I hope they never do.
Tabitha Wysteria
Vera’s lips curved into a cruel smile as her gaze swept over the wolverian castle perched upon its modest hill. It was no grand citadel, merely a squat structure of weathered grey stone, its walls as humble as the small village nestled just beyond.
‘Take everyone to the village,’ Vera ordered, her voice sharp enough to cut through the winter air. ‘Burn it to ash. A handful of you, come with me to the castle.’
She watched with amusement as the witches and warlocks obeyed without question, their bodies dissolving into coils of green smoke, magic twisting around them like serpents before they vanished entirely. It was a spell meant for short distances. Any greater reach, and the cost to flesh and magic would be severe.
Raising her own hands, Vera welcomed this surge of power as it coursed through her veins, wrapping her in emerald fire and pulling her through the ether.Foolish wolverians. No wards, no barriers, nothing to keep an intruder from stepping effortlessly into their domain. Even their warriors had abandoned their post, leaving their keep naked and defenceless.
She materialised in the great hall of the wolverian keep, its expanse long and cold, with hearths sunken into the centre and heavy wooden tables draped with thick furs to fend off the northern chill. Her eyes lifted to the portrait of the late wolverian queen, her painted stare hollow and unblinking.
Vera’s lips twisted further as she summoned witchfire, hurling a blast of searing green flames onto the nearest table. Wood shrieked under the heat as the fire roared, devouring fur and oak alike, the flames unfurling higher and wider, a blossoming flower of ruin.
A servant slipped into the chamber, her steps hesitant, only to freeze mid-breath at the sight before her. Without a word, she pivoted sharply and fled, skirts snapping at her heels as she bolted down the corridor. One of the witches at Vera’s side darted after her like a shadow loosed from its master, leaving Vera to wander unhurriedly through the hall.
Her eyes traced the cold stone walls, lingering on the mounted carcasses of long-dead beasts, their glassy eyes staring into nothingness. A predator’s trophies.
‘Be wary of the wolves,’ Vera said, her voice lilting with cruel amusement as she swept into the narrow passage beyond. Screams soon rose in answer, sharp and frantic, echoing through the stone corridors like the chorus of a hunted pack. She did not pause until she reached the chamber she sought.
King Fannar lay there, a mountain of a man, broad of shoulder and thick of arm, a warrior forged for war. Yet now, he was but a crumbling ruin of himself. His great white beard framed a face pallid beyond even the usual pallor of his kind, his fevered eyes bloodshot and raw with sickness.
Vera claimed a wooden chair at the end of his bed, folding her hands upon her lap as if she were a lady come to call, not a storm come to raze. It took time for the king’s gaze to clear, and when it did, it hardened at the sight of her. He made to rise, but a fit of violent coughing overtook him, twisting him onto his side as blood spattered the bedding in dark, wet blooms.
‘I hear it is a cruel affliction,’ Vera said, reclining into the chair as though at leisure. ‘Crystallised lungs, is it not? A rare curse of your kind, birthed from some dormant plague in the snow. Breathe it in, leave it to fester, and it begins its quiet work by freezing your lungs from the inside out until they shatter within your chest. Imagine it, a heart that still beats while the breath dies frozen within.’
‘What do ya want?’ His voice was raw, each syllable carved from pain.
Vera tilted her head, studying him as though appraising an object already half-broken. A slow, serpentine smile curved her lips.
‘It’s hardly as satisfying,’ she said, ‘when the prey is already dying.’
It was then that Vera felt a presence, primal and furious, coiling behind her like the silent draw of a blade. She turned her head slightly, lips curling into a soft chuckle as the great beast stalked into view. The wolf was magnificent, a tower of muscle and fur, its fangs bared in a snarl that promised blood. But before it could lunge, Vera raised her hand, fingers snapping with a sound like the crack of fate itself.
The beast crumpled mid-stride, its howl twisting into a pitiful whimper as it writhed upon the stone, claws scrabbling uselessly at the ground.
Beyond the chamber, the chorus of screams rose, sharp and frantic, bleeding into the cold silence like an aria of despair. Thedoor opened with a groan, and two warlocks swept in, their faces pale and eager.
‘We are ready,’ said the first, his voice low with reverence.
Vera inclined her head, the barest of nods, and rose with languid grace. A flick of her fingers was all it took for them to seize the ailing king. She paid no heed to the wolf’s dying cries, stepping over its convulsing body as one might step over a fallen branch.
Through the hallways they moved, the sharp coughs of the king marking their path like a death knell, sparing Vera even the smallest glance behind to ensure they still carried him.
Outside, the snow lay heavy and untouched, save for what awaited them. Vera’s cruel smile unfurled as her gaze fell upon the king’s children, huddled on their knees before her. Wide eyes brimmed with terror. Two young girls, barely into their fifteenth summers, and between them, a child still tender with innocence. The boy twisted and fought against the witch restraining him, snarling with a wolf-cub’s defiance, while his sisters shivered and wept silently, their tears freezing on their cheeks.
The warlocks released their burden, letting the king fall like a discarded carcass into the snow at her feet.
‘Make certain every soul within those walls is killed,’ Vera commanded, gesturing back towards the castle as smoke coiled from its windows like dying breath.
‘Please,’one of the girls sobbed, her voice splintering under its own terror. ‘We’ve done nothing wrong!’
‘Have you not?’ Vera tilted her head, her eyes alight with mockery. ‘I suspect the witches would argue otherwise. Tell me, little one, what is your name?’
The girl hesitated, trembling, until her sister nudged her gently, urging her to speak.
‘M-me name is Gwyneira.’
