A whisper brushed her ear, faint and singsong like.She stilled, looking to the others; none reacted. The whispers curled around her name.
Sorcha.
She turned around, scanning the clearing, but there was nothing there. Just wind shifting through the dead trees. Then the whisper came again.
Sorcha. She slowly moved away from the group until the voice was closer. The whispers laced with laughter like splintering glass, cracking and cackling.
A slow chill crept up her spine. She turned slowly toward the laughter, but her knees locked in place. Rooted to the spot, she forced herself to look back. The others remained focused on the flower, oblivious to the whispers clawing at her ears. Movement beyond the trees caught her eye as she watched the figure run between the trees, too fast to pin down. At first, she thought it was a small child as it ran, but when it crouched low behind a tree, she could tell it was no child. A tail curled behind it, thin and bristled like a pig’s. Hooves pressed into the dirt where small feet shouldhave been. Its hands, narrow and ended in talon-like claws. The head was almost human. Its sunken face gleamed with liquid silver eyes that refused to blink.
Sorcha froze when the thing shifted, its gaze still on her. In a sickening motion, its body snapped forward. Bones cracked and limbs twisted as its skin shed away. Fur rippled over the new skin formed as it hunched down onto all fours. In the space where the figure had stood, a rabbit now remained. She stepped back, steadying herself against a tree.
Of all the cursed things to come across, a Pooka. The rabbit didn’t move as it watched her and the others. After a pause and a twitch of its ears, it sped across the clearing and vanished. Sorcha stood motionless. Nearby, Nethran continued his examination of the area. He gave a quick nod to Emry, who immediately pulled out his notebook, sketching the twisted flower in precise, methodical strokes. Riona lifted a cloth to her face, shielding herself from the strange dust still lingering in the air.
Mason’s fingers drummed against the hilt of his sword, a restless habit he had never broken. Sweat beaded on his sun-kissed skin, sandy hair curling in the damp air. Amber eyes tracked the treeline as his foot tapped out a steady rhythm. Eirin leaned against the tree, his cleaver resting across his shoulders. His obsidian hair falling into his eyes, forcing him to slide a hand through his hair.
Sorcha stood still, her eyes lingering on the spot where the rabbit had vanished, when a hand settled on her shoulder. She flinched before recognizing Eirin’s voice.
“You alright?”
She drew in a breath and forced a smile. “Sorry, yeah. I’m good.”
“It doesn’t seem that way. You’re awfully pale.” “Really, I’m fine. Just tired.”
Eirin studied her for a moment, his brow furrowing. “Is this about the Hudson family?”
The image of the barn flickered behind her eyes. Torn animal bodies, the blood. The smell of decay. Her throat tightened.
“Yeah. It’s been a long week already.”
Nethran’s voice cut through the thick air. “We’ll need samples quickly but carefully. Rhosyn, Emry, take what you can from the plant and soil. We’re heading back to Lumora. The Druid Council has requested our presence.”
Sorcha nodded, her fingers tightening around the curve of her bow. She had faced countless threats before, but this was different.
The trees whispered behind her as they started back toward Lumora. By the time the city’s gates came into view, the towering spires of the library rose against the fading light, pale and watchful beneath the evening sky.
Chapter 7
Willful Blindness
The library of Verdant Light stood in the late-morning sun, the light reflecting off the shelves reaching towards the skylights. A large oak grew at its center, branches twisting and reaching to hold up the floors above. Two large black iron staircases sat on either side of it. They spun between the branches to the second and third floors of the library.
In an alcove at the very top, housed a full-length mirror. At a glance, it looked like any other mirror. Its edges adorned with Celtic knot-work that weaved their way to a triple knot at the top center, each of its points bejeweled in emerald. Its surface rippled and shimmered at a whispered incantation and Sorcha watched wide eyed as Circle members from all over the continent stepped through. The Circle of Light summoned the other Circles of Eadartha once more.
Sorcha trailed Commander Nethran as he entered the circular dome. Ruby dipped battle scenes splattered the walls, contrasting with rainbow hued Eadarthan landscapes. Lumora City, its golden spires, illuminated the mural’s center where a large circular table sat. Magic pulsed in the air thick with an electric catch, like clothes clinging after drying, a tingling shock beneath the skin.
The floor was covered in runic inscriptions, which seemed to hum faintly like distant thunder as they reflected the soft lantern light. Sorcha felt a familiar unease prickle her skin as she joined the assembled warriors, druids, and scouts. She surveyed the Circle members, noticing the nervous expressions they wore. Restless, they exchanged furtive glances, while the council sat stiffly, their faces betraying their mounting irritation. At the chamber’s far end, a tall Druid Elder cleared his throat, signaling for the meeting’s start. Elder Thalor stepped forward, his hands clasped calmly, his face a mask of practiced patience.
“Thank you for assembling so swiftly,” he began, voice composed. “We’ve received reports from several
provinces now and would like to put everybody’s minds at ease. The reports show these incidents are isolated, scattered, and unverified. While unfortunate, these occurrences are not entirely outside the natural variance we see during seasonal transitions. Especially with Samhain approaching.”
The silence in the chamber stretched for what seemed like an eternity. When a man in burgundy leathers stepped forward, a representative from the Coastal Circle. “Our shore wards have failed. The healing pools are stagnant, and thick with black algae. Whatever this is, it’s not seasonal.”
Thalor inclined his head, the gesture polite and unwavering.
“We are investigating environmental factors in those regions. Tidal interference, the unseelie, perhaps even residual magic from past conflicts. Let us not jump to conclusions.”
Commander Nethran’s arms folded across his chest. “We’ve encountered something this morning. A tar-like bloom spreading through the forest floor, draining the life from everything it touches.” He paused, rapping his knuckles on the wood tabletop. “As for the livestock attack, I believe it isn’t an isolated incident. There were signs of intent. Something hunted for the sake of it, then left the bodies to rot.”
