Page 27 of Bloodween

“Master Vale!” a voice called from beside me. I was too weak to see who it was. “Her eyes are open.”

Blurry figures rushed toward me.

“And they are still pale!”

Our eyes told everything. Pale red wasn’t terrible; it meant my body was still in the aftermath of the ritual, in that waiting period.

“I told you, she wasn’t built for this!”

Inwardly I rolled my eyes at that voice. The same one that used to correct my spellwork in front of everyone. It was like nails scraping against glass. Eira. Master Vale’s sister and the Second Seat of our coven. Also my biggest opp.

Something bitter and sharp swirled around my head and entered my nostrils—burning herbs, maybe sage mixed with iron.

“She’s just a little witch, his blood is too strong! That’s why her sacrifice is still in his form. Look!”

I tried to look, but my head was too heavy. I'd almost forgot that he'd be here too, in the room with me as the ritual decided our fates. That was how it went—when you were brought back to the coven, your sacrifice stayed with you until all was said and done. Until all was revealed.

“Eira, what do you want me to do? Goodness, she is still a Crimson Witch. I will not let her die.”

“I don’t think you have much of a choice,” she huffed. “She’s doing that on her own.”

I tried to talk, to defend myself, but I couldn’t. Every word I heard made me want to disappear.

If I failed, if he remained in his wolf state, I didn’t want to live. Life without magic was one thing, but the shame of not being successful was something I wouldn’t allow myself to endure.

I had been doubted all my life. This was supposed to be the time I proved everyone wrong—and I didn’t.

October 31st, 3:13 p.m. — Eight Hours Post-Ritual

I blinked my eyes open.

I didn’t know how long I’d been out or how much time had passed, but I knew that by now, the body I was staring at should’ve been human, not a massive wolf.

A wolf whose fur was still matted with the blood I’d let drip out of my mouth.

Varek was still holding on, the air around him vibrating.

My chest hitched. A cough tore out of me—bile and spit because there was nothing left.

“This again,” someone said. I didn’t know who. Didn’t care. I heard the judgment in their tone.

They saw me as pathetic.

I didn’t blame them.

They weren’t the one who had messed up and sacrificed the wrong wolf. I was. I made that choice, and now his body was proof of it.

October 31st, 6:27 p.m. — Eleven Hours Post-Ritual

Heat. Then ice. Then nothing. Then everything.

My veins felt loud. Too full. Like something new was shoving the old out of the way and didn’t care how much it hurt.

I screamed.

“Keep her still!” Master Vale yelled.

“Sidra! We can’t keep doing this. She is suffering. I know you think I’m being selfish but⁠—”