Grabbing a casual black gown from my wardrobe, I quickly slip out of my nightgown, tossing it aside, and shimmy the gown over my hips and bust. The coven gowns were all identical, for it is customary in many covens to match or at least follow a shared theme. Ours were made from lightweight and comfortable fabrics that draped loosely on our hips down to our ankles. Each gown had a built-in bodice to keep our chests secure and waists cinched and, of course, short sleeves to display our witch marks.
I catch sight of mine shimmering in the mirror, silver networks of intricate lines that stretch from my shoulders to my wrists. The number of markings reflected one’s power, a fact Nora insisted we highlight. To outsiders, they served as a show of force within the coven. They established rank.
When I was younger, it was exciting to watch my marks come in. Power develops slowly, and it isn’t until one’s first bleed that the true strength begins to fill us. My journey into power was even more complicated.
I was told since I was little that I was rare, not just in the loving way my mother would say it but in the harsh, exacting way Nora would remind me. If I played too much with the others, if I stepped out of line or didn’t study as long as she deemed necessary, I’d hear it. As I grew older, I learned what they meant by “rare.”
I possess blood magic and dark magic, a potent combination not seen in centuries. I am the only witch to possess two forms of magic. Such power comes at a cost.
Ancient texts speak of power in cryptic whispers, their pages worn and their words faded. They all ask the same question:What would you give for power?
Anything. I have given everything, and they have taken it.
“Going to stare at yourself all day?” Arcadia snickers from the door, pulling me from my thoughts.
I roll my eyes as I cross the room toward her. Her jab about my vanity is almost laughable coming from the most vain woman I know. “Well, when my marks and tits look this good, how can I not?”
The comment transforms us both into simple giggling girls. As soon as I realize I’m laughing, I stop myself, wiping the feeling away and replacing my smile with the emotionless mask I always wear.
Arcadia’s laughter fades, understanding softening her expression as she offers me a gentle smile. She doesn’t press me, doesn’t need to.
Arcadia got to play with others as a child, free to laugh and love. She was ignored by Nora, cherished by her mother, and once she reached the age to leave the coven, she took the opportunity without hesitation. Now she’s always on the move, tasting and touching everything the world has to offer.
I wasn’t so lucky. I lost my mother, was taught isolation, the rules stacked high against me. My life is defined by limits. The simplest one of many: I cannot leave the coven walls without Nora’s instruction.
I was Nora’s fixation, her project. We were so different. I knew I couldn’t let myself be seen laughing or bonding, especially by the elders. It would violate one of the most important rules she taught me—isolation.
My magic is volatile, tied tightly to emotions. When they rise, my power endangers everyone around me, friend or foe. For everyone’s safety, including my own, Nora has drilled isolation into me since I was young. Her lessons were clear: if I wasn’t close to anyone, they couldn’t hurt me, and my meltdowns could be avoided.
Still, I hid my relationship with Arcadia. The shameful truth is that I longed to be close to others, to feel more than thenumbness Nora demanded of me. Nothing is more shameful to me than my own desires.
We part ways, and I make my way toward the tall, spiraling tower to the east side of an academic wing, where Nora’s office resides. The cool air of the hallway is a welcome reprieve from the morning sun.
Guided by memory, I walk down the hall, turning left and climbing the winding, dark steps lit only by slivers of sunlight slipping through small windows. At the top, I stop before the wooden door. Anxious nerves bundle up low in my stomach, the knot forming there solidifying. I knock and wait for permission to enter.
“Enter,” a cold voice calls out, snuffing out any traces of warmth Arcadia had left behind.
Pushing open the door, I quickly take inventory of Nora’s office. Pristine and orderly as always, not a book out of place on the shelves lining the walls. Even the quills on her dark oaken desk are precisely arranged. She sits behind her desk, her hands clasped, expectingme, of course.
I close the door behind me and step toward the small green leather chair across from her. The morning sun filters through the large green-paned window behind her, tinting the room in an eerie emerald glow.
In the corner, her owl familiar perches motionless. Its unblinking eyes are locked on me. Its unbreaking gaze is unsettling, like a second Nora, always watching. They say familiars represent some part of their witches, and in her owl, I can see it—the cold precision, the endless vigilance.
The thought makes me wonder about Ollie. Am I so depraved that the very darkness in me is reflected in his hellion existence?
“Millicent, I have a new assignment for you.” Her sharp features remain almost motionless as she speaks.
Her long white hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, accentuating the severe angles of her face. She looks ancient, though her appearance betrays little of her true age. A few faint crow’s feet frame her eyes, and her face has a more mature set to it. If you squint and stand close, you might catch a faint line or two on her forehead. Even as she speaks, her face barely moves, her expressions restrained. It’s almost unnatural.
Witches age the way Felix’s prized mead collection does. Their features only refining and ripening with the passing of centuries. By the time a witch appears truly old, she could easily be two thousand years old.
“You will travel to the Southern Continent, to the kingdom of Galderia under the rule of king Felix Tyran.”
I stare at her. It is all I can do. We never interact with mortals unless it’s for sacrificial purposes.Why would I work with vermin?
“What is the purpose of this?” I ask, working to keep my tone steady and mask the irritation rising within me at the idea of helping mere mortals.
Nora doesn’t so much as blink at my question. Her voice, already cold, hardens further, like steel cutting through the air like a blade. I am reminded of my place. “The purpose is for me to know and for you to follow the order given by your superior. Questioning an elder? You have been raised far better than this, Millicent Le Strange.”
