Whatever The Harrows are, they are not meant to break her here. They are meant to test her. To strip her. To show her what remains when fear, strength, pride, and desperation have all been burned away. To ask her, plainly, whether that is enough.
The candles flicker.
The other witches stretch around the room—evenly spaced and orderly.Like they’ve done this before.
Seren stops. Simply pauses in a space between the candles and the perimeter of witches.
She wants to wrap her arms around herself—a nervous habit. But she refuses, forcing herself to tilt her chin up, to pull her shoulders back, no matter how her ribs scream at her.
Lara’s amethyst eyes drag across the cavern, landing on the witches, one by one. But never Seren.
She stalks around the circle. And she looks every bit the High Witch of The Dreaded.
“Magic is plentiful across the realms,” her voice casts through the room like the truth—unequivocal. “Competence isnot.”
Murmurs of agreement drift through the space.
“The Harrows are not tests. They are not even trials. They arequestions.” Lara’s voice pitches low, eerie.
Seren’s breath catches in her throat.Questions.What kind, she wasn’t sure.
The echo of Lara’s boot steps reverberate off the cavern walls—as if Seren needs multiple reminders of where she is.
“Every witch who walks in here thinks her blood is enough,” she croons, then her gaze snaps to Seren. “Every set of bones hanging at the mouth of The Perils proves otherwise.”
Fuck.
Seren swallows thickly, bile rising in her throat.
“The Harrows ask you to face what you most fear.” A beat. “And every witch fears something.”
Seren looses a shaky, fragmented breath.
No one moves. No one speaks.
Except Lara.
The only sound is the thud of her footfalls as she makes her way around the circle. Seren turns slowly behind her, pain shooting through her knees, agony gripping her ribs. But she doesn’t let it show.
Lara approaches, eyes like lunafleurs fixed on Seren’s face, taking her in.Analyzing.
Lara lifts her hand to Seren’s cheek, and Seren fights the urge to flinch. Instead, she does not look away as Lara traces a sharp, pointed nail along the edge of her jaw, stopping at the soft spot under her chin.
“Survive The Harrows, and you’re one of us, witchling,” she breathes, almost seductively.
But Seren is not fooled by pretty words. She knows a threat when she hears one.
“Fail, and your bones will sing the melody of winds through the Silent Choir at the mouth.”
Panic flares in Seren’s chest, but she begs it to recede. Forces it back behind the bars of her resolve.
Not now.
Lara drags her nail over Seren’s chin, pressing hard enough against her skin that Seren resists the urge to wince. Lara’s nail traces the outline of Seren’s bottom lip, flicking her nail with a sharp swipe until red-black blood seeps from the fresh cut. It runs down Seren’s chin in a single stream, the scent of iron filling the air. But still, Seren does not falter. She fixes her honey-brown eyes on the amethyst crystals of Lara’s.
Not a challenge.An invitation.
Lara grips her chin, forceful now.
