“Wait…” she breathes. “It’s The Widow’s Waters.”
The what?
The thin trail of black liquid weaves around Seren’s wrist, pulling it into the air. For a moment, Seren just stares, confused, but intrigued. Then the water spreads across her palm and bleeds into the skin like spilled ink.
It weaves a pattern, whirling around itself until the ink takes form, and leaves an imprint on her skin.
Not just any imprint—a black noose etches itself into her flesh. It settles there, like something ancient has just decided she belongs to it.
The liquid thread unfurls from her wrist, retracting back into the cave like it’s done its job. Complete. Finished.
Seren sucks in a sharp breath, staring at the new mark on her palm.
Her eyes shoot up to Lara’s, and the High Witch quirks a smile. She holds up her palm, revealing her own mark—a pile of bones. “Welcome to The Dreaded, Seren Calvatere.”
The words feel ancient, holy. Like a sacrament spoken only in the presence of greatness.
A smile breaks free on Seren’s face. Shock detonates in her expression.
“I fucking did it,” she exhales, the words falling from her like the living version of relief.
“I thought I failed the last Harrow,” Seren admits, and Elyssara doesn’t miss the way her hands tremble.
“The question was: do you have the guts to join The Dreaded,” Lara drawls, her amethyst eyes fixed on Seren.
And she doesn’t know why, but Elyssara feels something deeper there. Not just indifferent, neutral leadership. But perhaps tenderness.Care.
“You had the guts to threaten the High Witch with your golden noose—it seems The Widow has accepted it as proof,” Lara says, a glint of approval in her eyes, the pile of bones inked into her palm still staring back at her.
Seren’s expression sparks at the realization—each witch is marked with their proof. With the method used to impress The Widow.
Caev unfurls her palm, revealing a blade.
Seren’s eyes snap to Daphinia, who glances at Elyssara. Barely noticeable, but real—enough for Elyssara to register the movement. She turns her hand over, fingers lifting one at a time.
A single drop of ink-black blood is imprinted on Daphinia’s palm.
Blood.
Blood.
The scratch in Elyssara’s mind claws its way back to her awareness.
Daphinia.
Blood.
She knows this woman.
Has seen her before.
Not in life.
In memory.
In the kind of vision that leaves splinters buried in the mind.
“I know you,” Elyssara murmurs, voice distant.
