So she uses it.
She runs like a woman with something to prove.
Like a woman who has spent a lifetime letting others fight her battles.
Letting others tell her she was not capable.
Waiting to be chosen. Saved. Claimed.
But now, she is the woman who runs into the fray.
Fire in her belly, steel in her spine, softness in her heart.
The Silent Choir approaches quickly, her strides efficient and fast. Her boots slam into the fractured rock, eyes scanning for flat surfaces to use, bounding off them as she runs.
The end of the ocean’s wave forms a barrel, like a spyglass with its sight fixed on the cave’s mouth.
Seren’s lungs burn with the effort, her muscles screaming. But she does not slow, does not hold back. She pushes throughthe heartbeat pulsing in her wounded ribs, and drives herself forward.
Until the ocean stills, retracting its claws.
Seren stands at the mouth, Silent Choir swaying in the winds of The Perils.
She does not leap. Does not collapse.She arrives.
Her head drops back with closed eyes, a smile breaking free on her face as her hands find her hips.
She fucking did it.
“Not bad, little witch,” a voice croons from inside the mouth.
Seren snaps her head forward, eyes flying open.
Lara steps from the shadow of the cavern, violet eyes glittering with what might almost be approval. The coven stands a pace behind her, silent and intimidating.
“Using the force of The Perils against itself.”
Her head tilts slightly.
“You learn quickly.”
Is that a compliment?
Warmth blooms in Seren’s chest and she hates herself for liking the validation.
“I do,” she says, forcing composure into her voice. “I was raised by a bastard who thought me worthless beyond selling me off to be used by other men. So I sharpened my mind to prove to myself that I was more than that.”
Seren lifts her chin, but the gesture feels like nothing more than bravado.
Lara studies her for a long time, amethyst eyes boring into her like she can see beyond flesh and into her soul. She raises a hand and waves the other witches away, dismissing them with nothing more than a flick of her wrist. They retreat into the shadows, and Lara waits for their footfalls to fade to nothing. She steps forward, pale moonlight hitting her face, and her features shift. Not into softness exactly, butwarmth.
“I never knew my mother,” she offers, voice neutral. “I was raised by the matriarchs of The Dreaded—all dead now. I’ve been where you are, using my blood to Gateway to my origin. It always led me here.”
Words snag in Seren’s throat, unable to speak. So she offers a nod. A small one.
“I decided a long time ago that I belong to myself.”
Lara’s words sound neutral, but they feel anything but—they feel like a message crafted especially for Seren. They strike her harder than sympathy ever could.
