#{over HIM being the only man to ever see the witchlands}

[aercnaut]

post series lee will sometimes walk into a room of gross male scholars and say he's been to the witch lands but refuse to tell them anything about them just to make them throw a tantrum that some hick from texas was the first and only man to be invited and not one of them to feel something

[chroniclackofselfpreservation]

Creatures of the Night

Chapter 7 - you know they were made to be used

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(TW: manipulative and toxic relationships, emotional abuse, intense pain, graphic imagery, implications of torture)

(The title for this chapter comes from "To be of use" by Margie Piercy.)

400 years ago.

The Witchlands.

The palace was abuzz with nerves. The cooks in the kitchen kneaded bread in the basement nervously. The servants went about their chores with the quick, curt movements of someone waiting for something bad to happen. The head butler strode furiously up and down the halls, barking orders and polishing china until his fingers blistered. Groundsmen brushed the horses, trimmed the gardens, and swept the walks with barely a word to one another. The palace guard patrolled every inch of the palace, faces as stoic and unmoving as the statues in the Great Hall. Tension flooded the castle until everyone inside waded through it up to their knees.

Today was the day. The Witchlands would receive the newest heir to the throne.

In a not-so-quiet room secluded in the most secure location in the castle, Queen Inez growled and screamed and threatened maids with their lives as the new heir came into the world. The prince consort paced outside the door, dodging the maids that rushed in and out with hot towels and rags muttering things about his wife that he couldn't quite hear over the pounding of his own heart. The captain of the royal guard approached him, a look of amusement on his face.

"What if something goes wrong? What do we do then? If something happens to Inez, or the baby—"

"Your Highness..."

"I don't know the first thing about children, let alone a royal one! What if it doesn't like me? What if I'm not a good father?"

"Darren!" the captain barked, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him a little. He chuckled. "Calm down. Everything's going to be fine."

Darren took a breath, "You're right, Lawrence. Thank you. Did you have something to tell me?"

The captain straightened. "The palace is completely secure, my lord. I'd be surprised if a mouse got in without my men's say-so."

The prince gave a weary smile, and patted Lawrence on the shoulder. "What would I do without you, captain?"

"What, indeed?"

A maid poked her head out of the door. "Pardon me, your highness, captain," she said, giving a lopsided curtsy as best she could, then turned her attention back to the prince. "The queen will see you now."

Darren exhaled, and nodded, following the maid into the room with one last glance at his childhood friend. Lawrence gave him an encouraging nod. Inside, Inez lay on a bed, completely red faced and sweating, but just as gorgeous as the day he fell in love with her. A small bundle of cloth sat clutched against her chest.

She looked up at him and smiled. "Come meet your daughter, love."

"Daughter?" he breathed, feeling like he'd been hit over the head. He had a daughter? He was... a father...

Inez laughed at his expression and beckoned him closer. "Come now, she won't bite."

Darren approached, and his breath hitched in his throat. "She's beautiful."

"She is," the queen cooed, stroking the baby's face. "My little Rosemary."

                                                * * * * * * * * * *

Fourteen years later.

The sky was a brilliant, clear blue. Entirely too brilliant for a funeral, in Rosemary's opinion. The sun was out, making the air humid and sticky and about as unbearable as it possibly could. A line of green-clad beings wound their way down the palace road, through the valley, to the burial site. The procession was nearly a mile long. Every witch, arcanist, nixie, and sprite in the land was in attendance, paying their respects to their once glorious Queen Inez. Rosemary lead the throng alongside her father, her dress a deep, mournful green, reminiscent the black colors that humans in the outside world wore when one of their own died. Though, no one here would recognize the similarity except perhaps the guards or any particularly well-aged witch. 

Personally, Rosemary favored the Witchland's own tradition of green as the common funeral color; it made things far less dreary, reminding them all of the infinite cycle of life, and such. However, sometimes the world was dreary, and wrapping herself in lime green felt... wrong.

Rosemary glanced over at her father. He looked sad and tired, and she wondered if he'd have any trouble making the journey. While he certainly was not the oldest witch among the procession, he wasn't the youngest either. His hair was white and the creases in his face guided the beads of sweat away from his eyes and down the side of his face. She would have asked him how he was fairing, but speaking was frowned upon during a funeral procession, especially a royal one. 

The entire affair took too long, and not long enough. Rosemary might have been fourteen, but she wasn't ready to give her mother up just about yet. She held no illusions regarding her complete competence to be Queen beginning today—honestly, change was needed soon, else the Witchlands would fall into economic ruin due to nobility running around with entitlement shoved so far up their backsides they cried gold leaf and ball gowns—but Rosemary doubted any one of her plethora of advisers would ever amount to the diplomat, strategist, or leader her mother had been. 

And yet, as the funeral came to an end, and as the last spade-full of soil was patted down atop the old queen's grave, no one could deny the feeling of anticipation and excitement rippling through the crowd. 

Rosemary turned, and started back up the road to begin her coronation.

                                                * * * * * * * * * *

Twenty-two years later.

Dorian walked quickly down the corridor, a pile of books stacked high in his arms. The royal librarian had been rather irked at the continuous stream of his books being funneled into the basement of the palace. He doubted that the man would express such concerns if the queen herself had come up to request the books, but the very thought of her having to make the trek up and down the narrow spiral staircases between the ground level and the research lab she'd set up in the basement made him cringe. He didn't mind. It was his job, after all, as the head of the queen's personal staff. 

"Morning, Dorian," a woman piped cheerfully as they passed. 

"Good morning, Esther," he replied, leaning around the books to meet the young maid's eye. She smiled, her brown hair bouncing about her freckled face like silk ribbons and her cheeks flushing.

"May I walk with you?"

"Certainly." Dorian enjoyed her company, despite the fact that she was a bit infatuated with him. He had no romantic interest in her, but found she listened to his ramblings far more patiently than most other people he'd met. 

"On another errand for Her Majesty, I assume? What is she doing down there all the time? You'd think she'd want to get out and feel the sun every once in a while—not that I'm criticizing the queen, I never—"

"Relax," he chuckled. "I know what you mean. The queen's research is quite important to her, which means it's important to all of us, but I assure you I will suggest she go for a walk around the grounds later this afternoon."

Esther folded her arms. "May I speak rather freely? You won't tell the queen I said it?"

He smiled. "As long as you aren't planning an assassination, my dear, she won't hear a word of it."

"Do you think she's grown a little distant from the kingdom? She used to be so involved in the affairs of the Witchlands, but ever since she started her experiments, you're the only one who even sees her... I'm just worried for her. Everyone is."

They came to a stop just outside the staircase, and Dorian shifting the books in his grip. "I understand your concern, but trust me when I say that the queen is fine. Her research is for the good of the kingdom." He gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder and began descending the stairs, the lie bitter on his tongue. It was true, everyone was worried for the queen. 

But no one was more concerned than he was. 

She'd grown obsessed with harnessing immortality shortly after her father passed from illness. Dorian wasn't exactly sure what had changed within her, but ever since, she'd only shown her face for the bare minimum of state affairs and public appearances. Esther hadn't been lying when she said he was the only one who saw her on a regular basis. She trusted him—or, at least, she trusted him the most out of anyone else in the palace. It was tragic, really. She was ten times the queen her mother ever was, with more magic in her little finger than most people ever encountered, and yet she stayed locked up in her own castle. Dorian had never seen anything like it before, but she didn't think it was enough. 

But she was the queen, and Dorian was loyal to her until his dying breath. He would do anything to ensure her happiness, even if it meant feeding into her isolating research. He couldn't help the way his chest tightened when she laughed, or the way his heart stuttered when looked at him. Despite his best efforts, he was completely and utterly hers. 

Dorian reached the bottom of the stairs and pushed open the heavy oak door with his shoulder. The acrid smell of complicated chemicals, herbs, and poultices assaulted his senses and made his eyes water. The basement was quite large, though it was now cluttered with various tables, shelves, smelting pots, and even a small make-shift forge they'd constructed in the far corner. In the middle of the room, the queen hunched over a beaker of liquid, looking rapidly between it and a scrap of paper in her hand. Her hair was a mess, and she wore a maid's blouse and trousers she'd probably snatched from the groundsmen. The first and last time she wore one of her proper gowns down here, she'd caught it on fire and nearly burned the entire palace to the ground. 

The door swung shut, but she didn't look up. 

"Ah, Dorian. Set them all over there next to the tinctures. Come, look at this," she muttered, squatting down and staring into the beaker from the edge of the counter. 

"Of course, Your Majesty." He set the stack of books down on a wooden table with dozens of glass vials stacked precariously high, and joined her beside the beaker. "What am I looking at?"

She pointed a nail at the small specks floating freely in the cobalt liquid. "Look. The kystrine is congealing into droplets. Do you know what this means?"

"I'm afraid not, my queen."

She stood, muttering to herself while looking around for something. "Ah!" she cried, seizing a dark, intimidating book from a different table. She flipped through the pages, a few of them singed black from who-knows-what. “Here… when placed in an acidic solution of mugwort extract and its complementary bases, kystrine will congeal and solidify, becoming conducive to extraction and concentration. Combine this new extract with hemp, witch hazel, blah, blah, blah—oh! Once combined and heated, the solution will produce a serum known colloquially as The Blood of Drok’ben. Dorian, this is what I’ve been searching for for years! I've created a potion of immortality!” the queen laughed. 

Seemingly without thinking, she jumped up, grabbed his face, and kissed him on the mouth. Stars exploded in Dorian's eyes and his knees nearly buckled. His entire body buzzed with energy, like he'd been struck by lightning; he could practically taste her magic, it was so potent. She pulled away and continued rambling and laughing into her hands, rushing around the basement. Dorian stared ahead, fingers lightly touching his lips. His mind wasn't working right, like she'd put him under a spell or hit him over the head with a brick.

"...back to the library. I won't be needing them anymore. Well, I might need this one for a little while longer, but—hey, are you listening to me? Dorian?"

"Huh, what? Oh, apologies, Your Majesty," he said, still a little dazed. "What did you need?"

"Take these books back to the library. I'll be working late tonight. Bring my food directly down here."

"Yes, Your Majesty. Right away."

                                                * * * * * * * * * *

The sun was setting, and Dorian sat in the kitchens with his chin resting on his hands, staring out at the horizon. 

"Ya look awful dreamy today," Maybelle, the head cook, commented. She kneaded a giant ball of dough with rough, calloused hands, and forearms that looked like they could snap Dorian in half. "Might I presume it has somethin' ta do with Her Majesty the Queen?"

His ears reddened and he turned away. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're insinuating, Belle."

"Don't use that silver tongue'a yers with me, boy," she snapped, pointing a flour-covered finger his way. "I've seen a love-struck fool enough times to know one when I see it. You been jittery as a drok'ben-fearin' drunk, tappin' yer fingers like some infernal—"

Dorian stiffened. "What did you say?"

"Yer a love-struck fool."

"No, after that. Drok'ben. What about Drok'ben?" he demanded standing. 

Maybelle looked at him oddly. "Just a legend, really. A pixie-tale about a man who tried to live forever and got turned to a monster fer violating the laws o' nature, or somethin'. Real sad tale. Why?"

Dorian stumbled back, putting a hand on the counter. "A monster..." he echoed sickly. It couldn't be true, could it? Just a pixie-tale, as Maybelle said, and yet... 

...known colloquially as The Blood of Drok'ben.

"How... how did he do it?" he breathed.

"What?"

"The man in the story, how did he attempt to become immortal!" 

Maybelle looked up, thinking. "Ah, I haven't heard the story maself for a while, but he was some sorta chemist. Mixed things that weren't meant to meet 'n stuff like that. Was his own undoin'."

It was ridiculous. Dorian knew it, and yet he couldn't get the image of the queen drinking that cursed serum without researching, or testing it, or even thinking. He bolted from the kitchen before Maybelle could so much as open her mouth to ask what was wrong. He sprinted down the palace corridors, barely avoiding crashing into a group of guards. 

"Hey!" one of them yelped. Another, reacting faster, grabbed Dorian's shoulder and yanked him to a stop. 

"Why are you running? What's the matter?"

Dorian could barely speak, he was so frantic. "The... the queen, I—I believe she's in grave danger!" He barely got the words out when the guards grew terrifyingly stern. 

The one that grabbed him nodded, "Lead the way." They all ran down the hall, and in the back of Dorian's mind, he worried about bursting in on the queen's research with a group of hysterical guards. They rocketed down the staircase, and he nearly tripped and fell a few times, but somehow kept his feet underneath him. 

"Your Majesty!" he cried, slamming the door open. The queen looked up from her seat at one of the tables, a thin vial of golden liquid near her hand. Dorian's eyes locked onto it and he rushed forward. She stood, and he tumbled to a stop, barely keeping from running into her. 

"What is the meaning of this? Why are you all so upset? Has something happened?"

"You..." Dorian huffed, pointing to the vial. "You can't drink that."

"Excuse me?" Her expression grew dark. 

"Your Majesty," he amended, lifting a placating hand. "I know you think it's safe, but I have reason to believe—"

The queen's nostrils flared and she rose to her full height, a few inches taller than himself. "You are out of line, Dorian. You would do well to remember your place."

"But, Your Majesty—"

"Guards!" she cried and the men jumped to attention. "Seize this man. It seems he is under the impression he can tell me what I can and cannot do." 

Dorian felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach. This man. As if she didn't know his name. Rough hands grabbed his arms and pulled him away from the queen. She picked up the vial and held it between her first two fingers. 

"I finally achieve my life's work, and you want to tell me that I shouldn't take it?" She stalked toward him and the pit in his stomach grew to a gaping hole. Despite this, he couldn't shake the overwhelming feeling that she was in danger.

"Please, my queen, if you would just listen. I believe that the potion you hold will do far more damage than good! You—" he cut himself off before he could say the words. You don't know what you're doing. Please, I know it's not much to go on, but I feel it in my bones. This is bad. 

"And how, pray tell, do you know this?"

"I... I need you to trust me, Your Majesty. I would never strive to inhibit you in any way, and I only seek for your own well-being and the welfare of this kingdom. Please, do not drink the potion," he pleaded, pulling against the guards. The queen eyed him quizzically, and then suddenly her hand was moving, nearing her mouth and oh no, she was going to drink itwaitwait—

"Rosemary!" he shrieked, lunging forward again. "Rose, please, please stop, just—"

SLAP!

"You dare address me so casually you insignificant worm!" the queen hissed. The guards tightened their grips, pulling him back once more. Dorian couldn't see through the tears in his eyes. "Fine," she spat, storming up to him. "You think it's so dangerous? Drink it yourself."

"Wh—What?"

"Prove to me that it really won't work. However, be warned. If it works, and you simply wanted to get your hands on my potion" she growled, "I will make your life a living hell. Now, drink it." 

Dorian's mouth opened and closed wordlessly as he struggled for some sort of response, something that would convince her that he would never try to steal from her, much less take her life long dream away from her. 

Her expression softened and she placed a hand on his cheek. "You'll do this for me, won't you? If you cared about me, you would want to protect me. Right?"

Dorian's mouth snapped shut. "...Yes, Your Majesty." 

The guards released him, looking at each other with mixtures of confusion and concern. The queen held out the golden vial, a murderous look in her eye. Dorian didn't know exactly what the serum would do to him, but if him taking it in her stead would save not only her, but the kingdom as a whole, it was a risk he was willing to take. Her words echoed around his skull. If it works, I'll make your life a living hell.

With a hand that he was surprised was as steady as it was, he took it from her, and drank. 

Nothing happened. 

It tasted like acid, and, strangely, absorbed into his body the second it touched his tongue. He hadn't even needed to swallow. He looked at the empty vial in his hands, then up at the queen, and his stomach dropped through the bottoms of his feet. She had the calm disposition of a volcano about to decimate an entire countryside. 

He'd been wrong. Blinded by his paranoia for her safety and the mumblings of legends that meant nothing. She was the smartest person he knew, of course she'd known what she was doing. His heart wrenched. He'd stolen her one life goal from right in front of her.

"Take him to the dungeons," she breathed, glancing at the guards behind him. "I will decide what to do with him later."

"Yes, Your Majesty," one saluted, stepping forward and reaching for Dorian's arm. Dorian opened his mouth to apologize, beg forgiveness, say something, when the air in the basement shifted. All of the hair on his arms and neck stood stick straight and the room felt electrified. Not a second later, a horrible pain gripped Dorian's entire body and he gasped, falling to his knees. The queen and guards all took a step back, unsure what was going on or what they should do. His eyes burned like hellfire and tears that felt thick and strange streaked down his cheeks. He touched his face, and it came away covered in gold liquid not unlike the potion he'd ingested. He looked up at the queen—at Rosemary—and saw gold light reflecting off her face from his direction. He blinked, and the light flickered. His eyes were glowing. 

"What's happening?" she asked, though she sounded more intrigued than afraid. Another wave of pain shook Dorian's body, and he shuddered, groaning. 

"I..." he managed through shallow breaths, looking up at her face once more. He managed a pained smile, and laughed wetly. "I'm so sorry." A few seconds later, stars exploded behind his eyes and his mind whited out. 

                                                * * * * * * * * * *

One year later.

Dorian didn't remember what it was like to be human. Sure, he saw the servants when they brought down food for the prisoners, or the guards whenever they came to get a kick out of torturing them, but he couldn't remember what it was like. What it was like to have legs, and bob up and down when you walked, or feel your hair tickle your face, or your cheeks grow taut with a smile. None of it. It was depressing to think about the fact that it only took a year for him to forget what he'd looked like for thirty. So, he didn't. He forgot that he had once been a normal man, who loved, and smiled, and laughed. No, now he was just the beast that guarded the dungeon. 

The familiar clang of the dungeon entrance being unlatched out of sight atop the winding staircase snapped him out of his thoughts. He was coiled in on himself, his head resting lazily atop his body. Quick, light steps tapped out a staccato that echoed around the cavern. Eventually, they slowed, and a small head peeked around the corner. 

It was a girl. A maid. Brought food for the prisoners, most likely. Dorian had quickly discovered after his transformation that he no longer required sleep, food, or even water to survive. Not that he never ate, but the last time he recalled actually eating something was when one of the guards had slandered the queen whilst bringing down a new batch of prisoners. The act of eating in this form disgusted Dorian, but he had quite enjoyed that particular experience. 

The maid was short, with brown hair like silk ribbons and a round, freckled face. A flick of his tongue, and he was suddenly aware of the hot blood pounding through her body at abnormally high speeds and her clammy, cold hands. It was strange, this double-sight he'd acquired. He couldn't quite explain it, but it worked in light or dark and he'd found it quite useful in catching prisoners trying to escape. 

The girl took a breath, and stepped out into the open. She carried no food tray with her. Dorian stared at her unblinking, his tongue flicking out once more curiously. No one was allowed down here unless given permission from the queen or on an express errand.

"Hello, Drok'ben," she called, hands clasped tightly behind her back. He chuckled internally at the name. He'd been surprised when the guards had begun addressing him as such—the few times they did address him—and found it funny in a sad, tragic sort of way. Often times, he forgot which was his true name.

“I—I know I’m not allowed down here for personal reasons, but I was hoping I might visit a friend of mine? His name is Dorian and I’ve been told he’s being held down here.”

Dorian couldn’t withhold the earth-shaking laugh that rumbled out of him at her words. She let out a squeak of surprise, but didn’t retreat. He slithered forward, slowly unraveling his body with a sound like a rockslide. He could tell her pulse quickened at his movement, and yet she didn’t bolt. She didn’t even look away from him. 

“This is not an inn, little one. You do not visit the people here.”

The girl swallowed. “I want to know why he’s down here. No one will tell me. Not even the queen. He is my friend, and I don’t believe he would purposefully act against the queen. I’m... worried about him.”

“Do not concern yourself with him. He is lost.”

“What does that mean?”

Dorian bristled, “You try my patience, child. Get out before I decide to do something about it.”

She pressed her lips together, looking as if she were about to cry. “All right, but would you at least tell him that Esther came to visit him?”

Dorian froze. Bouncing hair. Giggles. Sunlight cast across a pale, freckled face. Faint annoyance that faded into fond amusement. Berry tarts snuck under his door in the middle of the night, and constantly asking what he was up to around the castle. 

“Um, Drok’ben?” Esther asked softly, looking somewhere between concerned and absolutely terrified. 

"Leave," he managed, turning away from her and burying himself beneath the weight of his own monstrous body. Stop it. Stop remembering. It will only cause you pain, he thought bitterly. Despite his attempts to run away, he heard her reluctant retreating steps as they faded and the click of the dungeon door. He sat like that for a long time, lamenting the fact that he never slept. Then, at least, he could escape his life for some stretch of time. Over the course of his time in the dungeon, he'd discovered a sort of pseudo-sleep he could slip into if he was undisturbed for long enough. Less like being lost in thought, and more like drowning in them. Completely submerging himself in the darkness of his own mind. He would still be aware of his surroundings and able to "wake up" if someone came down the stairs, but time seemed to pass a little faster.

"Would you look at that," a hoarse voice—a woman's voice—chuckled from the direction of the cells. It was soft, and a normal human would not have been able to pick it out. Dorian didn't move. "Never seen a young lady get the best of a demon before."

"Be quiet."

The voice cackled, devolving into a fit of coughing. "Excuse me if I'm not trembling in fear, but a butler turned into a wingless, legless dragon doesn't exactly fit my idea of intimidating." The other prisoners gasped and hissed at her to keep her mouth shut, did she want to die?

Dorian shifted, and sighed tiredly, "Do not make me repeat myself."

"Oh, but you want to hear what I have to say. I can offer you something that no one else can."

He considered it for a while, playing the options in his mind. He really had nothing to lose by listening to her, aside from peace and quiet. If she began to annoy him, he could always break into her cell and eat her. The queen would not appreciate him eating her prisoners, but this particular captive had been locked up for years—even before he'd... changed. He doubted Rosemary had any use for her other than keeping her out of the way. 

He poked his head out from underneath his body and examined the rows of cells extending out behind him. He could see the heat of all of the prisoners radiating through the cracks in the walls. The voice had come from down the hall a ways. His head was bigger than the doors, and if he did end up deciding to eat her, he'd have to damage the walls. Quite the effort to go to for something so worthless. But what did he have to lose, really?

Sighing, he slowly slithered forward toward the cells. The hallway was narrow, and his body rubbed against both walls with almost a metallic clinking against the iron bars. Usually, he'd avoid small, constricting places like this as he wouldn't be able to turn around, and moving backwards wasn't exactly this body's forte. Thankfully, however, the cell block was a square U shape, and he'd be able to loop around. The other prisoners—the ones that were conscious, at least—grew deadly silent, and a few even began to cry or mutter to themselves. 

Dorian reached the cell door and peered inside with one of his eyes. The prisoner in question sat slumped against the stone wall of her cell, hair matted with blood and several cuts traveling up and down her body. She looked horrible. 

"Well?" he demanded. 

She raised her head to show her face. From her vantage point, she'd only be able to see his one eye, and a portion of his head, and yet her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, you're beautiful," she breathed. Dorian tensed, resulting in a horrible scraping noise from the other cell doors he was pressed up against. Other prisoners gasped or screamed.

"Do not waste my time."

"Right... sorry," she mumbled, still entranced. With what looked like a considerable amount of pain, the woman dragged herself to the door. She reached out with a tentative hand, then pulled back. "May I?"

"No," he snapped, "You may not. Now, tell me what this offer is before I lose my patience and eat you." The woman pulled herself into a cross-legged position and smiled. 

"You are far more powerful than you realize, Dorian," she began. It was strange hearing someone say his real name for once. Even the queen herself called him Drok'ben. He wasn't sure how he felt about it, but didn't interrupt. "Being quite the accomplished witch, myself, I'd be willing to help you harness that power."

"And why would I want to do that?"

She scoffed. "Are you kidding? You're a prisoner here, too. Don't you want a chance to esca—"

"I am not a prisoner,"  he roared, something inside him clicking. The witch's eyebrows shot up. "I am a loyal servant to the queen, and will perform my duty to the best of my abilities, unlike you, traitorous swine."

"You mean to tell me you turned yourself into a demon, and volunteered to guard a dungeon for the rest of time?"

"Without question," he hissed with more conviction than he'd heard in his voice in months. He couldn't help it. He loved her with his entire being. Even if she hadn't forced him to drink the potion, he would have done it anyway. Again, and again, if it meant her happiness. 

"Oh, sweetie," she murmured, reached out toward him again. He jerked back, cracking his head against the ceiling and sending a shower of dust over the both of them. 

"Who are you, and what do you want?"

The witch smiled. 

"My name is Amaryllis, and I can help you turn human again."

                                                * * * * * * * * * *

The first time he'd actually done it, he broke down crying for hours. It was simple magic, according to Amaryllis, just a basic transfiguration spell, but it had taken him weeks. Not because he was weak—Amaryllis explained that he had more inherent magic within him than most other magical creatures in all of the Witchlands, if not the world—but because being an enormous serpent instructed by a human witch confined to a small cell with limited resources turned out to be quite the challenge. 

In the end, however, he did it. Kind of. He'd had a sort of existential crisis when he'd discovered the left side of his face and body, but after a fair bit of long-distance reassurance, Dorian was able to come to terms with it. On the bright side, he still retained all of the enhanced senses and inhuman strength that he had as a serpent, but nothing could compare to being in a human body once more. It was amazing. Getting to run, and jump, and stretch, and speak with a normal tongue and human teeth and oh, it was bliss. He would have never turned back, however shortly after this accomplishment, a group of guards entered the dungeon and Dorian, panicking, had shifted back into his demon form before they could see him like that. Unfortunately, he found that he still lacked the ability to sleep, but he found this a small price to pay for being able to turn human again.

As the days passed, he became more and more comfortable with the transition. He was able to make the shift smoothly and effortlessly, now—and, after much trial and error, figure out how to transform back wearing clothes. A miracle, really, as running around the dungeon stark naked hadn't been the best of experiences. A simple suit and dress shoes, just like he used to wear.

He spent as much time as he could as a human, sitting in front of Amaryllis' cell learning to harness his powers. 

Despite the fact that he considered the witch a shaky friend and was indeed grateful for her help, he had no illusions about his remaining loyalties, and kept no secrets from her about it. If the queen asked him to kill her, he would in an instant. She never seemed surprised at his comments, but rather, a bit sad. 

He also grew to know the other prisoners under his watch, as well. Anouk, a blacksmith who had taken up illegal smuggling as a way to pay off a debt. Killian, a masterful arcanist who had been incarcerated for malpractice. Jerika, an unhinged murderer who took an unsettling interest in his scales, human form or otherwise. Aside from the crazy ones, Amaryllis seemed to be the only one who actually tolerated his presence. Anouk, whose entire family had been killed in some accident, held his life without concern and frequently taunted Dorian in an attempt to get him to kill him. 

It went on like this for another year or so, Dorian steadily growing in magical ability and surety of himself as a person. The only times he returned to his demon form was when guards or servants came down. Thanks to his hearing, he was usually able to hear the door open even when he sat amid the cells.

So, when he returned to the large open area out in the main part of the dungeon and found Queen Rosemary standing there, dumbfounded at the lack of a giant serpentine demon, you can imagine Dorian's surprise. He hadn't even heard her come in, let alone descend all of the stairs. He hadn't been that distracted, right? Or maybe he was just growing complacent?

He cleared his throat, straightening his jacket and approaching the queen. "Your Majesty."

She jumped, her eyes shooting to him. A dagger was in her hand, which she pointed at him from across the room. "Who are you? What happened to..." she trailed off, unbelieving recognition flashing through her eyes. "Dorian?"

"Indeed." He couldn't keep the smile from his face. 

"You're... human again."

He chuckled, "Not quite. But human enough, my queen."

"But the serum," she said, still rife with confusion, "It's irreversible."

"Quite so. This," he gestured to himself, "is a simple transfiguration spell. I am still, and forever will be, that demon."

She took a step back. "You never knew how to perform magic before."

"It seems being transformed into a magical being has its side effects," he said, keeping a good distance between himself and the queen. How he longed to rush to her, to hold her hand with his own, but from the wariness in her eyes, he could tell that he wouldn't get far if he so much as took a step in her direction. No, she wasn't afraid. He expected no less from the most powerful witch in the land. Wary, on the other hand? Very much so. 

Moving slowly, so as not to spook the queen, he lowered to a knee and placed a fist against his chest. "I am at your service, my queen."

He didn't move as he heard her approach, keeping his gaze at the stony ground. A hand, softer than silk, slid against his cheek and brought his face up to meet her eyes. Dorian felt his eyes grow wet. She'd touched his scales. Willingly touched them without a hint of disgust or derision. 

"Even after all this time," she whispered, pulling him to his feet, "You are still loyal to me?"

"Of course, my queen. Forever, and always," he breathed incredulously. How could he have been so careless? Surely, it was his fault she had forgotten. He hadn't been loyal enough. Guilt still gnawed at his insides when he remembered drinking the potion. Her face as he stole what could have been her biggest achievement. 

She cocked her head to the side, running her thumb across Dorian's cheekbone and sending shivers down his entire body, and, with a hint of a beautiful smile, asked,  "Do you love me?"

"Yes," he said wetly, relief flooding him. "I loved you from the moment I met you."

Her smile split open, revealing a perfect row of teeth. "Good," she said, and pulled him into a searing kiss. His mind spun and his entire body burned, like he'd downed an entire glass of the strongest whiskey from the palace cellars. Her magic washed over him, seeping into every bit of his being and making it hers. Not that it was particularly necessary, but Dorian didn't mind. He felt weak in the knees, like he'd pass out from the sheer power of the kiss. He was out of breath when she finally pulled away, looking as put together and beautiful as ever. 

"I believe a change in occupation is in order."

                                                * * * * * * * * * *

Two years later.

The throne room was full of every one of the palace officials. Generals, magistrates, elders, even the queen herself. Dorian sat coiled behind the throne, where the queen enjoyed him the most. Even though the throne itself was intimidating, his body would take up most of the back area, small as it was, and proved quite the terrifying display. It made the "right sort of impression" as she had explained when first giving him the role of enforcer. He loved his job. Not only did he accompany the queen wherever she went, but he also got to punish those who dared speak or act against her. Sure, she still had guards for the everyday sort of threats, but nothing struck more fear and respect into the hearts of her subjects than seeing her walk down the street flanked by a demon.

Today, however, was different. Before them, bound in chains, was the traitorous witch Ursula, a terrorist who had attempted a coup d'état against the queen. Next to her, a black cat had been stuffed into a small cage—her familiar, most likely. Dorian smiled internally as he remembered the look on her face when all of her rebellious troops turned on her. Had she really thought that she could outsmart the Witch Queen herself? In truth, they had known about the rebellion from the start, and and made sure to supply her efforts with spies and double-agents. She only received the information that the queen wanted her to know. Of course, there had been a few unforeseen complications, including the destruction of the dungeons and the escape of all of the prisoners, but in the end their gains outweighed their losses.

Dorian felt an all too familiar sense of guilt rake through him as he remembered the prison break. He remembered the look of silent pleading Amaryllis had shot him as he'd come barreling down the stairs to kill them all. He'd told the queen that none had survived. In reality, they'd all escaped, because he'd been too weak to fulfill his duty. How pathetic.

"Bring the traitor forward," Queen Rosemary stated, and two guards shoved Ursula forward. She fell to her knees, numb with disbelief. The queen grinned wickedly. "Oh, wait! I remember you! You're that little girl who called herself the Dragon Witch. Right? What a cute little nickname. Well, anyway, you have been found guilty of treason, acts of terror against the Witchlands, malpractice of magic, and the deaths of hundreds of innocents."

"But that wasn't me!" she shrieked, looking up. "It was your men who—"

"Shut up," a guard snapped, cuffing her sharply over the head. She fell silent, tears streaming down her face.

The queen looked down at her with glee. "You wish to plead your case? By all means," she sneered, gesturing to the room full of her subordinates.

Ursula looked up at her through her hair, breathing heavily. "You aren't a queen."

The whole room stiffened. The queen's nostrils flared, but she said nothing.

"You're nothing more than a vicious tyrant who's so obsessed with power she can't even see how her kingdom despises her," she spat. Dorian tensed up, making his body even bigger and more imposing. He moved to strike her, but the queen held up a hand and he stopped, despite the look of absolute terror washing through Ursula's face at his movement.

"Common law dictates that any witch found guilty of one or more of these crimes is subject to death by The Hounds," she said with a smile. A shiver ran through the room, and even Dorian would have flinched if he'd been in his human form. What a horrible way to die. Ursula paled, and the queen continued. "However, I believe a different sort of punishment is in order. Since you think I'm such a vicious tyrant, you will merely be banished from the Witchlands. A slap on the wrist, really," she laughed. Dorian, along with the rest of the court looked at her incredulously. Was she serious? However, looking at Ursula's face, it was evident what the intended purpose was. It was an insult. The queen was insinuating that Ursula's rebellion wasn't drastic enough for a death sentence, or even incarceration. She was effectively being put in time out for the rest of her life.

She went on, "I think you'll find that life on the outside isn't as kind as you'd like to believe. You'll have to tell me how the view is from the human world. Send me a postcard, or something."

Ursula bared her teeth, "You insufferable little—"

"Guards, take her to the edge of the Witchlands and see that she leaves for good, will you?" she said with a wave of her hand, dismissing the entire affair. While Dorian would have loved to kill Ursula himself for her treasonous acts, but he couldn't deny the truly magnificent mind of the queen. Now, she could be justified in being called merciful, while doing possibly the worst thing aside from killing Ursula.

The witch and her familiar were dragged from the throne room.

Surely, that would be the last they ever saw of the Dragon Witch.

[im-not-corrupted]

Safi, No (A Witchlands Fanfiction) - Chapter Twelve

Also written with @un-empressed!

Read other chapters here: Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven

Chapter Summary:

There's a photoshoot and Vivia has a revelation.

Also on Ao3!

Safi had arranged for a photo shoot.

Of course, none of them knew that at the time. No, they had only got a message from Safi in the Bribery and Corruption group chat - Meet me at my house, 6pm. Bring your jackets or you'll be the receiver of the revenge plan.

Iseult was the only one who had replied. Saf, you shouldn't threaten the people who you need to complete a revenge plan. She had given up after Safi replied with I fail to see how that matters.

So, as one does when one is threatened with a plan to ruin your life, they all went. Iseult knew Safi wouldn't follow through on her threat, but she went anyway just to make sure Safi didn't kidnap Merik or something.

Maybe that was a little extreme, but it was Safi. She loved her, yes, but Iseult was not going to take any chances. Just in case.

6pm came, and they were all gathered outside Safi's house, confusing Iseult, who was a few minutes late. Apparently, being threatened with a revenge plan made one very willing to be on time and follow directions. Everyone wore their jackets - even Vaness and Aeduan, both of which Iseult hadn't seen wear the damn things until now.

Iseult approached the group, frowning slightly. "What are you all doing out here?" She stood next to Aeduan.

Aeduan sighed when she approached. "Thank God you're here. Safi said we had to wait here for a few minutes, and that she'll join us in a minute."

"That doesn't sound good."

That was when a van pulled up outside Safi's house, the words Mark's Photography painted onto one of the doors, and Iseult realised what was actually going on.

Safi, grinning widely, joined them outside, ignoring the group's confused stares.

A man got out of the van and walked over to them. "Hello, hi, I'm Mark. I'm going to be your photographer for today. Where should I set up?"

Safi stepped forward. "Can you set up in the garden?" Mark nodded. "Thanks."

Mark headed back and opened the back of his van, bringing out a bunch of equipment while the others looked on in either shock or confusion. He was clearly professional, and very good - he had all the right equipment, plus a fancy camera.

"Safi," Iseult began. "We are not doing a photo shoot."

Safi grinned. "Iseult. We are definitely doing a photo shoot."

Vaness rolled her eyes. "You dragged us here for a fucking photo shoot? In these things?" She gestured to the jacket she was threatened into wearing - God, Bribery and Corruption truly worked miracles, though she would never tell Safi that.

"Yes," Safi replied. "Now, come on." She ran into the garden, where Mark had set up the things they needed. Apparently, they weren't using any backdrops and they were only using natural lighting, because Mark had only set up the camera and nothing else. Which seemed like a waste of time, considering how much equipment he got out of his van.

Safi pushed everyone in front of the camera, and while everyone but Leopold and Stix complained about it, they did as she wished. There was no point fighting it. "First photo is a group photo," Safi announced, as if that wasn't obvious.

Mark raised an eyebrow. "What's this for, anyway?" he asked her. "There's quite a lot of you."

"Well," Safi began, and everyone groaned because they had heard this story far too often. "It began when this boy spoke over me in geography. I actually knew the answer, too! But no, he had to speak over me. So I came up with a plan to make his life hell and recruited these people to help me."

"I don't think 'recruited' is the right word to use," Aeduan said.

Iseult snorted. "More like most of us were forced into joining, bribed or corrupted."

Mark looked rightfully disturbed by the turn the conversation had taken. "Uh...Okay then?" He seemed to ignore everything Safi said, though, because he squinted at the camera and pointed towards Vivia and Vaness, who were standing at the sidelines. "Could you two get closer to the others, please? I can't get you in the shot."

Vaness looked ready to protest but Vivia just sighed and said something that had them both moving closer so they were in the shot.

"Perfect," Mark said, and took the first shot.

Leopold had screwed it up, though, by sticking out his tongue at the camera, so Safi forced them to take the same one again until it was perfect.

'Perfect' by Safi's standards was incredibly hard to meet. By the time they were ready for the next photo to be taken, it was already half six and Iseult's legs were hurting from standing up so long. But that didn't stop Safi.

"The next photo will be of the original crew - me, Leopold, Iseult, Caden, Lev and Zander," Safi announced. The people who were not needed went away, and Aeduan almost made it, until Safi spotted him. "Wait! Aeduan too!"

Aeduan came back and stood next to Iseult for this photo, too, though he had a very confused look on his face. "I'm part of the original crew?"

Iseult laughed and shrugged. "I didn't know there was an original crew. Just go with it. It can't go on for much longer."

She had been very, very wrong about that. Safi forced them her to do a picture with Aeduan, winking at her from where she stood next to Mark. Safi had pictures of her, Leopold, Caden, Lev and Zander done. She had Mark take a picture of herself with her arm around Vaness shoulders - the perfect picture of friendship, if Vaness wasn't glaring at her. That glare made Safi take the picture again and again, until Vaness actually smiled for the picture.

Vivia and Stix had their own picture taken, for a reason Iseult didn't actually know until she saw the photo itself. By the looks of things, Stix had decided last minute to place a kiss on Vivia's cheek, leaving the other girl's face bright red. Iseult found the picture quite cute.

By the time Safi finally said they could stop, they had been taking photos for an hour and a half, and they were all pretty exhausted. Iseult and Aeduan had spent most of the photos talking about whatever they could, so when Safi said they could all go home, Aeduan came up to her and asked to walk her back home.

Iseult had smiled at him and nodded. "Okay," she agreed.

Safi apparently overheard because when Iseult went to say goodbye to her, Safi had grinned wickedly and winked at her, something Iseult made an effort to ignore.

Aeduan did walk her home, and Iseult had a good time. The two laughed at whatever was said between them, or simply walked in silence. Iseult didn't mind either of them.

When they reached her house, Iseult paused, sad to put an end to it all. "Well, this is my place," she told him, a little crestfallen. She loved being in Aeduan's company.

Aeduan nodded. "See you tomorrow?"

She smiled. "Of course."

[x]

Vivia Nihar's week had been strange.

A very entertaining but strange week, anyway. She had pushed Corlant off his damned table not too long ago. The other students in school cheered for her. Safi had called her 'corrupted', but Stix had said she wasn't corrupted. Merik decided to...To what? To talk to her, to make amends? She wasn't sure, and it was strange. It was their first conversation that was, well, civil, and it was strange. Safi had got them all jackets. Jackets. They were practically advertising the fact that they're part of a group that worked to make Merik's life hell - and 'Bribery and Corruption' wasn't even subtle.

The jackets were decent, she supposed, considering what they represented. She didn't plan on wearing it often, though - that felt a bit too extreme.

After another talk with her father, Vivia holed herself up in her room and sent a quick message to theriverstix. The two talked almost every day, now, and Vivia loved it. Theriverstix, whoever it was, was such an interesting person. Funny, too. Vivia talked to them for hours a day, and it was always the highlight each day. She felt at peace when she talked with them through messages. She could talk about anything, and theriverstix never judged her, and Vivia did the same.

Though, to be fair, theriverstix didn't say that much that Vivia could've judged her for.

She got a reply quickly. Not for the first time, Vivia admired how often the two of them could actually talk. She knew all about time zones, and was incredibly thankful that theirs seemed to be the same.

theriverstix: Hello to you too! How are you?

Vivia smiled at her phone and typed another reply. Great, actually. You?

theriverstix: Amazing. Oh, did I tell you what happened recently? Because it's a funny story and everyone should know it.

Vivia laughed. This was just like her friend. Theriverstix always had the best things to talk about, and their stories were always hilarious. No, you certainly didn't.

theriverstix: I didn't? I have failed you. I shall tell you the story now.

The next message came after a minute or two.

theriverstix: Okay, so, there's this kid at school, yeah? He's super annoying. Everyone hates him. He seems to be part of this strange religion that worships himself? Idk what his deal is, not really. So the other day, he gets up on a table and some asshole gave him a microphone so we couldn't ignore him and he started ranting on about how we were all 'impure' and all we had to do was follow him in order to regain purity.

Vivia frowned, rereading the message, a strange feeling in her chest. The story felt too familiar - the boy on the table with a microphone, talking about purity? It was too familiar. Maybe it was a coincidence? Or did theriverstix actually go to her school?

She didn't reply, though. She didn't want to take that chance in case she was wrong. And it didn't matter, anyway, because theriverstix continued on.

theriverstix: Of course, everyone at school really hates him, but none of us ever thought of doing something about it until someone did. There's this girl, and she was waiting in line to get her food, but the annoying kid didn't shut up so she marched over to him, rips out the book in his hands - idk what the book is tho, don't ask - and she fucking HITS HIM WITH HIS OWN BOOK AND THEN SHOVES HIM OFF THE FUCKING TABLE

theriverstix: IT WAS THE BEST THING TO EVER HAPPEN AT MY SCHOOL

theriverstix: FUCKING ICONIC, I WISH YOU COULD'VE SEEN IT

Vivia stared at the phone in her hand, rereading the messages again and again. But the words remained the same - they never changed. They were still arranged in the same way, still said the same thing. Still talked about Corlant and Vivia pushing him off a table from the point of view of a bystander who thought what she did was iconic.

She was right. Theriverstix went to her school. Had probably been at her school this whole time, and she hadn't known.

She dropped the phone on her bed, unsure what to do. Did she tell theriverstix who she was? What if theriverstix was actually someone she already knew?

If she told theriverstix who she was, would they want to be friends with her? Very few people did.

But what if they were a friend of Merik? Vivia had no idea what her brother told anyone about her, though she was fairly sure most people didn't know she existed. She didn't know for sure, though, and that was the only thing stopping her from sending theriverstix a message saying It was me. I was the one who pushed Corlant off a table.

What if she could find out who theriverstix was? If they didn't know Merik, maybe Vivia could tell them. Maybe they could be friends in real life, not just online. But how would she do that? She didn't talk to many people - but the people she talked to did.

She grabbed her phone again, scrolling through her contacts before finding the one she wanted. Her contact list wasn't usually so full, but since she joined the Bribery and Corruption group, there was suddenly a lot more people, all of which got her number from the Bribery and Corruption group chat. But she clicked on only one name - Vaness'.

Vaness answered her phone immediately. Vivia always wondered how she managed to do that, with her social life being so big and all. It seemed like a lot of effort. "What is it?" she answered, forgetting 'hello'. She sounded mildly annoyed, and Vivia felt a little guilty for ringing her.

"I need your help," she said. If anyone could find theriverstix, it was Vaness. At least, she hoped so.

This seemed to get her attention. Vivia rarely asked for help. "What with?"

"Can you find someone for me?" she asked. Her voice sounded desperate even to her ears.

"I don't know." Vaness didn't say anything for a few minutes, and Vivia hoped she was considering it. "Do you have a name? A social media page? Or anything else to use."

Vivia hesitated before replying, "Yes." Theriverstix was a secret. She hadn't told Vaness about them - was that selfish of her? She didn't really care. "Remember that app you forced me to get? I met them on there. Their name is theriverstix."

"I'll see what I can do."

*

Read the next chapter here: Chapter Thirteen

[spinayarnindia]

Jackal Or Tiger

One hot night, in Hindustan, a king and queen lay awake in the palace in the midst of the city. Every now and then a faint air blew through the lattice, and they hoped they were going to sleep, but they never did. Presently they became more broad awake than ever at the sound of a howl outside the palace.

‘Listen to that tiger !’ remarked the king.

‘Tiger ?’ replied the queen. ‘How should there be a tiger inside the city ? It was only a jackal.’

‘I tell you it was a tiger,’ said the king.

‘And I tell you that you were dreaming if you thought it was anything but a jackal,’ answered the queen.

‘I say it was a tiger,’ cried the king; ‘don’t contradict me.’

‘Nonsense !’ snapped the queen. ‘It was a jackal.’ And the dispute waxed so warm that the king said at last:

‘Very well, we’ll call the guard and ask; and if it was a jackal I’ll leave this kingdom to you and go away; and if it was a tiger then you shall go, and I will marry a new wife.’

‘As you like,’ answered the queen; ‘there isn’t any doubt which it was.’

So the king called the two soldiers who were on guard outside and put the question to them. But, whilst the dispute was going on, the king and queen had got so excited and talked so loud that the guards had heard nearly all they said, and one man observed to the other: ‘Mind you declare that the king is right. It certainly was a jackal, but, if we say so, the king will probably not keep his word about going away, and we shall get into trouble, so we had better take his side.’

To this the other agreed; therefore, when the king asked them what animal they had seen, both the guards said it was certainly a tiger, and that the king was right of course, as he always was. The king made no remark, but sent for a palanquin, and ordered the queen to be placed in it, bidding the four bearers of the palanquin to take her a long way off into the forest and there leave her. In spite of her tears, she was forced to obey, and away the bearers went for three days and three nights until they came to a dense wood. There they set down the palanquin with the queen in it, and started home again.

Now the queen thought to herself that the king could not mean to send her away for good, and that as soon as he had got over his fit of temper be would summon her back; so she stayed quite still for a long time, listening with all her ears for approaching footsteps, but heard none. After a while she grew nervous, for she was all alone, and put her head out of the palanquin and looked about her. Day was just breaking, and birds and insects were beginning to stir; the leaves rustled in a warm breeze; but, although the queen’s eyes wandered in all directions, there was no sign of any human being. Then her spirit gave way, and she began to cry.

It so happened that close to the spot where the queen’s palanquin had been set down, there dwelt a man who had a tiny farm in the midst of the forest, where he and his wife lived alone far from any neighbours. As it was hot weather the farmer had been sleeping on the flat roof of his house, but was awakened by the sound of weeping. He jumped up and ran downstairs as fast as he could, and into the forest towards the place the sound came from, and there he found the palanquin.

‘Oh, poor soul that weeps,’ cried the farmer, standing a little way off, ‘who are you ?’ At this salutation from a stranger the queen grew silent, dreading she knew not what.

‘Oh, you that weep,’ repeated the farmer, ‘fear not to speak to me, for you are to me as a daughter. Tell me, who are you ?’

His voice was so kind that the queen gathered up her courage and spoke. And when she had told her story, the farmer called his wife, who led her to their house, and gave her food to eat, and a bed to lie on. And in the farm, a few days later, a little prince was born, and by his mother’s wish named Ameer Ali.

Years passed without a sign from the king. His wife might have been dead for all he seemed to care, though the queen still lived with the farmer, and the little prince had by this time grown up into a strong, handsome, and healthy youth. Out in the forest they seemed far from the world; very few ever came near them, and the prince was continually begging his mother and the farmer to be allowed to go away and seek adventures and to make his own living. But she and the wise farmer always counselled him to wait, until, at last, when he was eighteen years of age, they had not the heart to forbid him any longer. So he started off one early morning, with a sword by his side, a big brass pot to hold water, a few pieces of silver, and a galail [a galail is a double-stringed bow from which bullets or pellets of hard dried clay can be fired with considerable force and precision.] in his hand, with which to shoot birds as he travelled.

Many a weary mile he tramped day after day, until, one morning, he saw before him just such a forest as that in which he had been born and bred, and he stepped joyfully into it, like one who goes to meet an old friend.

Presently, as he made his way through a thicket, he saw a pigeon which he thought would make a good dinner, so he fired a pellet at it from his galail, but missed the pigeon, which fluttered away with a startled clatter. At the same instant he heard a great clamour from beyond the thicket, and, on reaching the spot, he found an ugly old woman streaming wet and crying loudly as she lifted from her head an earthen vessel with a hole in it from which the water was pouring. When she saw the prince with his galail in his hand, she called out: ‘Oh, wretched one ! why must you choose an old woman like me to play your pranks upon ? Where am I to get a fresh pitcher instead of this one that you have broken with your foolish tricks ? And how am I to go so far for water twice when one journey wearies me ?’

‘But, mother,’ replied the prince, ‘I played no trick upon you I did but shoot at a pigeon that should have served me for dinner, and as my pellet missed it, it must have broken your pitcher. But, in exchange, you shall have my brass pot, and that will not break easily; and as for getting water, tell me where to find it, and I’ll fetch it while you dry your garments in the sun, and carry it whither you will.’

At this the old woman’s face brightened. She showed him where to seek the water, and when he returned a few minutes later with his pot filled to the brim, she led the way without a word, and he followed. In a short while they came to a hut in the forest, and as they drew near it Ameer Ali beheld in the doorway the loveliest damsel his eyes had ever looked on. At the sight of a stranger she drew her veil about her and stepped into the hut, and much as he wished to see her again Ameer Ali could think of no excuse by which to bring her back, and so, with a heavy heart, he made his salutation, and bade the old woman farewell. But when he had gone a little way she called after him:

‘If ever you are in trouble or danger, come to where you now stand and cry: “Fairy of the forest ! Fairy of the forest, help me now !” And I will listen to you.’

The prince thanked her and continued his journey, but he thought little of the old woman’s saying, and much of the lovely damsel. Shortly afterwards he arrived at a city; and, as he was now in great straits, having come to the end of his money, he walked straight to the palace of the king and asked for employment. The king said he had plenty of servants and wanted no more; but the young man pleaded so hard that at last the rajah was sorry for him, and promised that he should enter his bodyguard on the condition that he would undertake any service which was especially difficult or dangerous. This was just what Ameer Ali wanted, and he agreed to do whatever the king might wish.

Soon after this, on a dark and stormy night, when the river roared beneath the palace walls, the sound of a woman weeping and wailing was heard above the storm. The king ordered a servant to go and see what was the matter; but the servant, falling on his knees in terror, begged that he might not be sent on such an errand, particularly on a night so wild, when evil spirits and witches were sure to be abroad. Indeed, so frightened was he, that the king, who was very kind-hearted, bade another to go in his stead, but each one showed the same strange fear. Then Ameer Ali stepped forward: ‘This is my duty, your majesty,’ he said; ‘I will go.’

The king nodded, and off he went. The night was as dark as pitch, and the wind blew furiously and drove the rain in sheets into his face; but he made his way down to the ford under the palace walls and stepped into the flooded water. Inch by inch, and foot by foot he fought his way across, now nearly swept off his feet by some sudden swirl or eddy, now narrowly escaping being caught in the branches of some floating tree that came tossing and swinging down the stream. At length he emerged, panting and dripping wet, on the other side.

Close by the bank stood a gallows, and on the gallows hung the body of some evil-doer, whilst from the foot of it came the sound of sobbing that the king had heard.

Ameer Ali was so grieved for the one who wept there that he thought nothing of the wildness of the night or of the roaring river. As for ghosts and witches, they had never troubled him, so he walked up towards the gallows where crouched the figure of the woman.

‘What ails you ?’ he said.

Now the woman was not really a woman at all, but a horrid kind of witch who really lived in Witchland, and

had no business on earth. If ever a man strayed into Witchland the ogresses used to eat him up, and this old witch thought she would like to catch a man for supper, and that is why she had been sobbing and crying in hopes that someone out of pity might come to her rescue.

So when Ameer Ali questioned her, she replied: ‘Ah, kind sir, it is my poor son who hangs upon that gallows; help me to get him down and I will bless you for ever.’

Ameer Ali thought that her voice sounded rather eager than sorrowful, and he suspected that she was not telling the truth, so he determined to be very cautious.

‘That will be rather difficult,’ he said, ‘for the gallows is high, and we have no ladder.’ ‘Ah, but if you will just stoop down and let me climb upon your shoulders,’ answered the old witch, ‘I think I could reach him.’ And her voice now sounded so cruel that Ameer Ali was sure that she intended some evil. But he only said: ‘Very well, we will try.’ With that he drew his sword, pretending that he needed it to lean upon, and bent so that the old woman could clamber on to his back, which she did very nimbly. Then, suddenly, he felt a noose slipped over his neck, and the old witch sprang from his shoulders on to the gallows, crying: ‘Now, foolish one, I have got you, and will kill you for my supper.’

But Ameer Ali gave a sweep upwards with his sharp sword to cut the rope that she had slipped round his neck, and not only cut the cord but cut also the old woman’s foot as it dangled above him; and with a yell of pain and anger she vanished into the darkness.

Ameer Ali then sat down to collect himself a little, and felt upon the ground by his side an anklet that had evidently fallen off the old witch’s foot. This he put into his pocket, and as the storm had by this time passed over he made his way back to the palace. When he had finished his story, he took the anklet out of his pocket and handed it to the king, who, like everyone else, was amazed at the glory of the jewels which composed it.

Indeed, Ameer Ali himself was astonished, for he bad slipped the anklet into his pocket in the dark and had not looked at it since. The king was delighted at its beauty, and having praised and rewarded Ameer Ali, he gave the anklet to his daughter, a proud and spoiled princess.

Now in the women’s apartments in the palace there hung two cages, in one of which was a parrot and in the other a starling, and these two birds could talk as well as human beings. They were both pets of the princess who always fed them herself, and the next day, as she was walking grandly about with her treasure tied round her ankle, she heard the starling say to the parrot: ‘Oh, Toté’ (that was the parrot’s name), ‘how do you think the princess looks in her new jewel ?’

‘Think ?’ snapped the parrot, who was cross because they hadn’t given him his bath that morning, ‘I think she looks like a washerwoman’s daughter, with one shoe on and the other off ! Why doesn’t she wear two of them, instead of going about with one leg adorned and the other bare ?’

When the princess heard this she burst into tears; and sending for her father she declared that he must get her another such an anklet to wear on the other leg, or she would die of shame. So the king sent for Ameer Ali and told him that he must get a second anklet exactly like the first within a month, or he should be hanged, for the princess would certainly die of disappointment.

Poor Ameer Ali was greatly troubled at the king’s command, but he thought to himself that he had, at any rate, a month in which to lay his plans. He left the palace at once, and inquired of everyone where the finest jewels were to be got; but though he sought night and day he never found one to compare with the anklet. At last only a week remained, and he was in sore difficulty, when he remembered the Fairy of the forest, and determined to go without loss of time and seek her. Therefore away he went, and after a day’s travelling he reached the cottage in the forest, and, standing where he had stood when the old woman called to him, he cried: ‘Fairy of the forest ! Fairy of the forest ! Help me ! help me !’

Then there appeared in the doorway the beautiful girl he had seen before, whom in all his wanderings he had never forgotten.

‘What is the matter ?’ she asked, in a voice so soft that he listened like one struck dumb, and she had to repeat the question before he could answer. Then he told her his story, and she went within the cottage and came back with two wands, and a pot of boiling water. The two wands she planted in the ground about six feet apart, and then, turning to him, she said: ‘I am going to lie down between these two wands. You must then draw your sword and cut off my foot, and, as soon as you have done that, you must seize it and hold it over the cauldron, and every drop of blood that falls from it into the water will become a jewel. Next you must change the wands so that the one that stood at my head is at my feet, and the one at my feet stands at my head, and place the severed foot against the wound and it will heal, and I shall become quite well again as before.’

At first Ameer Ali declared that he would sooner be hanged twenty times over than treat her so roughly; but at length she persuaded him to do her bidding. He nearly fainted himself with horror when he found that, after the cruel blow which lopped her foot off, she lay as one lifeless; but he held the severed foot over the cauldron, and, as drops of blood fell from it, and he saw each turn in the water into shining gems, his heart took courage.

Very soon there were plenty of jewels in the cauldron, and he quickly changed the wands, placed the severed foot against the wound, and immediately the two parts became one as before. Then the maiden opened her eyes, sprang to her feet, and drawing her veil about her, ran into the hut, and would not come out or speak to him any more. For a long while he waited, but, as she did not appear, he gathered up the precious stones and returned to the palace. He easily got someone to set the jewels, and found that there were enough to make, not only one, but three rare and beautiful anklets, and these he duly presented to the king on the very day that his month of grace was over.

The king embraced him warmly, and made him rich gifts; and the next day the vain princess put two anklets on each foot, and strutted up and down in them admiring herself in the mirrors that lined her room.

‘Oh, Toté,’ asked the starling, ‘how do you think our princess looks now in these fine jewels ?’

‘Ugh !’ growled the parrot, who was really always cross in the mornings, and never recovered his temper until after lunch, ‘she’s got all her beauty at one end of her now; if she had a few of those fine gew-gaws round her neck and wrists she would look better; but now, to my mind, she looks more than ever like the washer-woman’s daughter dressed up.’

Poor princess ! she wept and stormed and raved until she made herself quite ill; and then she declared to her father that unless she had bracelets and necklace to match the anklets she would die.

Again the king sent for Ameer Ali, and ordered, him to get a necklace and bracelets to match those anklets within a month, or be put to a cruel death.

And again Ameer Ali spent nearly the whole month searching for the jewels, but all in vain. At length he made his way to the hut in the forest, and stood and cried: ‘Fairy of the forest ! Fairy of the forest ! Help me ! help me !’

Once more the beautiful maiden appeared at his summons and asked what he wanted, and when he had told her she said he must do exactly as he had done the first time, except that now he must cut off both her hands and her head. Her words turned Ameer Ali pale with horror; but she reminded him that no harm had come to her before, and at last he consented to do as she bade him. From her severed hands and head there fell into the cauldron bracelets and chains of rubies and diamonds, emeralds and pearls that surpassed any that ever were seen. Then the head and hands were joined on to the body, and left neither sign nor scar. Pull of gratitude,

Ameer Ali tried to speak to her, but she ran into the house and would not come back, and he was forced to leave her and go away laden with the jewels.

When, on the day appointed, Ameer Ali produced a necklace and bracelets each more beautiful and priceless than the last, the king’s astonishment knew no bounds, and as for his daughter she was nearly mad with joy.

The very next morning she put on all her finery, and thought that now, at least, that disagreeable parrot could find no fault with her appearance, and she listened eagerly when she heard the starling say:

‘Oh, Toté, how do you think our princess is looking now ?’

‘Very fine, no doubt,’ grumbled the parrot; ‘but what is the use of dressing up like that for oneself only ? She ought to have a husband — why doesn’t she marry the man who got her all these splendid things ?’

Then the princess sent for her father and told him that she wished to marry Ameer Ali.

‘My dear child,’ said her father, ‘you really are very difficult to please, and want something new every day. It certainly is time you married someone, and if you choose this man, of course he shall marry you.’

So the king sent for Ameer Ali, and told him that within a month he proposed to do him the honour of marrying him to the princess, and making him heir to the throne.

On hearing this speech Ameer Ali bowed low and answered that he had done and would do the king all the service that lay in his power, save only this one thing. The king, who considered his daughter’s hand a prize for any man, flew into a passion, and the princess was more furious still. Ameer Ali was instantly thrown into the most dismal prison that they could find, and ordered to be kept there until the king had time to think in what way he should be put to death.

Meanwhile the king determined that the princess ought in any case to be married without delay, so he sent forth heralds throughout the neighbouring countries, proclaiming that on a certain day any person fitted for a bridegroom and heir to the throne should present himself at the palace.

When the day came, all the court were gathered together, and a great crowd assembled of men, young and old,

who thought that they had as good a chance as anyone else to gain both the throne and the princess. As soon as the king was seated, he called upon an usher to summon the first claimant. But, just then, a farmer, who stood in front of the crowd, cried out that he had a petition to offer.

Well, hasten then,’ said the king; ‘I have no time to waste.’

‘Your majesty,’ said the farmer, ‘has now lived and administered justice long in this city, and will know that the tiger who is king of beasts hunts only in the forest, whilst jackals hunt in every place where there is something to be picked up.’

‘What is all this ? what is all this ?’ asked the king. ‘The man must be mad !’

‘No, your majesty,’ answered the farmer; ‘I would only remind your majesty that there are plenty of jackals gathered to-day to try and claim your daughter and kingdom: every city has sent them, and they wait hungry and eager; but do not, O king, mistake or pretend again to mistake the howl of a jackal for the hunting cry of a tiger.’

The king turned first red and then pale.

‘There is,’ continued the farmer, ‘a royal tiger bred in the forest who has the first and only true claim to your throne.’

‘Where ? what do you mean ?’ stammered the king, growing pale as he listened.

‘In prison,’ replied the farmer; ‘if your majesty will clear this court of the jackals I will explain.’

‘Clear the court!’ commanded the king; and, very unwillingly, the visitors left the palace.

‘Now tell me what riddle this is,’ said he.

Then the farmer told the king and his ministers how he had rescued the queen and brought up Ameer Ali; and he fetched the old queen herself, whom he had left outside. At the sight of her the king was filled with shame and self-reproach, and wished he could have lived his life over again, and not have married the mother of the proud princess, who caused him endless trouble until her death.

‘My day is past,’ said he. And he gave up his crown to his son Ameer Ali, who went once more and called to the forest fairy to provide him with a queen to share his throne.

‘There is only one person I will marry,’ said he. And this time the maiden did not run away, but agreed to be his wife. So the two were married without delay, and lived long and reigned happily.

As for the old woman whose pitcher Ameer Ali had broken, she was the forest maiden’s fairy godmother, and when she was no longer needed to look after the girl she gladly returned to fairyland.

The old king has never been heard to contradict his wife any more. If he even looks as if he does not agree with her, she smiles at him and says:

‘Is it the tiger, then ? or the jackal ?’ And he has not another word to say.

[afoolsingenuity]

Looking Forward // January 2017

I’ve realised that these Looking Forward posts have become a bit of a staple for the beginning of each month for me so I actually need to start labelling them with the year. The awful thing about these posts is that this year I hope to implement a spending limit upon myself and as such I won’t be able to get a hold of many of the books I am looking forward to each month. It’s almost cruel to write this post each month but I love seeing the books I’m excited to read in a list, don’t you? Luckily for me, my birthday is next month so maybe if I start a list now my family can get me a few… although there are several I still haven’t got from last year. Maybe I should prioritise?

I struggled with which books to choose this month as there are books I’m looking forward to being released this month but I got review copies so have already/am reading them. I decided to give those special mentions below and stick with all the rest.

Roseblood – A.G. Howard

Genre: Retelling, Young Adult, Fantasy

Release Date: 10th January 2017

Windwitch – Susan Dennard

Genre: Fantasy, Young Adult

Release Date: 12th January 2017

In this modern day spin on Leroux’s gothic tale of unrequited love turned to madness, seventeen-year-old Rune Germain has a mysterious affliction linked to her operatic talent, and a horrifying mistake she’s trying to hide. Hoping creative direction will help her, Rune’s mother sends her to a French arts conservatory for her senior year, located in an opera house rumored to have ties to The Phantom of the Opera.

At RoseBlood, Rune secretly befriends the masked Thorn—an elusive violinist who not only guides her musical transformation through dreams that seem more real than reality itself, but somehow knows who she is behind her own masks. As the two discover an otherworldly connection and a soul-deep romance blossoms, Thorn’s dark agenda comes to light and he’s forced to make a deadly choice: lead Rune to her destruction, or face the wrath of the phantom who has haunted the opera house for a century, and is the only father he’s ever known.

Sometimes our enemies become our only allies The Windwitch Prince Merik is presumed dead, following a lethal explosion. He's left scarred but alive and determined to expose his sister's treachery. Yet on reaching the royal capital, he's shocked to find it crowded with refugees fleeing conflict. Merik haunts the streets, fighting for the weak. This leads to whispers of a disfigured demigod, the Fury, who brings justice to the oppressed.

Hunted by the Cleaved, Iseult is struggling to stay free while she searches for her friend Safi. When the Bloodwitch Aeduan corners Iseult first, she offers him a deal: she'll return what was stolen from him, if he locates the Truthwitch. Yet unknown to Iseult, there's a bounty on her head - and Aeduan intends to claim it.

After a surprise attack and shipwreck, Safi and the Empress of Marstok barely escape with their lives. They find themselves amongst pirates, where a misstep could mean death. And the bandits' next move could unleash war upon the Witchlands.

Why Am I Excited?

I always end up adding Hoard’s books to my TBR despite the fact I have yet to read a single one. I mean, that is truly a skill to possess as an author. How do you stay on my radar when I don’t know if the woman can even write? I want to read it, though, it sounds like a really original retelling.

Why Am I Excited?

I know not everyone loved the first book in this series, Truthwitch, but I did. I mean, I think the poor book suffered from overhype as I was hearing about it for months before it was ever released, but it was still a good fantasy which centred around two friends and poor decision making. I liked it and I want to see how the story continues, there is a whole heap of potential for the story to progress.

Carve the Mark – Veronica Roth

Genre: Sci-fi, Young Adult

Release Date: 18th January 2017

After The Fall – Kate Hart

Genre: Young Adult, Contemporary, Romance

Release Date: 24th January 2017

On a planet where violence and vengeance rule, in a galaxy where some are favored by fate, everyone develops a currentgift, a unique power meant to shape the future. While most benefit from their currentgifts, Akos and Cyra do not — their gifts make them vulnerable to others’ control. Can they reclaim their gifts, their fates, and their lives, and reset the balance of power in this world?

Cyra is the sister of the brutal tyrant who rules the Shotet people. Cyra’s currentgift gives her pain and power — something her brother exploits, using her to torture his enemies. But Cyra is much more than just a blade in her brother’s hand: she is resilient, quick on her feet, and smarter than he knows.

Akos is from the peace-loving nation of Thuve, and his loyalty to his family is limitless. Though protected by his unusual currentgift, once Akos and his brother are captured by enemy Shotet soldiers, Akos is desperate to get his brother out alive — no matter what the cost. When Akos is thrust into Cyra’s world, the enmity between their countries and families seems insurmountable. They must decide to help each other to survive — or to destroy one another.

A YA debut about a teen girl who wrestles with rumors, reputation, and her relationships with two brothers.

Seventeen-year-old Raychel is sleeping with two boys: her overachieving best friend Matt…and his slacker brother, Andrew. Raychel sneaks into Matt’s bed after nightmares, but nothing ever happens. He doesn’t even seem to realize she’s a girl, except when he decides she needs rescuing. But Raychel doesn't want to be his girl anyway. She just needs his support as she deals with the classmate who assaulted her, the constant threat of her family’s eviction, and the dream of college slipping quickly out of reach. Matt tries to help, but he doesn’t really get it… and he’d never understand why she’s fallen into a secret relationship with his brother. The friendships are a precarious balance, and when tragedy strikes, everything falls apart. Raychel has to decide which pieces she can pick up – and which ones are worth putting back together.

Why Am I Excited?

Honestly, after reading the Divergent series I was all ready to abandon all hope for Roth’s writing as I grew more and more frustrated by that series as the books progressed, but then Roth had a really fantastic short story in Summer Days & Summer Nights and I realised I had to give her another chance in the form of this book. Hopefully, I won’t be disappointed.

Why Am I Excited?

I ‘m not sure why I’m excited about this book. It doesn’t necessarily stand out against a lot of other YA contemporary but I know I want to read it. It’s one of those books that comes onto your radar and you end up being stuck wanting to read. Not exactly a ringing endorsement but you know what I mean, right?

Accidentally on Purpose – Jill Shalvis

Genre: Contemporary, Romance

Release Date: 24th January 2017

By Your Side – Kasie West

Genre: 31st January 2017

Release Date: Young Adult, Contemporary, Romance

Accidentally On Purpose is the third in New York Times bestselling author Jill Shalvis's Heartbreaker Bay series, featuring her trademark gift for humour, warmth and romance. Perfect for fans of Jill Mansell, Debbie Macomber, Nora Roberts and Marie Force.

Elle Wheaton's priorities: friends, career, and kick-ass shoes. Then there's the muscular wall of stubbornness that's security expert Archer Hunt - who comes before everything else. No point in telling Mr. "Feels-Free Zone" that, though. Elle will just see other men until she gets over Archer...which should only take a lifetime...

Archer's wanted the best for Elle ever since he sacrificed his law-enforcement career to save her. Their chemistry could start the next San Francisco earthquake and he craves her 24/7, but Archer doesn't want to be responsible for the damage. The alternative? Watch her go out with guys who aren't him... As far as Archer's concerned, nobody is good enough for Elle. But when he sets out to prove it by sabotaging her dates, she gets mad - and things get hot as hell. Now Archer has a new mission: prove to Elle that her perfect man has been here all along...

Want more warm, funny romance? Check out the other Heartbreaker Bay novels, Sweet Little Lies and The Trouble With Mistletoe, visit gorgeous Cedar Ridge, spellbinding Lucky Harbor or experience some Animal Magnetism in Sunshine, Idaho in Jill's other unforgettable series.

In this irresistible story, Kasie West explores the timeless question of what to do when you fall for the person you least expect. Witty and romantic, this paperback original from a fan favorite is perfect for fans of Stephanie Perkins and Morgan Matson.

When Autumn Collins finds herself accidentally locked in the library for an entire weekend, she doesn’t think things could get any worse. But that’s before she realizes that Dax Miller is locked in with her. Autumn doesn’t know much about Dax except that he’s trouble. Between the rumors about the fight he was in (and that brief stint in juvie that followed it) and his reputation as a loner, he’s not exactly the ideal person to be stuck with. Still, she just keeps reminding herself that it is only a matter of time before Jeff, her almost-boyfriend, realizes he left her in the library and comes to rescue her.

Only he doesn’t come. No one does.

Instead it becomes clear that Autumn is going to have to spend the next couple of days living off vending-machine food and making conversation with a boy who clearly wants nothing to do with her. Except there is more to Dax than meets the eye. As he and Autumn first grudgingly, and then not so grudgingly, open up to each other, Autumn is struck by their surprising connection. But can their feelings for each other survive once the weekend is over and Autumn’s old life, and old love interest, threaten to pull her from Dax’s side?

Why Am I Excited?

Come on guys. Was there really any doubt I’d be wanting this book? It’s a new Jill Shalvis and it’s in a series I’ve already started. Of course, I’m all over this. I am guaranteed an enjoyable romance. I may not be adding it to my favourites list but I will most definitely be adding it to my warm fuzzy guaranteed to enjoy list.

Why Am I Excited?

I always look forward to Kasie West releases (although I’ve yet to read the last one let alone this one). She always delivers fun and cute contemporary YAs which I almost always enjoy. She's one of those authors and this sounds no different. Sure, these last two choices aren’t those I’ll be raving about but they’ll be ones I will most enjoy.

  Honourable Mentions

These books are ones which would have been on this list if it wasn’t for the fact I’ve already got myself copies to read. As you can see, fantasy tends to be my things, especially this month. I would recommend these books and am glad I got my hands on them. Lucky me.

What books are you looking forward to most this month? Are there any which I’ve missed?

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[eilonwiiy]

Bookends ; A Witchlands AU

Chapter 8

When Aeduan’s old partner shows up, he is confronted with a shocking piece of news.  Meanwhile, Iseult learns that not talking is just as hard as talking.

Summary: Iseult det Midenzi never expected to go to a top university, so when her mother falls ill and she is forced to drop out to make ends meet, life has never seemed so unfair. But when she starts working at the local library and is unexpectedly assigned in the Children’s Room, a certain monosyllabic man and his thrice-damned demon child start showing up and Iseult begins to wonder if the threads of fate have a plan for her after all.

Previous chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

Ships: Iseult/Aeduan, Safi/Merik, and more… stay tuned!

Tags: modern AU, college setting, family, friendship, humor, fluff, slow-burn, romance, eventual smut

Read on AO3: here

Tag list: (please let me know if you’d like to be added!) @lseultdetmidenzi @twilightlegacy13

*   .   *   .   *   .   *   .

“You surprise me, partner.”

Aeduan’s jaw ticced.  He didn’t need to look to know who was behind him.

“Never did hear where you ended up.  Not that I asked.”

Slowly, Aeduan turned to face Lizl.  She hadn’t changed since he left the force.  Her dark hair was pulled in a single tight braid, not a hair out of place, leaving her amber brown face bare.  Her badge gleamed against her policeman’s uniform, shiny, like she’d polished it the night before.  Aeduan knew that she did.  They’d been partners, after all.

As tall as Aeduan was, Lizl was taller.  He rolled his gaze upward, expression flat.  She was grinning smugly at him, like she’d caught him in a more nefarious act than buying coffee.

“What, no hug?” she asked innocently.

Aeduan didn’t react.  “What do you want, Lizl?”

“A cup of coffee.”  She folded her arms across her chest.  Her posture was deceptive in its casualness.  In the 14 years he’d known Lizl, he’d come to know that there wasn’t a relaxed bone in her body.  “Turns out this place runs a good bargain.”  She gestured to him.  “Free refills and a floorshow.”

Lizl’s gaze fell to Owl in his arm and Aeduan watched her expression soften.  She may have hated Aeduan’s guts, but there were lines she wouldn’t cross.  She wouldn’t pull any shots in front of a child.  She held herself to a strict moral code that wasn’t just reserved for convicts.  It was one of the things Aeduan respected most about her.  

That didn’t mean he had to like her, though.

Aeduan glanced over at the coffee counter.  Iseult hadn’t come back yet and some of the tension he’d been holding since Lizl’s surprise appearance loosened.  That kid was probably still talking her ear off and for that, he was grateful - even if that did mean she was suffering.  He didn’t want her to see him with a cop.  For some reason, he cared about what she would think.  He didn’t know why, but he did.

“What do you want, Lizl?” he demanded again more firmly.  

“Nothing.  You’re about the last person I’d ever want to run into,” she answered, a little of her casual exterior slipping.  There was a hint of sourness in her tone.  Her jaw clenched and unclenched with her lips pressed firmly shut as they stared at each other.  

“So,” she finally said.  “Is it everything you hoped it’d be?”

“Is what everything I’d hoped it would be?” Aeduan asked, more bored than curious.

“Life without the badge.”  Lizl paused.  “Or your daddy’s leash.”

So much for that strict moral code.

Aeduan swiped his coffee cup off the counter and, without so much as a glance at Lizl, marched to the door and left the cafe.  There were lines Aeduan wouldn’t cross in front of Owl too.  If he’d stayed, he might forget that.  Besides, he didn’t owe her anything.  If anything, he’d done her a favor by walking away - from police force and right now.

It didn’t take long for the bells above the door to Jitters to jingle again.

“I just don’t get it,” Lizl voice knifed through the cold.  It had started to flurry.  “That job was your life.  You were in your dad’s pocket.  Set to make detective.  Become head of the department when Bastien retired.  Why throw it all away?”

“Why do you care?” Aeduan snarled, pivoting and getting right up in her face.  He kept his voice low, not wanting to wake Owl.

Lizl frowned, not the least bit phased by him invading her personal space.  “I don’t care.  I’m just- confused.  You could have had everything.”

“And with me out of the way you can have everything.  That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?  Make detective, have a shot at the promotion.”  Lizl only stared stonily at him and Aeduan shook his head, expelling some of his frustration and replacing it with exasperation.  “I don’t know why you're angry at me.  We were never friends.”

Lizl nodded.  “Just partners.”

“Exactly.  So what is the problem?  I thought you’d be happy that I left.”

A bitter laugh burst from Lizl’s mouth.  “Happy?”  She shook her head at the ground and dug her boot heel into the concrete, leaving little half moons in the thin layer of snow coating the sidewalk.  She buried her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket.  She seemed to be weighing her options - over what Aeduan had no idea.  He just watched, waiting.  When Lizl looked up, she was grinning, but there was no amusement in it.

“You have no idea, do you?”

Aeduan’s insides went cold.  “What are you talking about?”

Lizl looked off to the side.  Something had shifted.  The hostility was gone.  She just shook her head like she couldn’t get over whatever it was she was about to say.  Eventually, she looked him dead in the eye.  

“I didn’t make detective.”

A line wedged itself between Aeduan’s eyebrows.  He didn’t know what he had expected her to say, but he hadn’t expected that.  With or without Aeduan in her way, Lizl was a shoe-in for the job, a star cadet all throughout their time at the academy, second only to Aeduan.  No one worked harder than she did.  Her not making detective was… inconceivable.  

For the first time in months, Aeduan felt the heady rush of a facing puzzle itching to be solved.  There had to be some ulterior motive on the line here.  She wasn’t giving him the full picture.  

“And I didn’t get the promotion.”

Aeduan’s spine straightened.  He didn’t like the way Lizl was looking at him.  She was still wearing that awful smile that wasn’t a smile.  It set his nerves on edge.  

“Would you like to know who your father picked for the job?”

Aeduan found himself tensing, bracing for the answer without asking to be told.  

“Natan fon Leid.”

Natan fon Leid.  It took a whole 5 seconds for the name to sink in.  He’d grown into quite the impressive egotistical prick, having been a bully all of Aeduan’s childhood.  He’d never really understood how or why the jerk was stationed in the Domestic Violence Unit.  He wasn’t exactly a drain on the department, but as far as he could tell, there wasn’t an altruistic bone in Natan’s body.  The thought of him running the DVU was unsettling to say the least.

And complete bullshit.

“My father,” Aeduan said, doing nothing to keep the venom out of his voice, “would never replace Bastien with Natan fon Leid.  Bastien was a man of honor.  Integrity.  Natan is nothing more than a power hungry lapdog.”

“I agree,” Lizl responded without blinking an eye.  “And now he’s your father’s lapdog.”

Aeduan’s chest puffed out.  He hated the way his blood boiled at even the slightest mention of his father, even though they weren’t speaking - even though he had every right to despise him.  He still couldn’t temper the urge to come to his defense.  And that angered him even more - maybe more than anything Lizl had to say.  

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he ground out coldly.  There wasn’t much else he could do with Owl curled into his chest.

“Ask him,” Lizl simply replied, ununciating each word crisp and cool.  It sounded more like a challenge than a suggestion.

He’d do no such thing.  

Aeduan had never been crazy enough to carry around some fancy notion that being partners had meant anything to Lizl.  She’d never liked him.  Hated him, even.  But they’d worked alongside each other for years and never let their personal feelings get in the way of justice.  

The snow was coming down in earnest now.  Owl stirred in Aeduan’s arm breaking the tension for them.  Lizl’s expression went blank and after a couple seconds of grudging deliberation, she gestured resignedly to her squad car parked by the sidewalk.

“Do you want a ride?” she asked.  She sounded tired, like she already knew the answer.

Aeduan didn’t reply.  He didn’t say goodbye.  He just turned away from Lizl and left her standing on the sidewalk.  There was nothing left to say.  Not to her, at least.

*   .   *   .   *   .   *   .

The new Fiona Apple album thrumming through Iseult's earbuds was doing nothing to cover up the lively debate going on in her head.

For what felt like the first time in forever, Iseult wasn’t working in the Children’s Room, but rather shelving books upstairs as she once used to.  She should have been relieved.  She could finally have a quiet evening without the stress of worrying about patrons coming up to her with questions or children unexpectedly popping up between bookshelves.  

But she wasn’t relaxed.  She couldn’t relax, in fact.  No, instead, she was torturing herself over whether or not to call Aeduan.

Leave it to her to let a complete stranger ruin her evening of peace.  She still carried his phone number from their encounter at Jitters yesterday in the safety of her pocket, and even though the first thing she'd done when she got to work was find his book, she had yet to get in touch with him.  

She’d said she would, so she should.  But with each hour that passed, it was growing more and more late, and the window of opportunity to call was getting smaller by the second.  Surely Aeduan would still be up.  But as the clock approached 9, she found herself wishing she had mustered the courage to call him during the day when it was still light outside.

For Iseult, nighttime meant winding down.  Eating leftover Arithuanian takeout right out of the carton in her monkey slippers and fuzzy bathrobe.  Curling up with a book and falling asleep mid-paragraph with the light on.  

But this was Veñaza City and she was some weird anomaly.  While she was nose-deep in Joan Didion, some twenty-something year old was taking their third shot of the evening before heading out to a party.  While she was setting her phone alarm for 6 a.m., someone was texting their hook-up.  While her and Safi fought over who got to take a shower first in the morning, someone was getting thrown out of a bar.

Veñaza was a college town and it was no secret to Iseult that she was living a much less thrilling life than her former peers.  While normally that wouldn’t bother her (why submit herself to the experience of doing jello shots when the option to eat a jello cup and not throw up was right there?), wondering if Aeduan shared her nightime habits made her feel self-conscious.  He may have had a kid, but that didn’t make him a monk.

She thought about what it would be like dialing his number and him picking up, his voice deep and rough sounding on the other end of the phone.  A shiver ran through her.  Then nausea.

She couldn’t do it.  

Late night phone calls were reserved for hook-ups or emergencies.  Not librarians.

She sighed.  She was left with two choices:

She could call first thing in the morning.  While she had just spent the last hour wondering what Aeduan did at night, this option brought with it another dilemma: how Aeduan spent his mornings.  Iseult didn’t know why, but he seemed like the type of guy to start his day early.  Down a glass of orange juice, go for a jog around the neighborhood, and be showered and dressed by 7:30 kind of guy.  

Iseult shook her head.  She really didn’t need to be fantasizing about his morning routine.  And she definitely didn’t need to think about him showering.  Nope.  She definitely wasn’t thinking about him naked and dripping with water.

Stasis, Iseult.  Stasis.

Then there was the more tempting and pathetic option: she could scrap calling him altogether.  And what great loss would that be really? she thought to herself.  It wasn’t like he was sitting by the phone waiting for her call.  He probably didn’t even remember asking for the book or giving her his number in the first place.  Her stomach dropped at the thought.

She was overthinking this.  Big time.

She rolled back to their conversation yesterday and how Cam had interrupted them.  She was sure that Aeduan had been about to ask her something just as Cam burst through the door.  She didn't hold it against the kid, but she was dying to know what Aeduan was going to say.  And then, of course, there was the mystery of the cop.  She'd seen them talking outside.  By the looks of it, it wasn't a friendly chat.  It had ended with Aeduan storming off and the woman cop looking troubled.

Iseult slipped a hand into her pocket and dug out the napkin with Aeduan’s phone number.  She unfolded it and looked it over, just as she had the dozen or so times since he’d given it to her.  By now she’d memorized the 12 neat letters strung together in broken cursive underneath the number.  Aeduan Amalej.  

A pulled in a shaky breath and retrieved her phone next.  For a paralyzing moment, she held them out in front of her, the number in one hand and her phone in the other.  Thinking.  Stalling.  

“Moon Mother, you are such an idiot,” she muttered to herself before unlocking her phone - her hand shaking with nerves - and punched in Aeduan’s number.

Right into a new text message.

Ok, so she’d told him he’d call him.  But this way she didn’t need to find out just how devastating her stutter be over the phone.  With her sanity hanging in the balance, copping out of calling was of little consequence.  There were way more pathetic things she’d done in her 21 years of living.  This wouldn’t be a highlight in her memoirs.  

With that in mind, she got to it and prayed that she typed faster than her determination could devolve into an entirely new spiral about whether or not a text was too casual.

*   .   *   .   *   .   *   .

Aeduan knew he was in trouble the moment he opened the book.  

Chapter One

My Father Meets the Cat

Owl’s eyes had widened as Adeuan read the words and she’d peered up at him from her place under his arm nestled into his side.  

It had taken every bit of restraint he had to keep his expression neutral.  The librarian just had to pick a book that featured a stray cat.  

Iseult had been right though: Owl loved the book.  Every night for the last week, Owl would crawl into his bed, make her nest, and sit there, impatiently waiting for him to finish meditating and running through his nightly stretches.  He made sure to take his time; he wasn’t about to teach Owl that she could get anything she wanted just by giving him those sad puppy eyes of hers.  He'd had plenty of practice resisting those eyes with Cora, who as a little more needy than Lisbet; Owl was powerless over him.  Most of the time.

Meditation was an important, albeit unexpected, part of Aeduan’s life.  It was the one lesson from Evrane that actually stuck.  Sometimes he wondered why, out of everything, this one practice never wavered.  Over the years, it had become more than a ritual in calming the body and quieting the mind.  It had become his anchor.  Something he depended on.  Somewhere along the way, he’d learned that how he started and ended his day was the one thing he had true control over.  He'd been taught early in life that there was no prelude to change.  If he could hold on to this one thing, he would.    

Luckily for Owl, he was done with meditating for tonight.  Even with his years of practice, he hadn’t found much solace in it.  He couldn’t get what Lizl told him yesterday out of his head.

He had told himself to forget about it the moment he’d walked away.  That the police department wasn’t his problem anymore.  He’d left for a reason, and even if he tried to convince himself that it was all because of Owl, he knew deep down that that wasn’t true.

Storming away from Lizl had felt good.  Right.  But now…

Doubt plagued his every thought.  He couldn’t shake it off.  This feeling that Lizl was telling the truth.  They’d never liked each other, but he knew that - just like him - she respected him enough to trust him on the job.  He saw it in the moments that mattered most.  She was one of the good ones.

And the fact remained that Lizl wasn’t a manipulator.  It wasn’t in her nature.  Why bother with mind games when honesty landed harder?  There really wasn’t any reason for her to lie to him.  So that meant what she’d told him was the truth.

But why?  Why would his father give Natan the job?  He was an unmitigated piece of shit and Ragnor had always shown very little tolerance for unmitigated pieces of shit.  If his father had promoted Natan to the top spot, then he had a reason.  A good one.  

He should just forget it, he told himself for the hundredth time.

For the next half hour, Aeduan found his mind wandering, even as he read aloud, and it was some time before he realized that Owl had drifted off to sleep.  

He sighed, letting his head drop against the headboard, and the book propped up in his hand fell closed against the comforter with a soft thwump.  He stared at the opposite wall, knowing he should transfer Owl to her own bed before it got any later, but he couldn’t find the motivation to move.    

Lizl.  Ragnor.  Natan.  Their names were an endless chant in his head.  A chant that rang of doubt and the promise of another sleepless night for Aeduan.    

There was only one way to put an end to the madness.  He’d need to go directly to the source: his father.

The thought alone was enough to make Aeduan want to slide down his mattress and pull the covers over his head.  He didn’t, of course.  But the impulse was there, as embarrassing as that was.  

It’d been 3 long months since he’d last seen his father.  3 months since he’d marched into his office, left his gun and badge on his desk, and walked out of his life.  Ragnor hadn’t even tried to get in touch with him since.  Aeduan hadn’t expected him to.

He didn’t know how he felt about that.  Hurt, probably.  His father’s silence was louder than most.  But Aeduan was the last bit of Dysi left on this earth.  Had it been easy for his father to let go of his only son?  He’d done that with everything else that reminded him of Dysi after she’d passed, so why not him too?

Pressure pounded behind Aeduan’s eyes.  His head ached.  Not getting more than an hour or two of sleep the night before must have been catching up to him.  Maybe he’d just let Owl stay in his bed.  If he were being honest with himself, he didn’t want to be alone right now.

A soft chime broke the silence in the bedroom.  Curious, Aeduan turned to his nightstand where the sound had come from.  His phone softly glowed with activity and he could see the animated little envelope on the screen that meant he had a new text message.  Careful not to disturb Owl, he reached for the phone and grabbed it from the stand.  He settled back against his pillows, expecting to see something from Lisbet, the only person he had the patience to text with - even if she did bombard him with memes he didn’t understand.  Before even opening the message, he was all ready to tell her to get off her phone and go to bed.

But it wasn’t Lis.

It was an unknown number.  He frowned.  But then he read the message, and he realized who it was.  His heart stopped.

Unknown Number – 9:07 PM

>> I found the book you wanted.  I put it on hold for you.  You can come pick it up anytime.  

>> (Hi.  This is Iseult from the library.)

Without even realizing it, the noise in Aeduan’s head faded to nothing.  Iseult had said she’d let him know about the book, but he was still surprised to hear from her.  And - he thought, checking the time - so late.  

He reread the message a couple more times before clicking the screen off.  He was about to return his phone to the nightstand when he paused.  

He should probably respond with… something.

Aeduan pulled his hand back, easing back on to his pillows, and opened the message.  His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, trying to think of something to say.  His eyes flicked to Owl, dead asleep next to him, then he began typing.  

Aeduan - 9:18 PM

>> Ok.

Well.  Ok then.  Obligation fulfilled.

Aeduan took off his reading glasses and stowed them along with his phone on his nightstand before he switched off the lamp, plunging the room in darkness.  He settled beneath his covers and rested his head on his pillow.  He felt the ball of warmth that was Owl curled up beside him.  Moonlight streamed in from the windows, and for a few quiet minutes, he watched the snow falling outside.

An hour later, Aeduan rolled over and reached for the phone on his nightstand.

Aeduan - 10:16 PM

>> I’ll come by tomorrow and pick it up.      

[chroniclackofselfpreservation]

Creatures of the Night

Chapter 36 - like the theorem of a trap

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AO3

Masterlist

(TW: unintentional misgendering (corrected once made known), (I think that's it, but let me know if you want anything else listed))

(The title of the chapter comes from “Caryatids" by Ted Hughes)

The back of the jail cart jostled as it thundered down the cobbled streets, the only light streaming in from the high barred window on the padlocked door. The coachman’s cries to clear the street pealed through the afternoon air. Horses didn’t pull the carriage. It moved, seemingly, of its own volition—or that of the coachman’s. Probably magic. Logan would have interrogated anyone within earshot until he found out the how and why of it all.

Roman smiled at the thought.

He sat upright, manacled wrists hanging heavy between his knees. A chain connected them to the floor, just short enough to keep him from resting his hands in his lap. The thick iron shackles, connected to each other by an equally heavy chain, had lines of alchemy ringing them, likely some kind of magic-suppressing spell or unbreakable charm. Testing that theory, Roman figured, would sooner result in a crossbow bolt between his shoulder blades than actual answers. Regardless of the alchemy, the simple fact that they were iron was sending a strange, tingling numbness through Roman’s arms. He vaguely recalled Virgil telling them that they cuffed prisoners with iron in the Witchlands to cancel out any attempt at magic. That fight with Ursula had only been a few days ago—though it seemed like years—and even someone as powerful as her wasn’t immune to its effects.

Virgil, in a frantic attempt to keep from being separated, had curled up across Roman’s shoulders, hissing at anyone who got too close. His tail thumped restlessly against Roman’s chest. He tipped his head, knocking it gently against Virgil’s. The familiar didn’t purr—he wasn’t quite calm enough for that—but he leaned into the touch in acknowledgment.

Amaryllis hovered in the corner with her arms folded. She was currently glaring at the wall so venomously Roman was surprised she hadn’t melted a hole in it, having been told by nearly every guard within earshot of her to “keep quiet, wisp!” since they’d arrived. Roman wanted to console her in some way, but wasn’t sure exactly what to say. Sorry you’re a ghost and everyone seems to hate you for it?

Two guards sat on either side of the door, loaded crossbows resting cross their laps, eyeing first Rathmore and then Roman. They obviously recognized the man, and Roman guessed they must be slightly offended that they weren’t considered enough security for a frankly docile young witch.

Steros had wanted to come as well, but there wasn’t much room, and Rathmore had insisted she get inspected by a doctor before following them to the Djel Triba. Whatever, or whoever, that was.

Rathmore sat across from Roman, studying him intensely. Particularly the mark on his hand. Roman studied him right back—in the friendliest, most nonthreatening way possible. He didn’t want these people as enemies and certainly didn’t blame them for being a little cautious around him after what happened with Steros.

Rathmore was dressed in a fine, twilight-blue, long-sleeved tunic covered in gold brocade with a stiff collar and wide, bell-shaped cuffs. His boots were of a soft, black leather with a gold clasp at either ankle. His rich magenta cloak sat folded on the bench next to him. The man’s eyes were a deep brown, and crow’s feet splayed at the corners. Early fifties, if Roman had to guess. All in all, Rathmore seemed a man for whom a smile came easier than a frown.

“How old are you?” he asked, meeting Roman’s eye.

“Twenty-one.”

“So young,” the witch muttered. “Too young, in my opinion, to be bearing the mantle of savior.”

Roman’s stomach clenched. “You quoted something back at the gate. What was it?”

“A prophecy. Three hundred years old, too.” His eyes crinkled as he smiled. “What luck to be around to see you fulfill it.”

Roman wanted to ask more of the witch, but the jail cart slowed to a hasty stop and the two guards stood. One had perked up at the mention of the prophecy, glancing at Roman with more curiosity than before. They all waited while the door was unlocked from the outside. A bit overkill, but Roman didn’t comment on it.

Rathmore leaned forward and unlocked Roman’s manacles from the chain on the floor. “Apologies,” he muttered as the door swung open and their two guards hopped out, “but the Djel Triba are wary of you, so the restrains will have to remain.”

“I understand,” Roman said with a smile.

Blinking in the noon-day sunlight, Roman found himself at the foot of a massive domed building sat securely inside an intricate, columned wall. He was sure Logan would have gone nuts for the architecture, but Roman couldn’t have pinpointed a relative style from their world if he tried. There were a lot of towers, domes, and arches. Intimidating and almost looming, but not in a particularly bad way. Impressive was the word he was looking for.

I wonder what happened to the old castle, Virgil said, more to himself. Besides, Roman wasn’t entirely sure how to respond without speaking aloud. Amaryllis’s eyes went wide, but she remained quiet, floating along behind him.

Rathmore started up the wide, shallow steps, and Roman followed, the two guards flanking him on either side. He was too preoccupied with the grandeur around him to care. The steps themselves were some kind of polished stone, similar to the bright white of the outer wall, and were deep enough it took him several paces before having to step up again.

There was a lot of gold. An inordinate amount, really. The dome itself shone like a polished gold ball bearing. Gold relief sculptures adorned columns and arches, depicting stories and legends Roman didn’t recognize. The seven-pointed star on the back of his hand, however, was everywhere. First on Steros’s uniform, and now littered throughout the architecture.

Reaching the top of the stairs, they made their way through the massive open gates, squatter than those at the entrance to the city, but no less intimidating for it. A long courtyard spread between them and the building itself, a mosaic of white and gold bigger than a football field. Depicted was a figure appearing almost as much as the star. A tall woman with ram horns curling behind her ears and up under her jaw. Her eyes were always open and always blank. No iris, no pupil, nothing.

“Who’s that?” he asked Rathmore as they passed over her face.

“Hm? Oh, that’s Kaia, patron of magic,” the witch replied over his shoulder. “She’s the mother of all magical creatures and gave the first witches their cores. Your bloodline is said to be directly descended from her. In fact—”

One of the guards cleared their throat, and Rathmore flushed a bit.

“Right. Sorry. We’ve got places to be.”

Before Roman could ask anything more, they continued on into the shadow of the edifice, and through the doors. The interior of the building was just as grand, though the mosaics of stars and horned goddesses instead adorned the ceilings. Natural light filtered in through tall, narrow windows, setting the tiles twinkling.

The main corridor culminated in two intricately wrought metal doors. Two guards in leather armor, the seven-pointed star embossed on their shoulder guards, stood on either side of the door wielding a heavy metal staff.

“Have they assembled?” Rathmore asked, hands clasped behind his back.

“Yes, sir.”

“Right.” He gave a nod, and the men pushed the door open.

Roman consciously had to keep his mouth from falling open as the two guards guided him into the courtroom. They walked onto a circular floor, that same star inlaid in the tile like a massive, seven-pointed compass. A panel of seven people sat before him on a raised dais, each on an identical throne. They all had unadorned silver circlets on their brows, but that was all they had regarding uniform. The woman in the middle, on a slightly taller throne, sat with her ankle across her knee, slumped over a bit and looking for all the world like she’d rather be napping. One elbow rested on the arm of the throne, hand supporting her head. Her hair was a thick, straight brown against the silver band at her brow and warm amber skin. She was dressed from neck to ankles in shimmering black armor that looked an awful lot like scales. Her feet, however, were bare.

To her right were three more women. The first looking leeched of all color—white hair, silvery eyes that were just a little too big to be human, and a complexion without the normal blush of red blood beneath the skin. When she opened her mouth to mutter to the woman next to her, Roman noticed she had a mouth full of sharp fangs. The one she spoke to looked normal, by all accounts. Nut-brown hair shaved close to the head in what resembled a buzz cut, hair-thin copper chains hung in a kind of netted veil over her entire head, charms and gems dangling from where the ends just cleared her jawline.

Last on the right was a significantly older woman with gray-streaked, coiled white hair like a cloud gathered atop her head, the sides slicked upwards. Even sitting, Roman could tell she was the tallest one here. She watched Rathmore with an expression Roman couldn’t decipher.

To the armored woman’s left sat another woman and two men. The woman was fair-skinned and covered in freckles. She wore leather armor, black like Steros’s, with that same star emblazoned across the chest. Her smile widened at Roman’s arrival, taking on a distinctly lupine quality to it. She leaned forward, studying him eagerly.

The next in line was a wiry man with a midnight complexion and a bare, shaved head. He wore a simple red doublet and pants, something akin to a clipboard resting on his knee. Beside him reclined a sturdy man with thick arms, salt-and-pepper hair falling down his back, and a beard that was braided and still nearly as long. He had silvery-blue eyes that betrayed a quick mind. Fiddling with his beard, he looked Roman over.

I don’t like this, Virgil said, his tail wrapping feather-light around Roman’s throat.

“It’ll be okay,” he said under his breath as the guards led him to the middle of the floor. “Just stay calm.”

Several of the individuals sitting above him eyed Amaryllis warily, though only a few whispered to their neighbors about it.

“Esteemed judges of the Djel Triba,” Rathmore began, fanning his cape out in a flourish. The tall, older woman on the end rolled her eyes. “My apologies for the unexpected summons, but I would like to present for your consideration, the Last Heir of prophecy.”

All but the woman in the middle and the one with the freckles startled, eyes darting between their cohorts and Roman. He fought down a flush at all the pointed attention.

“According to whom?” the one with the netted veil demanded. “There have been many claiming such a title.”

Rathmore straightened. “He confessed under the influence of Captain Steros’s blade, Judge Nuri.”

At this, the armored woman in the center perked up a bit. “And where is the captain, now? I would have thought she’d insist on attending.”

“She is on her way, Chief Judge,” Rathmore said, though he sounded more hesitant now. “I advised her to receive the approval of a medic before coming.”

The freckled woman nearly shot to her feet. “What?”

The Chief Judge laid a hand on her wrist. “Easy, Kestrel,” she muttered. “Rathmore, go find Steros and accompany her to this hearing. Leave the Heir to us.”

“… Right,” Rathmore said, giving a stiff bow and turning to leave. He met Roman’s eyes with what could have been regret or pity. The door clicked shut behind him, and Roman stood before the panel feeling more than a little vulnerable. He was sure any one of these witches could lay him out without so much as blinking.

“So,” the Chief Judge said, sitting forward and resting her elbows on her knees, “you’re him, then?”

“I—um, yes?” he said, trying for levity. “My name’s Roman. This is Virgil, and that’s Amaryllis. Nice to meet you all.” Blood drained from his face when the all-white woman next to the Chief Judge bore her fangs in a grin, gripping the arms of her throne.

“Oh, he is certainly not from our land,” she said, her voice like glass against stone. “He offers himself up so easily.”

Roman lifted a finger, remembering what had happened with the pixies yesterday. “Actually, a demon’s got my full name,” he said, and the Chief Judge cocked an eyebrow. “So, you’ll have to take it up with him. Sorry.”

The white woman leaned back in her chair, still grinning. “I like him.”

“All right, then, Roman,” the Chief Judge said. “It would be rude of me not to introduce the rest of my company. Judge Alecto,” she indicated the white, fanged woman at her side who was still grinning at him, “Judge Nuri,” the judge with the veil of netting over her face, “Judge Dinwyl,” the older, white-haired woman on the end, “Judge Kestrel,” the freckled one, “Judge Alaric,” the wiry one with the clipboard, “and finally, Judge Oberon,” the Chief Judge finished, gesturing to the bearded man at the other end who gave a warmer smile than Roman would have expected.

“And you?”

“Chief Judge will do for now,” she said with a grin. They were all fairly young for holding such prominent positions, Roman noticed. Aside from Dinwyl and Oberon, the rest looked just over thirty.

Dinwyl cleared her throat. “Would you care to explain why Captain Steros requires medical attention?”

Roman faltered. “It was an accident. She grabbed me and—and I didn’t mean to—”

Kestrel bristled, her curiosity from before replaced with barely contained rage. “If she is grievously injured in any way,” she snarled, “prophecy or not, I’ll skin you, boy.”

A low, warning noise emanated from Virgil’s throat, his hackles rising. Roman felt the talisman grow warm where Virgil’s neck brushed his cheek.

Behind him the doors, mercifully, swung open and dispersed some of the tension. Steros strode in with Rathmore on her heels.

“I can assure you all, I’m fine,” she said, coming to a stop at Roman’s side. He noticed her dark, long-sleeved undershirt was torn around each bicep, the bottom tip of both shoulder guards shorn off. Proof of the damage he’d done and repaired.

“Steros,” the Chief Judge greeted warmly. “You weren’t far, it seems.”

“I never am, ma’am.”

Kestrel gaped. “Your face.”

Roman glanced over as Steros brushed her fingers to the smooth skin of her upper lip where the twisted scar had once been. She almost looked sad. Blinking the expression away, the captain straightened, clasped her hands behind her back, and recounted the entire incident with startling clarity—especially given the shock she’d likely been in.

Faces around the room hardened when she described the dismemberment. Roman shrunk under Kestrel’s furious gaze. The judges’ expressions, however, gave way to mixtures of relief and utter bafflement as Steros finished the report. Even the Chief Judge looked impressed, though less visibly so.

“He healed you that quickly?” Nuri muttered, deep in thought. “Even the best medics leave scars, yet he healed one decades old.”

Rathmore lifted a finger, leaning out from behind Steros. “He did it with witchtongue, too.”

Nuri blanched. “He what?”

“And he resisted the captain’s blade.”

Alaric looked up, his hand still scribbling frantically on his clipboard despite the shift in his attention. “Surely he couldn’t have lied. It’s impossible.”

“No,” Steros said, “but he managed to give indirect answers.”

“Impressive,” said Oberon.

“Dangerous, more like,” Nuri countered, folding her arms across her chest. “You’re forgetting the prophecy foretells his rise to power. Are we willing to just hand over the government to a child?”

Alecto’s eyes darted toward Nuri. “You presume to contradict fate?”

“No,” Nuri said through gritted teeth. “I am simply proposing that we don’t roll over and hope the universe sorts everything out. He’s obviously very powerful, but has no control whatsoever—given what he did to the captain. That’s dangerous on its own. Should he have such immense political power, as well? The Witchlands would fall into chaos.”

Dinwyl leaned forward. “Why give him the government at all? The prophecy never states what kind of power he’ll rise to.”

Roman couldn’t help but laugh, partly from nervousness, but also from the utter hilarity of the judges actually considering him a candidate for… what? The head of the government? He hadn’t so much as finished his freshman year of college. The chains connecting his manacles jingled as his shoulders shook.

The Chief Judge looked at him quizzically. “Something funny?”

“Sorry,” Roman snorted, composing himself. “I’m not here to take over the government or anything. I’m nowhere near qualified. I don’t know the first thing about being a politician.”

“He can be taught,” Oberon offered.

Roman hesitated, trying to figure out how to turn down the offer without offending the judge. “I appreciate your faith in me,” he said, “but I have no interest in leading, either. I’ve come to learn how to control my powers.” Roman jerked his head back at Amaryllis. “She’s going to teach me.”

Alaric perked up, his hand still writing at a furious pace. The other judges leaned back in their thrones, as if deferring to him. “It takes mage-level magic to summon a ghost,” he said. “What spell did you use?”

“Oh, I didn’t summon her,” Roman said. “Virgil did.”

Alaric’s hand sped up. “Your familiar performed the spell? How odd. Any particular reason?”

Roman chuckled. “I know, like, two words in witchtongue, and that’s it. Virgil’s the magic-expert.” Virgil squirmed atop Roman’s shoulders, and though he didn’t say anything, Roman could feel the spike of nervousness shooting through him. He turned his head a bit and murmured, “I can translate for them if you don’t—”

I can make them hear me if I wanted them to, he explained, casting a furtive glance at Amaryllis. He took a steadying breath, his fur tickling Roman’s neck, and said, It was spirit magic. A simple contract.

The words sounded the same to Roman, but all the judges reacted to his voice.

Nuri’s eyes narrowed. “Magical creatures have no need of spoken spells or enchantments. It’s inherent to them.”

I guess you’ll never know, Virgil snarled, and Nuri bristled.

“Any necromantic contract requires more blood than you’ve got in that feline body, familiar, spirit magic or not,” Alaric said, watching his hand write on the clipboard and flipping to a new page.

Virgil stood and leaped to the ground, landing soundlessly, and with a slight flash of violet magic, appeared in his human form—not nearly as jarring as Dorian’s transformation. The Chief Judge’s eyebrows shot up, but she said nothing. Steros regarded Virgil carefully, her hand resting on her sword hilt. Rathmore gasped.

“We should have known the Last Heir’s familiar would be just as powerful,” Alecto said, fanged smile widening.

Virgil pointedly ignored her, holding up the back of his hand for Alaric to see. “There. Happy?” he snapped. “Now are you gonna let us go, or what?”

Nuri scowled. “I was thinking a prison cell, personally. Regardless of the boy’s intentions or title as the Last Heir, he’s broken several licensing laws and fatally attacked Captain Steros.”

Kestrel nodded. “I second the notion. We can’t let such a powerful, untrained witch loose on the city.”

“And what? You all think he’ll suddenly become less of a threat if we lock him in a box and bury him?” Oberon demanded. “He needs to be trained, that’s all. I have contacts at the university. I’m sure Vinliden will—”

“No,” the Chief Judge said, armor tinkling like a bag of coins as she sat up. She’d been awfully quiet until now. “I agree with Oberon. Locking him up will do nothing but create a stronger enemy. I will respect the prophecy and allow Amaryllis to cultivate Roman’s power under my supervision, and perhaps that of Vinliden’s. His punishment for breaking licensing law will be one year of community service.”

“Community service?” Nuri spat. “People go to jail for years—”

“Those people are not the Last Heir of prophecy,” the Chief Judge said forcefully.

“Yes, but we cannot give him special treatment simply because—”

“Are you volunteering to be his jailer? Does being the subject of such a grudge appeal to you?” She stood, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. “I am proposing what will provide the most benefit to the Witchlands, as is my duty.”

Nuri winced, and even Roman could hear the unspoken and yours as well at the end of her sentence.

The Chief Judge took a breath, and her shoulders relaxed a touch. “I will take full responsibility for the Heir’s actions from this point forward. Captain,” she said, turning to Steros, “do you wish to press charges against him?”

“He repaired the damage he caused,” the captain said, an undercurrent of warmth beneath her formality. Roman fought to keep the surprise off his face. He thought Steros would have hated him, regardless of him healing her wounds. “I will not press charges.”

The Chief Judge nodded, then turned back to the panel. “Am I to assume you are all in agreement? Or shall we cast a vote?”

No one spoke up.

Nuri, fighting an angry, embarrassed flush, cleared her throat. “And what of licensing? Disregarding his previous infractions, he’ll eventually need one, yes?”

The Chief Judge nodded. “Yes, of course. I will speak with Vinliden about the unique situation once everything is settled. Thank you for bringing it up, Judge Nuri. With that said, may we adjourn this hearing?”

“Aye,” they all said in unison.

The Chief Judge turned to Roman, standing almost a full head above him despite his own considerable height. She smiled and cocked her head. “Let’s get those restraints off.”

* * * * * * * * * *

The hearing ended at once. The other judges disappeared through side doors, Steros giving the Chief Judge a nod and a smile before striding away down the main corridor. Rathmore shifted on his feet, like he couldn’t decide whether to follow Steros or keep staring dumbfounded at the Chief Judge.

“Rathmore,” the armored woman said. “The shackles, if you would.”

“Oh! Yes!” he spluttered, stepping forward and taking up Roman’s wrists. The witch cringed a little touching the iron, muttering, “Tranto iskaia’ben isumani.” The lines of alchemy carved into the metal disappeared, as if unwriting themselves in reverse, returning the shackles to simple iron cuffs. Roman felt something of a weight lift from his shoulders, but the numbness didn’t let up. Rathmore gave a final, “Baesta,” and the cuffs split open, falling to the floor with a heavy clang.

As soon as the iron wasn’t touching his skin, feeling flooded back into Roman’s arms and hands.

“Thanks,” he said, rubbing his wrists. Virgil stood at his side, eyes flitting between everyone milling about the room, observing.

“Walk with me?” the Chief Judge said, starting out the main doors. Roman kept stride with her, Virgil staying close behind with Amaryllis. Her armor was even more mesmerizing when she was in motion, the scales interlocking but not grating against one another, the light from the windows casting green and purple reflections, like she’d coated them in oil.

“Thank you,” Roman said, unsure if he was allowed to speak before spoken to when it came to the head of the state, but the silence was edging toward unbearable. “For, uh, not sending me to prison.”

“Of course. I hope you’ll forgive Nuri their suspicions of you. They’re wary by nature, and many times has kept me from overly brash decisions. I wouldn’t take it personally,” she said.

Roman swallowed. “I didn’t know they were… they,” he said, shakily relieved he hadn’t accidentally misgendered the judge to their face. He was pretty sure they hated him enough already.

The Chief Judge looked confused for only a moment as they started up a small flight of spiraling stairs. “I keep forgetting you’re from the outside world,” she chuckled. “Yes, Nuri uses they/them. So do Alecto and Alaric. Dinwyl, Kestrel, and I use she/her, and Oberon uses he/him.”

“Thank you,” Roman said, only slightly overwhelmed. “I’m he/him, by the way.”

The Chief Judge smiled. Roman felt a flutter in his stomach. He’d never had to specify his pronouns to anyone before, and… he didn’t really mind it. In fact, it was kinda nice having someone ask first, even if they’d probably get it right. It made them more his own, instead of something that passively happened without input.

They exited the stairwell into a calmer, but no less ornate, hallway, and the Chief Judge glanced over her shoulder at Virgil and Amaryllis expectantly.

“He/him,” Virgil muttered, dividing his attention between watching the armored woman for signs of hostility, and the rest of the people they passed in the corridors. Most were guards, wielding the same metal staffs that the two in front of the courtroom had. They were about the thickness of two fingers and had dull diamond-shaped knobs on both ends. Each guard had personalized their staff with paint, or carvings, or even dangling strings of beads.

“And you?” the Chief Judge asked, looking directly at Amaryllis.

The ghostly witch started, then relaxed, smiling. “She/her. Thank you.”

“Of course,” she said. “I apologize for any insults you may have received on your way here. There are some unfortunate prejudices against the necromantic arts.”

Amaryllis gestured to the wound in her chest. “I’d be just as wary if I were them.”

Virgil’s shoulders hunched.

The Chief Judge turned suddenly, pushing open two balcony doors and walking out into the fresh air. Her armor shone even more brilliantly in the sunlight, and Roman had to consciously keep himself from flat out staring.

“Close the door behind you, Roman,” she said, her voice much softer now. He did, Virgil casting him a wary look.

I don’t like this, he grumbled. Surprise flashed across Roman’s face. He hadn’t realized Virgil could speak in his mind when he was human, as well. That would certainly prove an advantage later on. He’d have to ask Virgil to teach him how to talk back later. Roman smiled and patted his shoulder reassuringly, then came to stand at the Chief Judge’s side. The balcony overlooked the entire west side of the city, the streets like complex webbings amid the clusters of buildings. They were high enough he figured no one below would hear their conversation. Upon further, subtle inspection of their surroundings, there weren’t any windows for people inside to eavesdrop from either.

“You’ll have to break the habit of offering your name to people like food on a platter,” the Chief Judge said. “I imagine once word of your arrival gets out, you’ll have a deplorable amount of people calling on you constantly.”

Roman flushed a little. “Right. How am I supposed to do it?”

“Well,” she said, “for example, you may call me Valerie.”

“And you may call me Roman,” he offered, then quickly muttered, “like that?”

Valerie grinned. “Yes, that was perfect. Though, I should make it clear you’ll still have to use my title outside of our personal conversations,” she said. “Despite your position as prophecy-bearer, there’s plenty of propriety surrounding being Chief Judge.”

Roman stepped back and made a deep bow. “In that case, I am most honored to be granted such a privilege.”

So he can be articulate, Virgil quipped from behind. Roman shot him an upside-down look before straightening. He braced both hands on the balcony railing and was about to say something when he found Valerie staring at his hand. At the star.

“You’re so young,” she muttered.

“Rathmore said the same thing.” He paused, the gold mark drawing his own attention as well. “Everyone keeps talking about a prophecy,” he said, almost to himself. He looked up at her. “Do you know it?”

“Everyone knows it,” Valerie said, as if trying for humor but falling flat. She took a breath. “It’s bad form to repeat whole prophecies outside of the ancient temple, especially around their subject, but seeing as yours is practically common knowledge, I suppose you’ll hear it eventually.” She glanced down at him. “Though, you may be disappointed.”

Roman gave a dry smile. “Oh? Predicts my demise, does it?”

“No,” she said, returning her gaze to the cityscape. “It’s incomplete. Prophecies like this one—oracle-given, that is—have structure to them, like spells.”

“Not witchtongue,” Roman clarified. “The English ones that rhyme, right?”

“English?”

Roman hesitated. “Yes?”

Valerie smiled. “The language we are currently speaking is called Common, here. What a strange name. English.” She shook her head. “We’re getting off topic. You wanted to hear what remains of your prophecy, yes?”

Roman nodded.

“They shall burn as a candle struck amid the shadow of a demon. They shall bring death to immortals and save the Witchlands with the Star of Kaia in their hand. They shall bring life by learning from the dead, all manner of beings at their side. Trailing in their ancestor’s footsteps, they shall rise to great power. Beloved of their kingdom, and yet they shall leave it,” she said fluidly, as if she’d repeated it a hundred times. There was a lot to unpack in just those few sentences. Roman would have to ask her to write it down for him, or find it in a book, later.

“So, what’s missing?”

“Prophecies are comprised of five lines of they shall statements—three left-leaning and two right-leaning—describing the deeds of their subject’s life,” she explained. Roman nodded, despite only barely following. “The most important line,” she continued, “is the last. The one your prophecy is so conveniently missing. It’s the longest and least vague, telling of one singular event that no witch could hope to avert, and how the conflict will inevitably resolve. In that line, the future is set.”

Roman was suddenly very glad he’d grabbed the railing. The prophecy had said he’d kill immortals. Could that mean Ursula? Or maybe just Dorian. The word was plural, so maybe both? But he’d finally started to trust, and maybe even like, the demon. Roman realized, for the first time, he didn’t want to kill him. And wasn’t Virgil also technically immortal, since he’d been living as long as Ursula? He’d certainly outlived a natural death. Would becoming his familiar change that? Roman’s mind produced a horrifying image of Virgil crumpling into dust, nothing more than a pile of ancient bones, and it was all Roman’s fault—

Soft fur brushed the underside of his forearm, startling Roman out of his spiraling thoughts. Virgil blinked up at him from his perch on the railing, tail curled around his elbow.

What’s wrong?

Roman realized Valerie was still talking, and scooped Virgil up into his arms, holding him close to his chest, and trying to tune back into the conversation.

“… interpretations between scholars, so there’s really no point in trying and make solid sense of it,” she said, hesitating when she saw Roman’s face. Apparently, he wasn’t hiding his stress as well as he’d hoped. Valerie smiled warmly. “This must be a lot. I apologize.”

Roman gave her a halfhearted smile, not trusting himself to speak.

“Here.” She pulled a ring from her finger, black and shiny as her armor with a silver emblem on the top. “This ring will keep you from getting arrested again. There’s an inn by the canal, just down this road,” she said, pointing out into the city. “Show this to Bodbyn. She’ll let you stay there.”

Roman took the ring, still warm from her hand. “Thank you.”

Valerie nodded. “Of course. Oh, and Virgil? Help him find some less conspicuous clothing, would you?” she said, reaching into a pocket Roman hadn’t noticed and pulling out a stack of coins with holes in the center strung through a leather string knotted at the bottom.

Virgil blinked at her, and she took it as a good enough acknowledgement. With one more nod, she disappeared inside the courthouse.

* * * * * * * * * *

Clothes shopping, as it turned out, was far more enjoyable than Roman had anticipated. Valerie had given them quite the respectable sum of money, according to Virgil, so they had no problem securing outfits for the two of them.

Roman sat on a circle cushion outside the dressing room in his own newly purchased outfit while Virgil changed. His top was loose-fitting crimson cotton with a v-neck and billowing sleeves that cinched at his wrists. Roman ran a finger along the gold thread at his cuffs and collar. Real gold. The commonplaceness of the precious metal in something as every-day as clothing had surprised Roman, but Virgil had only shrugged.

“It’s not nearly as rare, here,” he’d explained absently, riffling through the hangers. “It’s the lowest coin we’ve got—though we call coins shils.” He’d held up the string of money Valerie had given them. “These are silver shils. Should last us a few days.”

Roman’s outfit finished with some dark, durable pants and heeled boots that ended just below his knee. Apparently, shoes without heels were exclusively children’s, and the shortest socially acceptable heels were at least two inches tall. Thankfully, the boots they’d found had thick, blocky heels that were a little easier to walk in. They’d also secured Roman some thin, breathable gloves to cover the mark on the back of his hand.

The dressing room curtain swished to the side and Roman’s heart crawled up into his throat. Virgil strode out in a black velvet tailcoat with silver clasps running up the chest to a high collar ending just below Virgil’s chin, like a much fancier version of a turtle-neck. The cuffs extended over his wrists and looped around his middle finger, almost bleeding into the dark stripe that continued down his right finger from the contract he’d made with Amaryllis. Fitted black pants and knee-high leather boots with matching silver buckles and heels significantly taller and thinner than Roman’s completed the look.

“Wow,” Amaryllis breathed, rising. “You look great, Virgil.”

“We both look pretty old-fashioned. I haven’t been up to date on the current fashion trends for a few centuries, but I’m glad heels are still in,” he said, avoiding looking at Amaryllis, but flashing a small smile, anyway. Roman thought he would implode right then and there. He got to his feet.

“You look like a noble,” Amaryllis said, “but with less jewelry.”

Virgil shrugged. “That’s kind of what I was going for, since we’ll be working closely with the Chief Judge. Ursula’s family was pretty prominent back when she was younger, so I dressed like this a lot. Jewelry, too, but we don’t have enough money for—mmph!” he cut off in surprise as Roman surged forward and cupped his face with both hands, pressing their mouths together in a breathless kiss. Roman could barely think straight, but began to pull away, just in case Virgil didn’t want it. He probably should have asked first, but—

Virgil’s surprise faded fast, and he fisted a hand in the hair at the nape of Roman’s neck, pulling him back into another searing kiss. Roman sighed, “You’re so beautiful,” into his mouth, stars bursting beneath his eyelids, and they stumbled back against the poles holding up the dressing curtain.

Amaryllis laughed and shook her head, muttering, “Finally.”

“Witchgods,” the merchant cursed from behind a counter across the store. “None of that in here! Nordrana almighty, you’ll break something.”

They broke apart, foreheads resting together. Roman smiled. “What’s he saying?”

“Nordrana,” Virgil breathed back, running his fingers up Roman’s jaw and holding his chin like he was the most fragile glass he’d ever handled. “Patron of love,” he murmured and pressed a final, chaste kiss to his lips, “among other things. Shall we get going?”

Roman laughed. “Sure thing.”

They paid for the outfits they were wearing, along with some sleep clothes and one spare, drab outfit each—“for Wash Day,” Virgil explained. Roman just nodded, too enamored by the way Virgil looked when he moved in his midnight-black clothing to ask what he meant. Each click of his heels sent shivers up Roman’s spine. Virgil’s amber eyes flitted to a shimmering gold cape with red lining hung on the wall behind the merchant. He unstrung two additional silver coins and set them on the counter, nodding to the article. “We’ll take that, as well.”

The man looked as if he would demand more money for it, but Virgil, as tall as Roman in his heels and several times more intimidating, raised an eyebrow and the merchant’s mouth clicked shut.

“Certainly, joka iskaia,” he said quickly, unhooking the gorgeous cape, folding it over his arm, and setting it on the counter. Virgil gave a curt nod, then pocketed the meager remains of their money and flung the cape around Roman’s shoulders, quickly securing the gold chain connecting the corners at his collarbones.

“Can’t be out-dressing my own witch,” he said under his breath with a wink that stole Roman’s breath away. Roman hated how utterly flustered he was, but wasn’t about to complain when Virgil nodded to the merchant, and hooked his arm through Roman’s as they stepped out onto the street.

“What did he call you?”

“Hm? Oh, a child of Kaia,” Virgil said, “though I doubt he realized I actually was. It’s a kind of honorific for nobles or those of higher social class than you, as well.”

Roman’s brow knit. “What do you mean you actually are?” His eyes widened. “Are you a demigod or something?”

Virgil laughed, a beautiful noise. “No. Magical creatures are figuratively called the children of Kaia, since our magic is inherent. The legend goes that Kaia granted humans their core magic to spite her mother, Nordrana, and creating witches in the process.”

The kiss had changed everything and seemingly nothing at the same time. A weight Roman hadn’t known was there had lifted from his shoulders, and despite the newness of the dynamic, his side fit against Virgil’s as if it had always belonged there. It felt both sudden and a long time coming, like trying shoes he’d never worn before but were tailored to fit perfectly.

People stepped to the side when they approached, and Roman found himself standing a little taller. Clothes really did make a world of difference. He tripped a few times when the ground became uneven beneath his heels, but Virgil was always there, keeping him from falling. He held onto Roman’s arm so firmly that Roman asked if he was okay. Virgil gave a smile that must have been an attempt at reassurance, but Roman felt the undercurrent of fear passing from Virgil’s mind to his own.

He gripped Virgil’s hand back.

Eventually, they found the inn Valerie had mentioned. It was a sturdy wooden building with two floors and thick wood columns lining the front. Within a gold-painted, wooden Star of Kaia, the name Argoi Ismerint—Goldfire, Virgil translated.

“If everyone speaks Common,” Roman asked softly as they stepped into the inn, “why’s the name in witchtongue?”

Virgil tilted his head and muttered in Roman’s ear, “Names are important things around here. Most buildings have their true names visible, but you’d still call it by its Common name outloud unless you were casting some kind of spell.”

“Buildings have true names?”

“Everything does. Buildings are easy, since those that build them give them their names. I don’t envy the Namers in charge of discovering every other major landmark and species,” he snorted.

Goldfire was respectably busy, but not crowded. A fair amount of people lined the bar and filled the tables. A small empty stage sat nestled in the corner, barely big enough for a single person. As they entered, several people looked them over, though the noise only quieted a little. Most seemed confused by Amaryllis.

Virgil slipped his arm out of Roman’s and approached the bar, leaning his weight against it. The bartender finished pouring a drink for a patron and then made her way over. She was a broad shouldered woman with gold beads woven into her thick braided hair.

“Welcome,” she said. “What can I get for you, two?”

“We’re looking for Bodbyn.”

“You’ve found her,” she said, though a measure of wariness crossed her features.

Roman stepped up to Virgil’s side, setting Valerie’s ring on the counter. “She said you could help us out. We need a room.”

Bodbyn took up the ring and inspected it for a minute before tossing it back to Roman. “We’re heading into market season. I need every room open for business once it comes around.”

Virgil folded his arms. “How far’s market season?”

She gave Virgil an odd look, like he’d asked what color the sky was. “Two weeks. You can stay until then, but not a day longer, understood?”

“Perfectly,” Roman said, putting a hand on Virgil’s shoulder and flashing a smile. “Thank you.”

Bodbyn gave them their key and room number, and Virgil used the last of their money to purchase some dinner for the two of them. Amaryllis, as jealous as she was, didn’t get hungry as a ghost, and physically couldn’t eat even if she wanted to. Roman made to set their bag of clothes down at a table to eat, but Virgil stood near the stairwell with both their bowls of what Roman guessed was some kind of chicken curry over rice, expression blank.

Roman stopped. “Virge?”

He blinked, coming back to himself. Amaryllis is attracting attention. We should head up to our room to eat, he said silently. Not urgent, but firm.

“Okay,” Roman said easily, following Virgil up the stairs and down the hall to their room. The room itself had one bed, reasonably sized for two people, a desk facing a wood-paned window with a view of the street, a dresser with four drawers, and a medium-sized mirror on the wall just above it. Virgil handed Roman his bowl and sat on the foot of the bed, looking like it was taking everything in him not to collapse onto the bed right then.

Roman lowered to the desk seat, setting his bowl down and pulling his boots off. “You’re feet don’t hurt?” he asked, flexing his toes. Virgil shook his head, chewing slowly. “Are you sure you’re okay, Virgil?”

Tired, he said, swallowing.

“How do I do that? Speak back to you, I mean,” Roman asked, trying some of the food himself. It was surprisingly sweet, but not in a bad way. He quite liked it, actually.

Think at me, Virgil replied.

Roman cocked his head. “What?”

I don’t know. I can’t… words right now. Ask me later. He finished his bowl and got to his feet. Setting the bowl on the dresser, he approached the door and leaned against it. At first, Roman thought he’d fallen asleep standing up, but after a few moments Virgil retreated, leaving a glowing purple handprint on the wood of the door, that same strange symbol he’d put on the cellar door back in Wakeby when they’d trapped Remus seared into the glowing hand’s palm.

There… he sighed, then stumbled back to the bed. Virgil fell toward the mattress, violet light snapping through the air, and he landed as a black cat. A handful of heartbeats later, and he was curled up next to the pillow, asleep.