For a few seconds, I’m disoriented, unable to remember where I am or how I got here. The last thing I recall is standing in the hallway of the covenstead with Ansel, Dyson, and Celeste. Then Michelle arrived and…
I blink, squinting at the soft, golden light filtering in through the curtains.
This isn’t my room in the covenstead. That one doesn’t have any windows, and this one is lined with them.
The air smells faintly of herbs and incense. I sit up, groaning as the room sways slightly, and brush at the cool, satin sheets. Slowly, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stand, my knees shaky, my fingers grazing the wooden nightstand for support.
The room is beautiful—soft, muted colors, bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes, delicate tapestries hanging on the walls. The massive four-poster bed is draped with deep red and black fabric, the color contrasting with the pale walls, visible beneath all the adornments.
Through the window, I can make out a garden—unlike any I’ve ever seen before. It isn’t the neatly manicured, perfect rows you’d expect to see. No, this is a wild, magical thing, brimming with life in every corner.
A stone path winds through the flowers, cracked and weathered with time, its edges softened by creeping ivy and moss. The path leads to a small fountain in the center, its water flowing in a soft, melodic trickle I can hear even from here. The stone of the fountain is worn smooth by years of use, and intricate runes are etched along its sides, glowing faintly under the soft, golden light of the setting sun.
Flowers grow in wild abundance, their colors vibrant and almost surreal. Deep-purple foxgloves tower beside clusters of white lilies, their petals curling like delicate parchment. Red roses with petals as dark as blood bloom alongside pale silver daisies, and there are flowers that I can’t recognize—glowing blue petals that shimmer in the light, and dark violet blossoms with an iridescent sheen that seem to hum with energy.
It’s like this garden has been tended by Hecate herself, transforming it into an ancient, living thing full of secrets. It’s both beautiful and eerie, like stepping into a dream where the line between the natural and supernatural worlds blurs.
I force my gaze away from the window and try to shake off the lingering dizziness, my stomach flipping with the feeling of something being…off. Like I’m missing a vital piece of the puzzle.
“You’re awake.” The voice breaks through my thoughts.
I whip around, my heart racing, and startle to find a familiar woman sitting at a desk in the far corner of the room, her long red hair cascading down her back like a river of fire. The baggy sweatshirt and sweatpants combination makes her look like an entirely different person, but I’d know those piercing green eyes anywhere.
Soraya.
The Maiden.
She closes the book she was reading and stands, taking a single step closer to me. Though her eyes are alight with mischief, her expression remains unreadable, almost detached.
“Soraya?” I ask, rubbing at the back of my head.
The lingering remnants of a migraine batter my skull. I want nothing more than to close my eyes and sleep for years.
A tiny smile dances at the edges of her lips. “How are you feeling?”
“Confused. What happened? I remember—” I swallow hard, images flashing in my mind. Electricity. Michelle’s sneering face. Ansel’s anguished eyes.
And then I remember the pain—the way it felt as if my body was eating itself alive. Every nerve ending had been doused in gasoline and then lit aflame.
“Oh my god. In the hallway…” I choke back the panic that surges. “Is Ansel okay? What happened?”
But I already know the answer to that question.
Ihappened.
Soraya doesn’t speak for a long moment. Her gaze seems to shift around the room, like she’s gathering her thoughts.
Finally, she sighs, taking another step closer. “You’re far more powerful than even I suspected, Izzy.”
Her tone is calm, almost clinical, but there’s a strange edge to it that makes my skin prickle. I feel as if I’m a butterfly pinned beneath a microscope, something to be analyzed and picked apart.
“What does that even mean?” I snap, frustration bubbling up. “What happened back there? What did I do?”
I stare down at my hands as if I’ve never seen them before. On the surface, they look like my hands, don’t they? Those are my nails. That’s my scar.
But I’ve never known my hands were capable of such innate violence and destruction.
God, the things I did…
