kharl Balzog has distorted their minds, the blood rotting in their veins as he funnels their power and takes command of their bodies. The bright red of freshly spilled blood means these witches chose to be here, chose the regent as their ally, and choose to wield their blood magic at his command. They’re arguably the most dangerous type.
I address the male at the front of the group in the old language. “What is your name, witch, and what coven do you hail from?”
He scoffs and responds in the common tongue, “Of course a Favored Child would still speak the language of the dead. Did yourMotherteach you?”
In answer to his mocking tone, I shed my pretense of a peaceful healer and shift into my own soldier’s stance with a stony glare at the male. With my arms crossed behind my back, each hand gripping the opposite wrist, and my feet planted firmly at shoulders’ width, the pose is a threat of power, and slipping into it is still second nature after so long in the Sol Army.
As if reminded of his own king’s honor by my form, Phaedra’s eyes flick down to Soren before he fixes the regent with his unerringly severe gaze. “Their fate will be fulfilled, by your design or with the Sol King's intervention.”
The regent only inclines his head. “Of course, Prince Phaedra, but precautions must be taken to ensure the safety of the witch. My nephew took her prisoner, refused to grant her any grace by their shared fates, and he surely won’t stop until he’s killed her and destroyed the kingdom. Baylor is merely assisting me to lock him in the dungeons, as well as the goblin prince he’s brought along with him. I have no intention of forcing the witch to endure his whims and violent moods any longer.”
Biting back a snort at his obvious pandering, I have to remind myself that this male is adept at manipulation and, while he’s feeding my hatred of him gluttonously right now, I can’t let my guard slip. Any opening, and he’ll strike, a patient male after so many centuries of waiting.
Phaedra turns away without another word and leaves by the door through which the witches just entered. When the regent dismissively flicks his hand at the guards surrounding Soren and Gage, they stoop down and lift their unconscious forms between them and carry them out.
My eyes stay fixed on the male witch at the front of the group—Baylor—as magic emanates from him and surrounds me in a gesture that can’t be seen as anything but threatening.
The regent waits until Phaedra is gone, the two bowing guards by the door closing it firmly behind the Ancient, before he addresses me again. “This is Baylor Fray, a witch of the Bloodwyrd coven. You’ve been admiring his handiwork around my castle. We found far too many loyalists to your Fates-cursed mate, and he’s been assisting me with dealing with the traitors.”
The grotesque pieces of fae folk before us take on a horrifying new light, and the witches grin garishly between themselves asmy gaze moves down to the piles of flesh and congealed blood. Still, I say nothing to answer the regent as the Fates writhe beneath my scar. Their demand for justice is paltry compared to the need for vengeance taking root within me. Even if my fate were something else, something gentle and sweet, I would still be standing here preparing to take up my sword once more.
Finally, Baylor steps forward, sweeping a hand before himself as though beckoning me. “Come, let’s leave the high fae to their courtly duties. I know you’re more accustomed to sleeping on the dirt in a decrepit and rotting forest, but I’m sure you'll find your rooms here suitable.”
His magic presses against my skin, testing my limits and pushing until I'm forced to step forward or fight this male. My magic is best kept away from him for now and so with a prayer to the Fates for a merciful journey to Elysium for the regent’s victims, I take my first step. The regent smirks and flicks his hand again to command the musicians to play, and all at once the hall comes to life.
The high fae take their cues from their chosen regent without question and fall back into their revelry as though it never halted. The servants move around the room seamlessly, their serving platters overflowing with wine and spirits, and bell-like sounds of laughter grate on me as I’m forced out of the room. They all ignore the death at their feet, the maniac prince on the throne, and the blood-red markings on the witches’ faces as they surround me to escort me out.
With little traction thanks to the polished marble, my boots slide in the blood and make a sickeningly wet sound with every step. It’s difficult to even guess how many were slain here so callously. Even the servants disregard the gore, showing no empathy for those lost in the pursuit of power.
The guards by the large door open it without looking at Baylor, and I suspect the witches are treated with as little respectas the rest of the fae folk here, acknowledged only when the regent has use for them. The group don’t react though, even after watching them bow to the Ancient as he passed, and they lead me through a long hallway without a word. Under yet another glass ceiling, my eyes water at the searing brightness of the hall as the sunlight hits the marble and almost blinds me with its power. There are no furnishings or decorations, no finery on display, only doors every now and then that we walk by without pause.
Dozens of the regent's guards are posted, two at each door, and it’s telling that none of them spare a glance at the witches. The coven has been here long enough to not garner even a cursory stare, the web of lies the regent has cast over the entire kingdom a convoluted mess. The male doesn’t have a drop of honor within his cold heart.
“All of this fuss over a fucking Ravenswyrd,” the female at my side mutters, and one of the others snickers.
“I’d rather her than a Mistwyrd throwing curses at us. Fuck, or a Stellarwyrd—I can’t stand the cold.”
A male behind me chuckles and drawls, “An Elmswyrd bitch would’ve been nice, at least to pass the time. By the blood, I miss painting those soft little witchlings red when I’m through with them.”
Icy rage wipes my mind free of my temper, washing everything away until a crisp clarity is left behind. I haven't had to deal with prejudices like this in such a long time, and I loathed every minute of it when I did. How much would I enjoy telling these vile males that any Elmswyrd witch I’ve ever known and loved would eat them alive, and certainly not in the way they're all snickering about like children. But it’s not the right path to take. I remind myself of Gage’s Fates-blessed mate, stuck somewhere in this ashes-cursed castle, and stick to productive topics.
“How did bloodwitches come to be under the thumb of a high-fae prince? Blood magic was never intended to be controlled by any outside of your coven—the Bloodwyrd teachings are clear about that.”
The hallway finally ends only for yet another endless marble tunnel to open before us. More guards stand every few paces, silent and unmoving as we walk past them. The swishing of our robes and the sound of boots echoes throughout the sparsely furnished space, no carpets or tapestries to soften the stark expanse.
“What in the ashes would a Ravenswyrd whelp know of my coven? Your lot were too busy bending to sprites and pandering to forgotten tree-gods to know the bloodshed and carnage we’ve endured,” the female at my side says.
Taking a measured look at the high-fae guards still ignoring us, I almost wish I were back in that great hall dealing with the regent’s twisted games of distorting the truth than listening to witches who let their grief and anger twist them. Especially if they’re going to spout this hag-shit at me.
My lips curl into a slow smile as I turn to the witch, cold and cruel. “Your robes look awfully plain without the Bloodwyrd mark, but you're not allowed to wear it anymore, are you? If you don’t follow your Mother, you can’t truly claim to be anything more than a witch with access to blood magic... though your skill in casting will remain questionable at best.”
She lunges at me, her fingers curled into claws as she aims for my throat at the same time as her magic slams against my skull only to find the shield I hold there impenetrable. Well versed in sparring against easily provoked fae, I sidestep her easily and watch her scramble to keep her feet. As she spins on her heel to charge at me again, there’s a manic look in her eyes, the same one in the raving armies under Kharl Balzog’s command, and it’sonly the red glow of her witch marks that prove her mind is still her own.
