Morning light filters through my eyes. I squeeze Fritzi’s fingers again.
Her gaze focuses on me, her eyes full of terror.
8
Fritzi
I keep my gaze on Otto. I focus on him, only on him, because that’s what this ceremony is about—bonding with Otto.
But there is something…wrong.
In my chest.
In my stomach.
In the brand on my thigh, an itching, a burn, and it rises, aching,throbbing—
I ball my hand, the one not clinging to Otto, to keep from tearing at my skin as if I can escape the sensation—and my eyes catch on Cornelia.
She is frowning at me, her head cocked, eyes looking not at me butthroughme,beyondme, seeing with magic, not sight.
Her face goes slack. And in that expression, shock and a flash of horror, I feel it all over again,wrong,itching, my skin is burning,burning—
“Well?” Philomena leans into Cornelia.
Cornelia’s specialty lies in the veil, magic beyond our physical plane—Philomena and Rochus have other specialties, which means, of the council, only Cornelia can see if the bonding potion worked.
Itdid, didn’t it? Otto isn’t dead. I can still feel my connection to wild magic; I haven’t been cut off entirely.
But something iswrong.
Cornelia nods sharply, but her face is all tension. She turns to the crowd, raises her hands. “They are bonded! Champion and warrior, our mightiest hope made true!”
The crowd cheers, applause that hits me like a thunderclap, and I flinch.
Otto tightens his hold on my hand. “Fritzi? Are you—”
Cornelia dives around the table as the music starts. More dancing. More celebrating. An endless party, this one only for those who live in the Well, everyone basking in the landmark this makes—a goddess chosen champion! A bonded warrior! And our borders open to the non-magical world, hexenjägers driven out—we are a mark of their mightiest hope, indeed.
But I can’t get a full breath. My brand scars are throbbing and burning.
Cornelia smiles sweetly at Otto before taking my arm. “You’ll get your witch back in a moment, warrior,” she tells him, and before he can protest, she hauls me away.
I go, shoes sodden from the pond water, half-aware of her touch on my arm, half-consumed by the pain rising in my brands, in my head, that headache returning tenfold andbangingon my skull.
Like a knock.
Like something trying to get in.
I wince, nearly collapse, and I feel another hand on my other arm, another firm grip.
Otto.
“What’s wrong?” he asks it of Cornelia, who has led me out of the open area around the Origin Tree, behind another cluster of oaks, hidden from sight of the celebration.
I try to lie to him.I’m fine. Give me a moment.
But what comes out is a croaked, “It didn’t work.” I look at Cornelia, pleading, terrified. “Did it?”
