A scream tore through the air behind him. He turned instinctively, and Vera’s gaze followed, amusement blooming in her expression like a bloodstain on silk. Mothers were being driven back into huts, now collapsing under bursts of warlock magic. The screams of the trapped grew more desperate, then abruptly fell into silence.
Vera’s eyes narrowed upon one figure. A woman on her knees, cradling a bundle in her arms, weeping with every shred of soul she had left. She begged, brokenly, for her child’s life.
Vera’s lips curled into a delicate smile the moment the woman dropped to the ground. Her sobs, and the infant’s cries, faded into nothing.
Silence reigned. And Vera, goddess cloaked in mortal flesh, savoured it.
‘Da gods will punish ya for this,’ the old man spat, defiance trembling in his voice as it hit the snow at Vera’s feet.
She stared down at him, then gracefully crouched until their eyes met. Her lips curled into a mirthless smile. ‘You really are a fool, old man,’ she said, pressing her fingers lightly to his brow before giving him a cruel shove. He toppled backwards, his pale blue eyes wide with alarm.
‘Pray to your gods all you like,’ she added, rising with effortless elegance. ‘They won’t lift a finger to save you.’ She turned to the witch beside her, her expression already laced withdisinterest. ‘Kill him,’ she ordered. ‘And the rest. Wipe out this wretched village.’
The witch hesitated. ‘But…’
Vera paused mid-step, her head tilting slightly as her gaze fixed upon the one who had dared interrupt. ‘Yes?’ she drawled.
‘Do we have to kill them?’ the witch asked, her voice quivering, purple eyes wide with unease. ‘They’re just women and children. It doesn’t feel… right.’
Vera arched a brow. ‘And did Hagan spare the old?’ she asked, her voice now silk over ice. ‘Did he not butcher every soul he crossed?’
‘Well… I suppose, but—’
‘Oh, I grow tired of this.’ Vera's fingers twitched, a subtle gesture that snapped the witch’s neck with an audible crack. The woman collapsed into the snow like a marionette with its strings cut, her body already half-covered in frost.
The old man screamed, stricken by the sight, but remained frozen in place by the warlock gripping his shoulders.
Vera licked her lips slowly and turned to the warlock, not once glancing at the lifeless body by her feet, as though the girl had never existed at all.
‘Be done with it,’ she muttered.
The warlock inclined his head in silent obedience. A thick plume of green smoke curled from his fingertips, sinister and serpentine, before he pressed them to the old man’s temple. The wolverian elder struggled, limbs flailing, heels scraping against the snow-packed ground, but the warlock’s grip remained ironclad.
The smoke slithered into the man’s ears and nostrils, winding its way into him like a venomous breath. His coughing turned to choking; his resistance faltered and then ceased altogether. His body fell still.
Lifeless.
‘Ensure no one dares defy me again,’ Vera commanded, her voice cold as the snow beneath her boots. She stepped over the fallen bodies without sparing them a glance. ‘Hang them from the trees. When the wolverian men return, let the first thing they see be the corpses of their kin. Their parents. Their wives. Their children.’
Her laughter echoed through the forest like a fractured hymn, trailing behind her as she strode forward into the chaos she had so gleefully wrought.
A thousand years past, the witches bestowed upon each realm a magical gift, tokens of power wrapped in mystery. To the wolverians, they granted enchanted artefacts, forged to aid survival in the unforgiving wilds of their homeland. The desert folk received a bewitched stretch of sand, ever-shifting beneath moonlight to bewilder and repel unwelcome travellers. And the valkyrians… they were given floating islands, suspended in the heavens like dreams tethered to the sky. But I have always wondered, what was the true intent behind such lavish offerings? Were they acts of goodwill? A gesture of alliance between kingdoms? Or was there something far older, far deeper, woven into those gifts, something we have yet to understand?
In time, I’ve come to accept one thing as truth: no one gives freely, not even witches. Deeds cloaked in kindness often conceal the sharp edge of purpose. There is always a reason.
Tabitha Wysteria
Freya and Ylva had kept their distance, shadows trailing shadows, careful not to let the witches catch even the whisper of their presence. They did not need eyes to follow them; they were valkyrians, born with the instinct to track as easily as others breathed.
Freya halted, sinking into a crouch, her fingers brushing across the frostbitten earth. Footprints, many of them, presseddeep into the snow, sharp and hurried. Vera’s army was close, too close. But there was something else there, marring the pristine white…
Ylva crouched beside her, fingertips ghosting over the snow, tracing the dark smear marring the ground. Her voice dropped to a whisper, heavy with unease. ‘Ash.’
Freya’s jaw clenched. That was never a good sign, especially not when witches were involved. ‘We’re hours behind them.’
‘We should fly,’ Ylva urged, already rising and gesturing towards their winged steeds. ‘We could reach them before they unleash whatever horror they’re crafting.’
Freya considered, the thought tempting, but finally exhaled a sharp breath and shook her head. ‘We are observers, not saviours. We do not intervene.’ She caught the tightening of Ylva’s jaw but ignored it. ‘We continue on foot, less chance of being seen.’
