So much has been taken from me, hollowing me out until I clawed at the void, desperate to be whole again. The coven made me whole—no easy claim to power, no golden path to comfort. The coven taught me the burn from flame forges an unbreakable blade, and suffering sharpens it; I have never been sharper. Typical of a mage to seek such luxuries, to drown in softer pleasures while he calls himself strong.
I am not bitter, no. Comfort breeds weakness. I have stared into the abyss, endured its torment, and emerged anew. I am no lamb.
I am a wolf.
A slow, predatory smile curves my lips as my steps become firmer. When I can take what the North holds, blood will rain down on Cage, painting his skin as it did mine that night.
I will repeat history.
And I’ll make a damn show of it.
I nearly collide with the smug bastard as I round the corner quickly, blissfully unaware that I’ve wandered into the west wing, where the mages reside. Instinct kicks in. I recoil, my body demanding distance between us.
He isn’t wearing his usual long black coat. Instead, a loose black tunic hangs from his frame. Its deep neckline exposes the carved lines of a muscular chest and the black swirls of his markings creeping up his neck. He smells of sweat and earth, hishair is damp and unruly. His trousers sit low on his hips and hug his thighs. The weight of his large black sword tugs them lower. My gaze flickers to the dragon-carved handle and the embedded red jewel catching the dim light.
He crosses his arms, his shirt riding up to reveal a deep cut of muscle running down his waistline and a thick patch of hair following its descent.
“My eyes are up here, witch.” his voice is gruff, laced with amusement.
My eyes snapped to his face, “I was looking at your sword—the handle, specifically.”
His smirk widens. He’s far too pleased with himself. “Yeah, you sure were looking at my sword.” His tone was far too suggestive for my liking. He’s pouring fuel on the fire of my already festering rage.
The desire to carve that stupid smirk off his face is overwhelming. If he wants to look at me in such an insolent way, perhaps I should just make it a permanent look for him.
“I would sooner gouge out my own eyes before looking at the sword you’re so obviously proud of,” I say flatly, crossing my arms to mirror him.
Cage shrugs, completely unfazed. “Go for it.” He steps past me, deliberately keeping his distance as he disappears down the hall.
I welcome the distance. My control only goes so far, and my impulse to sink into his flesh and mar it grows with every footstep of his that echoes on stone.
My fury boils. The sconces lining the corridor flicker violently before snuffing out, plunging the hall into shadow.
The darkness twists, writing, spilling from the ceiling like ink. It moves with me, feeding off my anger, crawling down the walls like a swarm of spiders.
I take a sharp breath. Exhale.
Control.
The shadows retreat as I turn, forcing myself toward my room.
The night concludes as it always does. I remember the day to Nora’s eerie little owl. The thing perches, unblinking, absorbing my every word. This is the routine now. If Nora has a message, its beak will part, and her voice will slither through the silence, like a prophecy, reminding me of who truly pulls the strings.
Even once the lights extinguish in my room, the faint white eyeshine of the owl penetrates the dark.
Always watching me.
Chapter 11
Millicent
I. Temptation
“Entity can access the host’s imagination, attack perceptions, and infuse thoughts into their minds.
The beginning of the fall from grace.”
-The Wretched Sacrament
