The coven shifts behind her. She feels it without turning—the collective attention sharpening, waiting.
This is the moment.
The test is not subtle.
These are the bonds that made her.
These are the hands that pulled her upright when she wanted to fold.
These are the voices that spoke her name like it mattered.
And this is the coven that runs in her blood.
This is the culture that hums in her veins.
This is the family she belongs to.
Seren understands immediately what The Dreaded expects.
They want blood spilled in proof.
They want rupture.
They want severance dressed up as devotion.
They want obedience. Submission.
They want proof that she will cut herself down to fit inside them.
Her friends emerge from The Widow’s Waters drenched and violent, their eyes catching the light like moonlit steel.
This isn’t real.
This isn’t real.
She repeats it to herself on a loop—the words reverberating in her skull like she can force herself to believe it.
Ronyn is closest to her, his arm arcing over his shoulder to pull an arrow from his quiver.
“Ronyn, stop?—”
She steps in front of him, desperate to reason with the illusion; this version of him she doesn’t recognize. But her words are cut short when he swings the arrow in a wide arc toward her in a slash commanding her to stand down. It slices through the leather of her upper arm, and black-red claret oozes through the slash.
Seren winces, an instinctive hiss slicing through her teeth.
Fuck.
Her eyes widen in recognition.
God metal arrows.
Panic seizes her, fear grips her lungs.
Holy fucking Stars—this is real.
Painfully, undeniably real.
The illusion bleeds the same as truth.
