Memories flood her.
Carving their way forward into her awareness.
Starlit Grove.
The Obsidian Crown.
The visions.
“You…” she breathes.
“El?” Seren presses, desperately trying to understand.
“It’s you. The cloaked figure in the vision.”
Daphinia does not flinch. Only raises her chin, allowing the moonlight to glint off her pale skin, her raven-black hair.
“El, what are you saying?” Seren pushes again.
Lara does not move, does not panic. Only stands patiently while Elyssara’s reality folds in on itself.
“I am saying…” Elyssara pants, “that this is the woman who helped Thalmyr cast the spell that exiled the gods, and took the power of Nyrielle.”
The words hang in the air.
No one denies it.
No one explains.
“This is Daphinia. Ally of Thalmyr, slayer of the Goddess of Light and Wonder, and destroyer of my fucking kingdom,” Elyssara snarls, emotion catching in her throat.
The words from the vision swim in her mind.Do it, Daphinia.That’s what Thalmyr said before the gods were exiled from reality.
“No,” Seren breathes, unwilling to accept it as the truth.
“I saw it. He called for her. ‘Do it, Daphinia,’” Elyssara snaps. “It’s her.”
Daphinia does not move. Does not confirm nor deny.
“I saw it with my own eyes,” Elyssara snaps. “The blood on her palm proves it—it was blood magic.”
Seren looks to Lara, eyes pleading, like she’s desperate for her new coven to be absolved of this. But Lara eyes Elyssara, taking two easy strides and closing the gap between them.
“You are wrong, Lightborne,” she says, voice flat and final.
Then she spins on her heel and brushes beneath the hanging skeletons like the conversation is over.
Elyssara and Seren share a swift glance.
“We are not done, witch!” Elyssara hisses.
“Come,” Lara throws over her shoulder. “Memories and truth are never the same thing.”
Candlelight guttersin the small cave nestled deep inside the heart of The Perils. Five tankards sit in a circle before five stacks of layered furs. Elyssara sits, chest full of rage, heart full of sadness. She sucks back a long swig, and coughs.
“Fucking Stars. Is that brask?” she splutters.
“Yes. Brask from Cindralis,” Lara answers simply. “Many of our witches descend from their tribes, myself included. Though they call us something else there.”
