It wasn’t until he killed Fell—until he saw the wound on her neck heal before his eyes—that he realized how foolish he’d been to ignore his intuition. Still, he’d wanted confirmation. He’d gone back through the books of prison records until he’d found the entry on Nes’s father. He’d been arrested for deserting the King’s Guard four years ago. But he’d deserted the Guard eight years before he’d been caught. And then, in a margin note, Toran had found what he’d been looking for. Six years before deserting the Guard, Nes’s father had put in a request for family leave for the birth of his daughter. Six years prior, not seven. The math didn’t lie. Nes was eighteen years old. The exact age the current Witch should be.
Nes wasn’t his ally or his friend. She wasn’t anything more than the Witch. The magic inside her belonged to the Goddess, and without the Goddess’s rightful hand to guide it, the magic in Nes would do despicable things.
It was his mission to capture her. He’d promised himself, promised the King, he wouldn’t fail another mission long before he’d made any sort of deal with her.
What was it she’d said to him that day on the docks?
Deals can be broken, but promises are meant to be kept.
He’d had to choose a side. In the end, it was really no choice at all.
He looked up from the water to the opposite side of the pool. He knew she’d be there, waiting.
Loriana’s ghost stood in that same white nightgown, the solemn expression on her translucent face marred by the jagged edges of the cavern wall behind her. Palm up, she raised her hand, gesturing to where Nes drowned in shallow water.
He wanted to shout to her. Proclaim that he had done it—done what she’d come to Gadore for, he’d found the Witch. That he had done all of this for her.
Loriana’s eyes were swallowed by the dark of the rock, but her hand remained clear. He understood. This wasn’t over yet.
Toran bent down to the lip of the pool. He plunged a hand into the water and, grabbing Nes by the arm, yanked her up and over the edge. She lay panting on the stone, her blue eyes wide and unseeing, the cut in her stomach still spilling blood.
Suri broke free from Genna’s grasp and crouched beside Nes. She whispered something to her friend, rubbing her hands over Nes’s quaking limbs. She unwound the scarf tying back her hair and passed it to Nes, who pressed the piece of cloth to her wound.
Suri’s actions, he realized, held no slip of shock. She’d already known.
Toran stared down at Nes’s vulnerable form. He felt nothing.Nothing.
He shifted his gaze back to the King. “This, Your Majesty,” he said, gesturing to Nes, “is the true Witch.”
“No.”
The word made him balk. Like he’d been slapped in the face, he drew back.
Suri stood beside Nes, who still lay on the floor, shivering. Suri lifted her chin, her dark brows furrowing in the flickering light, determination set in her jaw.
She pointed to Nes. “She is not the Witch,” Suri said. Her eyes moved to meet Toran’s, her defiance as heavy as a boulder. “I am.”
Impossible.
Toran addressed the King but didn’t take his eyes off Suri. “She’s lying. She’s not the Witch.”
There was only one Witch.
But Suri didn’t back down. She rose up, her lips twitching with a grim smile. She held up her right arm. “If you’re so sure, then how do you explain this?”
Around the room, eyes latched on to Suri’s arm. She held them prisoner there as she pushed up her sleeve to expose the skin underneath—skin that flashed with colors as vibrant as a field of wildflowers. Red, then blue, then green. Violet and pink and yellow. Suri’s arm retainedits shape, but the skin stretched over her bones and muscles changed to every color of the rainbow before settling back into her usual brown.
Toran hadn’t given Suri enough credit. The girl was clever. All of Gadore knew the King blamed the Witch for the odd color of his eldest son’s hair. Kohen had been born with locks of deepest black and had been found seven years later with hair of the purest white. A change that had come from magic. And now Suri was showing the King exactly what he wanted to find—a girl who could change color on a whim.
“I am the Witch,” Suri repeated, lowering her arm and letting her sleeve fall back into place. “I suggest you arrest me now. Wait any longer, and I promise I won’t go quietly.”
“You won’t go at all.”
The voice was a rasp, every vowel full of hastened breath, every consonant buzzing.
Nes was on her knees, one arm wrapped around her middle. Blood stained her fingers like rivers on a map, filling in lines, breaking up the land. Her hair was plastered to her face and her clothes clung to her form. She tugged a foot out from under her and slowly pushed to her feet.
“No one else is going to die for me,” Nes announced. She turned to face Suri. “Especially not my friend.”
