Bast’s presence feels strangely close, but it’s probably just me reaching for any comfort I can find. Soon it will be over for me. TheMathairswill kill me for what I’ve done. Or do something to make me wish I was dead.
The front door swings open, and I recognize the women immediately—Sarah Seiver and Lisa Roberts, both third-yearswho used to practice combat spells under my instruction. Their heads bow to Delta Team with the same perfect submission I’d praised them for last spring. Now their downturned faces twist something in my chest—how many times had I stood at this threshold, watching other witches dragged in, telling myself they must have deserved it?
How could I have been so naive?
Inside, nothing has changed. The hardwood gleams. The tasteful artwork, the careful illusion of normalcy that once made me feel so superior to the ordinary world beyond these walls.
They hustle us through the house, each step toward the back door winds the tension tighter in my chest. The deck’s weathered boards creak beneath our feet like the last planks of a gallows, stretching out over that deceptively peaceful yard.
Emma’s breath hitches. A circle of white stones is set into the center of the perfectly manicured lawn. To human eyes, it looks like nothing more than unique landscaping. But we know better. This is a gateway. A threshold between worlds.
Mira’s singsong voice slithers through the familiar incantation, and my stomach lurches. Emma lets out a broken sob. The vocal binding spell keeps me from offering comfort, from telling her it will be okay. But maybe that’s for the best. Because I know what waits on the other side of those stones.
And “okay” isn’t part of that future.
Reality softens and flows around us as we cross the threshold, like watercolors bleeding into new shapes. The suburban facade dissolves into mist, and my chest constricts at the sight of those looming stone walls, the watchful towers, the vast courtyard where I’ve spent countless hours perfecting spells. Above us, that eternal lavender-blue sky mocks me with its artificial perfection. I’d once found comfort in its unchanging beauty. Now I understand it for what it is—another form of prison bars, as rigid and controlling as theMathairsthemselves.
Emma’s sobs fade to hiccupping gasps beside me. In the distance, young women train in neat rows, their synchronized movements as familiar to me as my own heartbeat. The sharp crack of practice spells echoes across the grounds, and a bitter growl rolls in my throat.
I’d spent years in those rows, perfecting every gesture, believing that if I just tried harder, achieved more, I could keep Brianna safe. All that blind devotion had earned me nothing but more invisible chains—and yet.
Without their mission to Colorado, I’d never have found Bast, never known what real love felt like. Never understood there was more to power than their rigid perfection. The memory of his golden eyes burns behind my eyelids. Maybe that alone was worth every bruise, every punishment, every hour spent dancing to their tune.
Even knowing I’ve lost him forever. It was all worth it. He was worth it.
Our escorts march us toward the castle that dominates the eastern wall. Its dark stone seems to absorb the artificial sunlight, windows glowing with an inner fire that never dies. My bare feet stumble on the cold cobblestones—they didn’t even let me put on shoes. The T-shirt I stole from Bast’s drawer feels like armor now, his scent still clinging to the fabric.
I can barely sense his presence now. It will be better this way. Maybe it will hurt less.
The castle’s wards press against my skin, ancient and oppressive. They recognize me, welcome me home like a prodigal daughter.
“Home sweet home, naughty girl,” Rhyn sneers, then says a quick reversal spell to remove the seal on my voice. “Wouldn’t want you to not be able to say hi to your sweet sister.”
I say nothing and keep my gaze below hers.
As we approach the big doors swing open to the familiar entrance hall, where floating orbs of witch-light cast their eternal glow. The tapestries lining the walls mock me now—scenes I’d once revered as sacred history. I know now it’s all built on lies.
But we don’t climb the grand staircase. Instead, they guide us to a smaller door, almost hidden behind a heavy curtain. The dungeon entrance. My heart pounds against my ribs as we descend the narrow spiral stairs. The temperature drops with each step, the light grows dimmer until shadows press in from all sides.
Emma’s fear pulses through the darkness, mixing with my own dread. I know these cells. Know the horrors they’ve witnessed. And now we’re just two more prisoners.
The cell they choose is larger than most, with three sets of chains mounted to separate walls. When the door creaks open, my heart stops.
“Bridget?” The voice is raspy, disbelieving.
No. No, they promised—“Brianna.” Her name comes out in a sob. My sister sits huddled against the far wall, her face a mess of bruises. One eye is swollen completely shut, and dried blood cakes the collar of her thin shirt.
I lunge toward her, every instinct screaming to protect my little sister, but Nia’s iron grip holds me back. The burn of her fingers matches the fury blazing through my veins.
“Now, now,” she tuts. “You know the rules. No touching.”
Brianna’s good eye meets mine, and I see the same rage there, buried beneath layers of fear and exhaustion. She looks back down at the floor, careful not to draw Nia’s attention.
Rhyn pauses, shoving Emma against the third wall. The magick-dampening manacles clank as she secures her. Emma’s quiet weeping is the only sound in the cell for a few moments.
“What happened?” Brianna’s voice cracks.
“I couldn’t—” The words stick in my throat. My mouth goes dry. “I couldn’t do it,” I force out. The truth tastes like ashes, but it’s mine. “I couldn’t carry out the assignment. I’m so sorry.” The memory of Bast’s trust, his kindness, his love pushes away any lingering doubt. But I know what my choice will cost me…and her. “And then I fought against it. Against them.”
