Without a warwitch’s training, she couldn’t fight unprepared against so many witch hunters, unless … unless she resorted to another, far more drastic way. One forbidden by both the Inquisition and the Covens.
The Bleak Path.
It would work, it beckoned her. The witch could weave the inquisitor’s mind to hers and bend him to her will. She could make him walk away, far away from her home, a puppet held by strings he couldn’t fight back against. She could even … even have his hands seize his sword, lift it up to his neck, and …
It would work.
A shiver ran down her spine. The Bleak Path might help her survive the day, but she’d never leave it again. She’d fight and inevitably succumb to the temptation of twisting the Unseen Arras’ threads that way again, and again, and again, until nothing remained of her but an inhumane bleakwitch drunk on her own power.
She couldn’t risk it, even at the cost of her freedom. But if he had come for her life …
Her mind filled with dark visions of her future. Bruised wrists tied against rough wooden poles. The smell of burnt flesh. The agony of flames melting her skin. Her voice screaming, and screaming, and—
Semras’ trembling hand tightened further around the knife. “Old Crone, be my witness,” she breathed, hoping the blade would be enough to stop the intimidating man. Hoping she wouldn’t have to commit the unforgivable, and—
“Enough.” The inquisitor raised his hand. “I have not come to arrest you, witch, but keep this up, and I might reconsider it.”
Semras froze. Her eyes studied the man, searching for a trick. When she found none, she cautiously lowered her knife. “I am under no obligation to welcome a guest I don’t recall inviting, Inquisitor. Get out, andI mightforget your face,” she mocked him, her chin lifted in defiance.
The intruder stopped a few steps away from her. His eyes—a piercing shade of icy blue—looked her up and down. They lingered too long on her lips.
“Now,” she said.
He scoffed. “This does not need to be so unpleasant. I know witches are little more than wild animals, but please do try to contain yourself. I have only come here to speak.” He stepped closer to look down at her. “You can gather a modicum of courtesy for a conversation, can’t you?”
Arrogance dripped from him like water after a rainfall. He smirked at her, and she saw red.
An unbidden growl rippled out of her throat. “Fine. I’ll show you courtesy.”
One flex of her fingers closed the front door with a bang, prompting cries of alarm outside. Her next weave kept it tightly shut against the doorframe.
Separated from their master, the Venator guards fell into a frantic panic. Their voices shouted demands to be let in; their fists pounded at the door. Heavy footsteps circled the small hut in search of a paned window large enough to go through. They’d find none.
Her house was her domain. She alone reigned here; she alone would choose who to welcome inside—and how.
Semras plastered a withering smile over her lips. “My apologies, Inquisitor. I’m afraid my humble abode cannot entertain more than a singleguest. Please, take a seat.”
With the tip of her knife, she pointed at a small dining table behind him, then wove threads to yank forward one of the chairs. It bumped into the back of the inquisitor’s knees, sending him falling onto its seat. Pleased with her pettiness, Semras left him behind to walk to her small kitchen corner.
Turning her back on a witch hunter left her feeling dreadfully vulnerable, but she showed him no sign of fear. From a nearby shelf, she fetched a teapot, cups, and a tin of tea, then returned to the table. Her fingers expertly wove wefts of ambient moisture into water to fill the teapot.
“Tea, inquisitor?” she asked, voice mocking. “What type would you prefer? I always let my guests choose.”
Leaving him no time to answer, Semras held his gaze and cast a handful of round, wide leaves of wintergreen into the pot. A smirk spread across her lips as she wove a few more threads to bring the tea to a boil. The leaves needed to be infused—not boiled—for several minutes to properly extract their flavour, but she didn’t care to impress the inquisitor. He’d get the bare minimum of thecourtesyhe so wanted.
After pouring the pale liquid into two cups, Semras pushed one toward her unwanted guest and sat across from him, keeping the front door in her line of sight. The inquisitor’s men hadn’t abandoned their attempts at breaking it down. She could hear the unnerving trembling of the hinges and the muffled sounds of shouts outside.
The inquisitor scrutinized her, his careful gaze following each of her gestures—analyzing, calculating, anticipating. When she took a sip of the minty tea, his eyes fell on her lips and remained there, as if waiting to see if they’d turn blue from poison.
Ridiculous. If she wanted to poison him, she wouldn’t use something so cliche.
“See?” she said. “It’s potable. Drink.”
He kept observing her closely instead, and she held back a scoff. The inquisitor was staring at her as if she looked outlandish—she wasn’t.
Semras was a witch, a daughter of the Night, blessed with a faraway fey ancestor. Her long white hair and feral yellow irises betrayed her blood legacy, but she looked human enough without the scales, horns, or heavy freckles adorning their more direct offsprings.
And even if she hadn’t, nobody would even think about suspecting her of being a witch or a changeling. Most people nowadays believed them to be a thing of the past, just like the humanoid fey were now. The Vandalesian Peninsula had the Inquisition to thank for that; men like the one sitting across from her had chased them all away decades ago.
