Hell sigils are not difficult to carve when one understands the language of power that shaped them. The first mark appears on the door of Ravik Keld, the farmer whose hay shed burned during the early surge of the bond’s uncontrolled response. The symbol glows briefly beneath my fingertips before sinking into the grain of the wood like heat absorbed by stone.
A warning. He was very vocal the past few days. Voice has a price. Let's see if he wants to pay it.
The second mark settles into the door of a cooper who has spent the past two mornings loudly describing the appropriate punishment for witches.
The third belongs to a man named Tarris.
He lives at the end of the square in a narrow house that smells perpetually of sour ale and bad decisions. I finish the final sigil just as the door opens.
Tarris stumbles into the street with the unsteady movements of someone who has been drinking longer than wisdom would advise. His eyes land on the glowing symbol carved into the wood beside him.
“The fuck is that?—”
He squints at it. Then, with the stubborn stupidity that often accompanies intoxication, he spits into his palm and rubs at the mark.
The sigil does not fade. His expression twists with irritation.
“Damn witch tricks,” he mutters, scratching at the wood with a knife.
The blade scrapes across the surface of the symbol. Infernal heat surges instantly through my veins.
The bond ignites.
Across the village, Elowen feels the spike of danger and turns toward the street where I stand hidden in shadow. I sense her attention before I see her.
The tether between us flares with sudden awareness as she steps into the doorway of her cottage, confusion sharpening into alarm when she realizes what the surge of demonic power means.
“Threxian,” she calls softly.
The sound of her voice travels through the bond like cool water poured over flame. I close my hand slowly.
The fire that had begun gathering beneath my skin recoils as I force it back into containment.
Pain follows immediately. Real pain. Not the familiar heat of restrained anger, but something sharper that claws through my chest and down my arms as the hell current resists the command to withdraw.
Every instinct I possess demands the same response. Eradicate the threat. Burn the offender. Reduce the insult to ash. Instead I remain motionless.
Tarris continues scraping uselessly at the sigil, unaware that the only reason he still breathes is the woman standing several streets away watching the shadows where she knows I stand.
The bond trembles with her concern.
She steps closer. Moonlight catches her face as she reaches the edge of the square, her eyes searching the darkness until they find the faint outline of my wings folded tightly against my back.
She sees the strain in my posture immediately.
“Threxian,” she says quietly.
I do not answer. If I open my mouth right now, I am not entirely certain what will emerge.
The infernal power trapped beneath my ribs pushes savagely against the restraints I have forced upon it, each heartbeat sending another pulse of pain through my body.
Restraint is not natural for my kind. It is an act of will. And apparently, an act of suffering.
Elowen takes another cautious step closer. Her voice softens.
“You stopped.”
I exhale slowly through clenched teeth.
