1
Otto
“So, let me get this straight,” I say. Brigitta looks smugly down at me. “I am supposed to participate in a mock battle, after which the guard will toss me into an ice-cold pond, then I have to climb to the top of the waterfall before running through literal fire?”
“Yes, that’s about the sum of it,” Brigitta says, chuckling. We’re at the outskirts of the Well, in the shadows of the trees that hold most of the witches’ homes. A safe distance away so that none of the others will be caught in the crossfire of today’s activities.
“But…why?”
“Tradition.” Brigitta shrugs. “You may be a goddess-chosen warrior, Otto Ernst, but you’ve not yet been chosen byus.” Joining the elite guards of the Well will cement my place in the coven, despite my lack of magic.
“And the way to get chosen is to first fight and then be tortured by you?”
Brigitta smiles. “That’d do it.”
I stare at her flatly, but I can appreciate the activity. Call it bonding, call it hazing—after I survive tonight, I’ll be an accepted and respected member of the society in the Well, inducted into the Grenzwache itself.
But first I have to survive.
Alois snickers, his shoulders shaking. Of them all, the redhead is closest to me in age, but even then a few years my senior. Behind them, I can see the other members of the guard openly laughing at me, elbowing each other and whispering.
They’re witches. They have spent their whole life in the Well coven, and most of them have spent decades in the guard, every day honing their skills in both combat and magic to ensure the protection of the Origin Tree. They’ve been so secretive about the damn tree that I’ve yet to evenseeit, despite being here for months and being a goddess-chosen warrior. But I suppose that’s the point. When the Origin Tree is the literal source of all magic on the entire planet, it gets protected.
Regardless, though, they have not only years of training, but intimate knowledge of the land and magic on their side. I eye Brigitta’s tattoos swirling over her biceps and up her shoulders, the sharp lines of the black ink competing with the sharp lines of her clavicle. The ancient Celtic markings aren’t just tradition, as Brigitta implied. Each one enhances the warrior’s skills, protects the body, strengthens the muscles. The sigils and runes are further magic. And, once all this bonding with the guards is done, Fritzi is going to markmewith tattoos of her choosing, gifting me magic through my skin.
Witches who fight, Brigitta told me, do not always have time to craft a spell, carefully gathering ingredients to brew a potion or whatever the witch’s specialty may be. The heat of the battle requiresaction. That’s where the tattoos come in. The traditional Celtic designs serve apurpose, a way to draw from magic without the sometimes slower and more tedious spell work.
This would not be the case if the Guards used wild magic like Fritzi, I think, but I press my lips closed. This is one of the secrets she wants me to keep. The Well coven is deeply traditional, and wild magic is decidedly not.
For now, my skin is still blank. I’m just a human without magic, who’s spent most of his time as a soldier…but a soldier who never intended to truly fight. My time as a captain of the hexenjägers was a front; I never wanted to be a witch hunter. I just had to pretend to be one to bring them down from the inside.
“Don’t worry so much, Ernst,” Brigitta says, laughing at my serious face. “Today is just for us, the border guard. The real induction comes later.”
“And on the day of the actual trial, I’ll be scaling waterfalls and leaping through fire while Fritzi…” I say, waving my hand, “Fritzi will be taking a bath?”
“That’s a bit of an oversimplification,” Brigitta says. “But essentially. Yes.”
“A bath.” Alois laughs. “Is that what you want, warrior?”
“It would be nice,” I grumble. I quite like the baths here. I shift in my seat, hoping the others don’t notice how much my mind has wandered at the idea of Fritzi in a bath.
“I think he’s grown a bit soft,” Alois says. My mind panics for a moment, but then Alois steps closer and pokes me in my belly. I’m pleased that he winces, his finger finding no fat to cushion the jab. “Lazing about in the trees.”
Fritzi, Liesel, and I have been in the Well for months. It’s become our home.
Brigitta tosses me a pouch. Inside are a dozen red sacks sewn shut. Iweigh one in my hand, and a red powder coats my palm. “You must ‘kill’ twelve of us before you win,” the captain says.
Twelve to one. I glance behind her. There are easily thirty people participating in the battle. I only have to hit twelve with the red markers, but I’ll have to go through more than three times that many to make a hit.
“There are only twelve markers in the bag,” I say, counting again.
“So don’t miss.” Alois grins with all his teeth.
“Meanwhile, we’ll have these.” Brigitta makes a movement with her hand, and Alois picks up a basket and starts distributing five spell pouches to each member of the guard.
“What do they do?” I ask warily.
“Each hit will freeze you just a little more,” Brigitta says cheerily. “One will tingle, like pins and needles at the spot where you’re hit. It’ll get progressively worse with each strike until you’re numb.”
