The word surfaces unbidden, ancient and absolute. The bond flares faintly in response. I have taken cities in the name of demonic law. I have reduced tyrants to ash without hesitation. I have never belonged to anyone.
Now the tether hums with quiet insistence, aligning my instincts with the fragile human moving inside that cottage. I could reveal myself again and explain. The urge is strong, nearly physical. But she is already standing on the edge of comprehension. To push further tonight would fracture her.
No.
Observation first. Then understanding. When I decide what to do with this I will move.
The village will notice the absence of Garruk Voss by morning. Humans are suspicious creatures. Fear spreads quickly among them, and fear is a language I speak fluently. I step back into shadow, allowing the mortal night to thicken around me.
Through the lifeline that binds us, I sense her finally sink into a chair near the hearth. Her breathing steadies slowly, though sleep will not come easily. Confusion curls around her thoughts, threaded with something else she does not yet dare name. I remain outside her cottage long after the village has gone silent.
3
ELOWEN
The knocking begins before dawn. It is not the polite tapping of someone seeking salve or tincture. It is sharp and hurried, striking my door in uneven bursts that rattle the latch.
I have not slept.
Each time I closed my eyes, I saw white-gold flame swallowing flesh. I felt heat beneath my ribs, echoing some distant, powerful rhythm that did not belong to me. By the time the knocking starts, I am already sitting upright in the chair beside the hearth, fully dressed, as though I have been waiting for consequence.
I open the door to find two men from the tannery standing stiffly on my threshold. Their faces are pale in the gray light of early morning.
“They found Garruk burned,” one of them says without greeting.
The words lodges in my throat. They lead me back toward the narrow alley between the storage houses. A small crowd has gathered, murmuring in low, uneasy tones. I can feel the shift as I approach, conversations thinning, eyes turning.
The place where Garruk cornered me is blackened.
The stone is scorched in a wide, unnatural pattern, as though lightning struck and lingered. At the center lies a collapsed heap of brittle, dark fragments. Not a body. Remains. Someone retches nearby.
“It’s witchwork,” a woman whispers.
“No ordinary fire burns like that.”
I clasp my hands together to stop their trembling. The memory threatens to rise, vivid and terrible, his mouth mid-word, the eruption of light, the towering figure stepping through flame. I say nothing.
What could I possibly say?
By midmorning, Briarthorn has decided on its story. Garruk was seen heading toward the alley after dusk. I was seen closing my apothecary shortly after. No one else was nearby. The fire left no ordinary trace. The word spreads quickly, mutating with each repetition.
All I hear all day around people is that there is a witch. That he was cursed. That this is infernal. I retreat to my cottage, but the air feels different now, heavier. As I reach for the latch, something catches my eye.
A faint marking in the wood. First I think I imagine it. It is subtle, almost imperceptible, a distortion in the grain, curling lines woven into the surface as though the door itself had grown differently overnight. I run my fingers over it. The wood is smooth, unbroken. I did not carve this. I am still not sure if it's there or not; it's not like it's carved by a knife, but like the wood molded to this overnight.
A chill moves through me, colder than the morning air. He was here. The certainty does not frighten me as much as it should.
A second knock comes before noon. This one is formal. A boy from the council stands rigid on my step, clutching a foldedparchment as though it might bite him. “Matron Yselle requests your presence at once.”
All I do is nod, before I follow him.
The council hall smells of old timber and damp wool. Villagers crowd the perimeter, faces tight with curiosity and something sharper beneath it. Garruk’s mother stands near the front, eyes red and swollen, her grief twisted into accusation.
Matron Yselle sits at the long table, spine straight, silver-streaked hair pulled tight. Her gaze settles on me with clinical assessment.
“Elowen Virel,” she begins, her voice carrying easily through the hall. “You were among the last to see Garruk Voss alive.”
“Yes,” I answer quietly.
