I spin around to find Mother staring at me with a mask of sheer panic on her face.
“No!” She holds up her hands as if that alone will stop me. “This is not happening. Not now. Not ever. You arenota warrior, Raina.”
She’s right. I’m not a warrior. I’m a witch, and not a very good one on most counts, but I’m far from helpless. Father taught me to use a scythe in nearby meadows, and my body has been honed from working in the fields. And though no one knows, Hel has taught me so much in the last few years. Sheisa warrior, if anyone cared to pay attention to the blacksmith’s daughter. Far more than just a pretty face. Her lessonsalone have developed my skills enough that I don’t fear facing a sword if I must.
Resting the scythe in the crook of my arm, I bring my hands together.“I can swing a blade,”I sign.“An extra weapon could mean saving our home. I cannot stand by and do nothing but sing magick and hope it is not met with greater magick, and I refuse to run away and hide like a coward, Mother.”
Hurt flashes across her face. She opens her mouth to protest, but hoofbeats resonate, accompanied by war cries. Once again, I grab her hand and race through the cottage, where Mother snatches one of her kitchen knives. Then we hurry to the green.
I think of the stories Father used to tell, the lessons about the world beyond the vale. Of all the kingdoms and vast lands he spoke about, the one I least want to face in a fight is the Eastland Territories. The Summerlanders, brutal as they are, have had to fight for life and land for centuries now, while the Eastlanders fight from a place of greed, sheer privilege, and perceived superiority that began a millennium ago with their god, Thamaos.
Now their god is dead and buried like the rest, but they have a sovereign. The Prince of the East. He’s more like a mythical figure than a true leader. Father always assured me he exists, a man who somehow steals life and magick from others to grant himself immortality and to power his own dark desires.
A man made of shadows, souls, and sin.
Turning in a circle, I search every terrified face one more time and let out a familiar whistle. It’s a little birdcall Finn taught me so I could summon him from a short distance.
But he doesn’t rush to my side. He’s nowhere to be found.
Surely Finn and Hel did the same as me. Surely, with all their weapons, they’ll stand against what’s coming. I can only pray they stay safe, and that we find one another when this is over.
Mena leads a chorus of voices, chanting a veil of magick around our village, even while those same singing Witch Walkers haul water from the troughs. I can tell Mother still wants to run by the way her gaze shifts toward the orchard, but once she takes a last look at the resolve onmy face, she tucks her knife into her corded belt, grabs a pail, and joins the crowd in their song. Sadly, the protective construct the Witch Walkers are trying so hard to erect struggles to rise, a silvery shield lifted by distressed witches.
A western wind slips over the failing magick. I bury my nose in my elbow, nearly gagging from the eye-watering stench of death. It reeks like a thousand fading souls.
Gods. Am I smelling death from other villages?
I stare at the many flickering flames drawing nearer and nearer, a strange pulse beating in the air, bringing a sense of doom I’ve never known. Then I see him—the Witch Collector. He rides right past me, his uncovered head turned away.
One glance and all the hurt, pain, and fear inside me twist into rage and loathing. Armies don’t attack innocent people for no reason, especially armies from lands with long-standing treaties. The Frost King had to have done something to cause this.
More loss I can lay at that bastard’s feet.
The Witch Collector turns his horse this way and that, scouring the village like he’s searching for someone. He shouts at a man who shrugs and shakes his head before running away. He yells at another man running past, but there’s too much noise to hear them.
A thought flutters through my mind. I flex my fingers around the scythe and stiffen my spine. We’re so close, the Witch Collector and me. Only a few feet between us. And he’s distracted. I could kill him now, a blow from behind. Rid the world of his dreadful presence.
With my jaw clenched tight, I take a step closer. Another. And another. A girl points at me, and my last step comes up short. The Witch Collector twists in his saddle and meets my gaze, and gods, I swear the air between us becomes electric.
Heart stuttering, I freeze as his attention darts to my scythe. He spears me with a piercing look and tilts his dark head. Those green eyes narrow, shining under the blazing torches and bonfire light. I’ve never seen his face. His head is always shielded behind the hood of his cloak. Even if I could have, I’ve always been too afraid to look him in the eye.
Hel was wrong. He’s so much younger than I imagined, less than adecade older than me. He wears a short, neat beard, and his face is all dangerous edges and sharp lines. He’s handsome in a wicked, dark way. Beautiful, even. He must’ve been younger than me when he took Nephele.
The moment stretches between us—whisper-thin, taut, and unbearable. His stare is so penetrating it’s like he’s peering into my soul, prying through the cobwebby corners I show no one. I blink and remind myself that he’s the enemy, and that he’sright here, within my reach. One swipe to his neck is all that death requires. He’d never take from us again.
But the king will only replace him. And even if I survive this night, I will have murdered my only way to find Nephele. More than that, the Witch Collector is highly trained, that much I know about him. He’s a warrior with a weapon. More warrior than most anyone from Silver Hollow, and thus very likely our best defense.
Fine. Survival first. Revenge later.
Resigned to fight at his side, at least for now, I form the sign for peace against my chest. He can’t know what it means, but he inclines that dark head and signs the same symbol back to me, like he understands.
I take a step back and lay the scythe at my feet. Turning toward the western hills and distant mountains, I close my eyes in prayer and lift my hands to sing, forming every lyric with precision, careful to make no mistakes.
The Witch Walkers’ voices rise, as loud as they can manage. I focus on Mena’s words, which radiate the clearest, until I feel the wall of magick rising over us.
My movements slow, my fingers relax, and I open my eyes. A dome of protection hovers above, glittering beneath the moonlight. In that heartbeat of time, I feel safe, believing that we can keep the Eastlanders from entering Silver Hollow with just our song.
But the first flaming arrow soon arcs across the sky and pierces the veil. Then the next, and the next, until hundreds of balls of fire fill the night.
