“There,” she says, already moving.
The witches do not question her. They move with her. Because they trust her or because they’re testing her, she has no idea.Probably both.
Daphinia and Caev peel away from her flanks with seamless precision, their bodies angling toward the guards stationed at each corner of the wagon. Lara remains close, not leading, not following—present in a way that feels intentional, like she is allowing Seren to step forward into the life she must claim for herself.
The first guard barely has time to react.
Daphinia lifts her hand, fingers curling as though she is plucking a thread from the air itself, and the man’s body seizes.There is no spectacle to it—no flash of light or roar of magic—only a sudden, brutal stillness before his spine folds inward with a sickening, silent collapse. He hits the ground as though his bones have forgotten how to hold him. And that’s when Seren sees it—a thin thread of gold spearing through his ear like Daphinia shaped the threads into her very own weapon.
On the opposite side, Caev moves like she is untethered from the weight of the world, all lethal precision and graceful agility. Her blade flashes once, clean and efficient, opting for physicality over magic, and the guard’s throat opens before he can even finish drawing breath. She does not pause to watch him fall.
Lara closes the distance with the third.
There is no magic in it—only skill honed to something lethal and exacting. Her blade slides beneath the man’s ribs, angled upward with practiced intent, and her hand clamps over his mouth as his body jerks against her. She holds him there, steady, contained, until the fight drains from him, then lowers him to the ground with a care that feels almost reverent.
No one notices. Brawls and violence so deeply woven into the fabric of Virellin that bodies falling and blades flashing is considered normal—doesn’t even interrupt trade.
By the time Seren reaches the back of the wagon, the perimeter is already collapsing behind her.
And he is waiting.
Broad. Scarred. Bald, his scalp catching the torchlight in a dull sheen. Heavy rings glint along his fingers, chains resting against a chest built for brute force rather than finesse. His grin is slow and knowing, the kind that has seen too many girls dragged into the dark and turned the other way.
Seren grips her blade. She wants to feel the warmth of his blood on her hands when she carves the life out of him. Wants to feel it up close. Not with the distance that magic allows.
The man looks at her, eyes raking over her frame, snagging on her chest like he’s calculating the profit of her tits.
“Bit small for this trade, aren’t you?” he drawls.
Seren stops.
And the world shifts.
The wagon is no longer a test. The wagon is a memory. The air thickens, the noise of the markets and lines twist into a distant, warped distortion.
Hands.
Too many hands.
“Hold her still.”
Her father’s voice cuts through the memory like a blade, as clear and cold as the night it happened.
“It’ll feed your brothers.”
Her breath catches.
The man in front of her blurs, his face slipping, shifting.
Not him.
Her father.
The wagon.
The smell of fear and sweat, drenched in fragrant perfume—an illusion.
Her grip falters, the blade glinting under torchlight. Only for a moment. But it is enough. It drags his eyes to her weapon.
