Well, Witchlight is here.

It has been almost one decade after Truthwitch hit stores, and it has been 12.5 years since I started drafting the series that would change my life. Now finale lands on shelves everywhere.

I am more proud of this book than anything I have ever written or perhaps will ever write.

That isn’t to say I’m not proud of all my books or that they didn’t each have their challenges and joys, but nothing—nothing—can possibly compare to the 12.5 years I have spent working on the Witchlands.

What I thought would be a “fun fantasy” that I started drafting in 2013 very quickly ballooned into a four-book series bought by Tor Teen1. Then along came some “series order trouble” (read below for details) that seriously complicated my creative process during Windwitch.

(I’m not kidding: I wrote an entire book, turned it in…and then emailed my editor a week later and said, Never mind! Just kidding! I’m starting over!)

The ripple effects of the series order were just…incredible.

And they continued to plague me with each book I wrote after. Again, more on that below.

Life also got really hard on the personal front. I won’t rehash it all, but 2018 - 2025 (yes, this year too) were brutal for me, and the Witchlands series had to be set aside for books with a lighter mental load.

But, here we are. >800,000 words after I open Truthwitch with the line,

Everything had gone horribly wrong.

we have reached the epic, EPIC conclusion . With seven main points of view (and a few tiny extras sprinkled in), a bajillion plot threads and planted seeds, heaps of earned payoffs, some of which took me six entire books to carefully weave…

Now it all comes to a head. Now is when devoted readers will finally see their theorizing and tabbed books, their rereads and discussions paying off.

I worked my ass off to make sure every core promise I made in this series was answered, and that I gave all of you the high intensity, maximum stakes, maximum emotion you’ve been waiting for.

So thank you to each of you who pre-ordered and submitted your receipts.2 Thank you to everyone who has gotten a ticket or RSVPed to a coming tour stop.

And above all: thank you to every single readers who has continued to support me over the many years it took me to do this series justice.

Witchlight would not exist if not for ALL OF YOU. I would have abandoned the series long ago in despair at how hard it was to connect all the plot points as I’d envisioned, to make all the character arcs collide in the most satisfying way, to fulfill all the little promises I’d made in Truthwitch (many of which only the most careful readers will have caught)…

But I did it. Thanks to all of you.

So I hope you enjoy Witchlight. Or if you’re just only starting Truthwitch now, then welcome to the Witchlands. You’re in for quite a ride.

💚 - Sooz

Buy the book, US!

Buy the book, UK!

Come see me on tour!

What would I have done differently?

Almost an entire year ago (eep), Asteria asked on my AMA:

How have you seen your style and/or approach evolve, especially in regards to the first Witchlands book compared to the last? I recall there a few world aspects you mentioned you would’ve have written differently (something with the distance and time to travel). Say if you began Truthwitch today, what do you think that would look like? (Or we can take it back further and talk about SS&D to avoid any Witchlands spoilers.)

I’ve put off answering this question because I am not someone who naturally looks backward.3 The past is the past; sure, I have regrets, but I’d rather look ahead and keep working.

But to answer this question—and in honor of the Witchlight release that was so many years in the making)—I want to at least try to excavate the creative and publishing past of the Witchlands.

Lesson 1: I Cannot Compartmentalize

Turns out, like the title says, I cannot compartmentalize.

In all truth, I’m not convinced most people can truly compartmentalize. Yes, first responders or ER doctors or soldiers can absolutely zoom in on the moment and get the work done…

But I think it would be a lie to say that external problems don’t creep in somewhere. Or that the intensity of their job doesn’t bleed outward.

However, there’s a real stigma against acknowledging this truth. How dare you let your divorce impact your output! How dare you let the death of your mother interfere with your schedule! How dare you let your chemotherapy get in the way of these deadlines! How dare you let your job stress impact your family!

We’re supposed to be robots that can task switch with zero residue from what came before. It’s laughable, honestly.4

But, like many, I certainly expected that I’d be able to simply “write through the hard personal times.” (See this post for truly horrifying details of only one instance in which I have done this.)

So yeah: I wish I had been better during Windwitch and then Witchshadow (the two worst times for me in terms of personal challenges) at accepting that compartmentalization was impossible—and that I wasn’t a failure because of that fact.

Life was hell; it impacted my writing; and beating myself up over the decreased productivity only made all of that much worse.

It’s just a book, Sooz. Lower the stakes, yeah?

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Lesson 2: I Wish I’d Made Different Choices Behind the Scenes

This “behind the scenes” stuff is harder to get into—if only because it’s an area where hindsight is 20/20. I could never have anticipated the impact of a few sliding-door business decisions while they were happening.

I can only look back and say, Well, crap.

And those moments are:

1. I wish, wish, wish I had never agreed to change the order of the series and move Bloodwitch to #3, while Iseult’s book after.

   1. The ripple effects of this decision (which was handed to me as a directive on high due to a sales situation) continued to haunt me into Witchlight.

   2. For one, I didn’t plan the series reveals that way! And I had already written and published Truthwitch when this news came to me, so I couldn’t go back and undo all my foreshadowing…

   3. For two, because of these locked-in story elements, Aeduan’s personal reveals and arcs had to be completely re-reckoned. They just weren’t meant to happen before Iseult’s…so now I had to almost split his story…while also splitting hers…

   4. It was a mess.

2. I wish I had pushed harder on making Witchshadow two books.

   1. In actuality, this would not have been an issue in the first place if I’d had my original series arrangement (Truthwitch, Windwitch, Threadwitch, Bloodwitch).

   2. But because of the switched arrangement, I had to add plot to keep things moving. Which meant by the time we got to Iseult’s book, she had…well, too much to deal with.

   3. The story had ballooned thanks to, again, ripple effects. I won’t rehash why making this one book was so tough…but I really wish I’d pushed harder on this. (Read the link above if you want more insights.)

3. I also wish I had not written Sightwitch as such an integral part of the main series—or that I had made clear to my publisher that Sightwitch was book 3 and not just a separate prequel.

   1. The marketing around that book really hurt its performance out of the gate, and it never did sell to the UK—a fact UK readers bemoan to me constantly.

   2. Because I couldn’t assume readers had read Sightwitch, I had to sneak lots of reveals and information into the other characters’ stories. Reveals that I didn’t actually want my characters to know yet, but that I needed readers to be aware of…

      1. I’m looking at you, Aeduan’s mom.

   3. Side note, poor Sightwitch also was just cursed in general.The printing got delayed last minute due to a production issue, so the release date had to be bumped a month. Then the books didn’t reach B&N stores while I was on tour because it simply never left B&N warehouses!5

      1. This isn’t something in my control, so I have no regrets here. I just look back and think, Awwww, poor Sightwitch. She never had a chance!

4. I also wish….kind of, sort of (but also not) that I hadn’t published 4 books between Witchshadow and Witchlight.

   1. I mean, on the one hand, TRAUMA! (See the above link for details.) I needed to write something “easier,” and I’m glad The Luminaries had a chance to release before the YA market completely vanished.

   2. On the other hand, lost momentum! The market for epic fantasy has dramatically changed since 2016. Many of my readers have moved on. And while I’ve done everything humanly possible to re-engage the fandom…

      1. It hurts to get on Tumblr and see just how active and devoted that fandom used to be.

      2. It also hurts to feel like I let everyone down by taking so long. 😞

      3. Not to mention, it has tangibly hurt the long-term success of the series by losing momentum and shedding readers.

Lesson 3: Story Logistics and Scale

I tend to always imagine new story ideas on the scale of a series (instead of, say, a standalone). I can’t help it. The satisfaction of a payoff that takes multiple books to earn—nothing delights me more, both as a reader and as a writer.

But wow. The Witchlands is big.

It has a big map with so many places all so far apart. (So far. 🥲 Even with magic, travel times became a real issue when I was trying to keep intensity high.)

It has a big cast with so many key characters whose arcs all contribute to the overall story in dramatic ways.

And it has a big, big plot with a million moving parts that all had to be planted and then developed and then culminated over many books and POVs.

People frequently tell me that reading the Witchlands feels like playing an RPG. And hey—as a gamer, that is the best compliment EVER. Truly, ever. But…

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Games have entire teams to develop and write for them. All I had was this one little brain, and wow.6

You all might have noticed I’ve just sold a bunch of standalones. And yeah: there’s a reason for that.

1. I want to train my brain to skew “smaller.”

2. I want a break from all the weight that a series carries, in terms of story that fills my brain and in terms of the pressure of contracted books.

3. I need a breather before I tackle anything as massive again—if I ever do.

But all that said, do I actually regret making the Witchlands so big?

Hell no. Hell no. I bit off more than I could chew as a still-young writer back in 2013. But that also forced me to learn “on the job” because each book demanded more from me, creatively and craft-wise.

And now, here I am: really, really damned proud of what I have pulled off in the Witchlands.

I just don’t have any plans to do the same again any time soon. 😉7

In conclusion…

There’s not actually anything I’d do differently. Sure, I can point to moments or choices and say, Ouch. Should have gone a different way…

But like I said before: I don’t tend to look back and stew in any kind of regret. The choices were made. The consequences were dealt with (or are still being dealt with). And here I am.

All I can do is keep working, keep engaging with readers, and keep trying to publish the best goddamned books I can produce.

Oh, and I can feel grateful. That’s an important thing to do too. And on this day of Witchlight’s release—finally—I’m definitely feeling a heckuva a lot of gratitude.

For my readers. For my editor(s) and publishing team. For my agent and her team. For my friends and support network…

All of it. Thank you for sticking with me for so long.

Enjoy.

Which means only ONE WEEK to make sure you’ve pre-ordered (get signed, personalized copies here!), make sure you’ve voted on the short story, and catch up on any re-reads or recaps!

Of course, some of you have already gotten your copies in the mail or on shelves early (😱). Which means, WOW. It really is finally time for the Witchlands conclusion.1

Now, there are a lot of updates in this newsletter, so here’s a guide to help you if you want to skip ahead. 😉

1. Pre-Order Updates

2. Tour Dates & Tickets

3. Join the Discord!

4. EARLY ACCESS REUNION!

5. Instagram Giveaway

1. Pre-Order Updates

In case you haven’t seen on the Discord (link below) or on Instagram, we were up to 1298 pre-orders as of last Thursday!

We only need 202 more to hit the 1500 tier 3 marker, which includes custom art by longtime Witchlands reader (and creator) C.J. Merwild!

So get your last pre-orders in and vote, vote, vote in the short story polls!

Pre-order Witchlight (US)

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Vote in the pre-order campaign!

2. Witchlight Tour & Events

Don’t forget the Witchlight Tour! Make sure you’ve gotten your tickets for that as well. 🥳

I WILL SEE YOU ALL SOON!

• Schuler Books

  • Grand Rapids, MI

  • Tuesday, November 4, 2025 6:30 PM

• Roselynn Hill Winery (with A Novel Neighbor)

  • Louisville, KY

  • Wednesday, November 5, 2025 6:30 PM

• Neshaminy Mall Barnes & Noble

  • Bensalem, PA

  • Thursday, November 6, 2025 6:00 PM

• Books of Wonder

  • New York, NY

  • Friday, November 7, 2025 6:00 PM

  • In conversation with Lyssia Mia Smith and moderated by Emily Taylor!

• Texas Book Festival

  • Sunday, November 9, 2025 1:00 PM

  • Featured Author at the Texas Book Festival

3. DenNerds Discord

If you haven’t already joined, then here’s just a reminder that you’re welcome in our DenNerds community on Discord. We’re a pretty active community, and it’s certainly the fastest and easiest way to communicate with yours truly. 😉

So hop on over, engage as much or as little as you want, and feel the EXCITEMENT sparkling everywhere over Witchlight on its way…

4. Early Access Wraps Up!

We’re on the last installment in our Early Access!!!! (It was too long to fit into this email, so I again made a separate page for it.)

Given that there’s only one week left, you don’t have to wait long for the remaining two thirds of the book…although, I’m warning you now: I end on a REAL “gotcha” moment with Early Access.

One that I have been building toward for books—and one many of you readers have been waiting for. A CERTAIN REUNION, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.

Ahem.

So I hope you enjoy, and I hope even more that you enjoy the full book once it’s in your hands next Tuesday. 🎉

Read the final chapters!

Read all of Early Access

5. Giveaway on Instagram

To get ready for the release in a week, I’m hosting a giveaway on Instagram for YOU AND A FRIEND!

Just go leave a comment, tagging a friend, and you could win a signed, personalized copy of Witchlight while they win Truthwitch!

Enter the giveaway!

Alright, that’s all I’ve got for today. STAY TUNED FOR NEXT WEEK! I truly could not be more hyped for this release. It’s just so rewarding to see all the fans coming together again—or to see new people discovering the Witchlands just in time for the finale…

SEE YOU AGAIN IN YOUR INBOXES SOON!

😭 - Sooz

All Early Access Chapters

Chapter 26

The next day, Safi wasn’t doing well.

On the bright side, she hadn’t suffered a single headache since leaving the hunting lodge. Her brain felt keen, her body a thousand pounds lighter. And only in the absence of that pressure and that pain could she fully grasp how much agony she’d been living under.

On the shitty, not-so-bright side, Safi’s arm felt like a volcano bleeding lava, and it was basically the only thing she could think about. The sharpest heat radiated from the hole in her arm, where the iron shot had pierced skin. But the pain wasn’t contained there; she hurt all the way from her left ear down to her left fingernails. And while she was pretty sure she’d stopped bleeding now, she was also pretty sure she might die.

Because what she hadn’t told Iseult—or Aeduan either—was that it wasn’t a normal iron shot that had pierced her. It had been a Firewitched pistol, and the shot itself had been Firewitched too. As in, bewitched with a magic that would create flames inside her body, slowly burning her from the inside out.

She’d learned of such weapons as a child. Habim, after all, was a Firewitch and such weapons were a favored tool of the Marstoki Empire. Safi had also seen plenty of these Firewitched weapons up close during her time in the Marstoki Empire as Empress Vaness’s personal Truthwitch.

In other words: she knew when she was screwed.

Each jolt of Dandelion on uneven terrain made Safi’s brain melt. Each gust of wind across the plains made her skin burn. She was boiling inside her furs, but she knew the fever was a lie. If she took off her clothes to relieve the heat, she would freeze . . . and she wouldn’t even feel it happening.

She did lower her scarf out of desperation, savoring each icy gust of Arithuanian winds. Pretending that those winds were cooling her, healing her, helping her.

At lunch, she was half tempted to take the Painstone Iseult offered again . . . but if things were this bad now, then she had to assume they were only going to get worse. So Safi gritted her teeth, forced out a smile—false, false, false—and refused the magical relief that was offered to her.

By midafternoon, she was starting to worry that losing consciousness might actually be the greater risk. In fact, she was quite certain the only reason she hadn’t yet collapsed was because the Cahr Awen souls inside her wouldn’t allow it. They were so close to the Air Well; they would not let her turn back. It literally felt like they solidified her muscles, her spine and limbs. You will stay upright and you will keep riding. That pain is unimportant. All that matters is the Well.

Yes, Safi agreed—although only because she had to agree with them. And to keep herself distracted and awake, she made herself turn all of her attention onto Aeduan. The monk rode diagonally behind her, his posture unrelenting on Surefoot’s back. His white cloak a billowing, intimidating thing around him and his face hidden inside his hood.

Really, Safi had no idea what Iseult saw in him. He was bad at cards, worse at smiling, and worst of all at conversation. Admittedly, he’d stayed true to his word last night and said not a thrice-damned thing about Safi’s fever or her weakness or all the agony he must be smelling on her blood. But still, he was so boring. The only way to get any glimmer of character out of him was to pester him until he cracked.

“You tried to kill us,” Safi said, nudging Dandelion up to Surefoot’s side. “Several times, in fact.” Each word that came out was stronger than the last. “I think you owe us an apology. Me and Iseult, I mean. I’m sure the horses are fine.”

“No.” This was all Aeduan said.

“Come on now, Knifey—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“—it isn’t hard to admit wrongdoing. They even say it’s good for you. Healing for the soul, apparently.” Safi pressed her uninjured hand to her chest. Her clothes were slick with sweat, but at least she was having fun. “I don’t know how true that is since I myself have never done anything wrong, but I do trust advice shared by the general they.”

“No.” This time, Aeduan rolled his wrists—and Safi couldn’t help but smile.

“You tried to kill us.”

“I tried to capture you.”

“Which almost resulted in our deaths, making it the same in the end.”

Aeduan’s fingers tightened on Surefoot’s reins. “It is not my fault you were inept.”

“Inept?” Safi gasped. “You do recall that Iseult and I are the Cahr Awen, so by default, we are the opposite of inept. We are . . . ept.”

“I don’t include Iseult in my assessment.”

Safi scoffed. It came out weaker than she wanted, and her vision smeared with the effort. Not good. “If you won’t apologize,” she made herself continue, “then how about a thank-you? I am, after all, the one who introduced you to Iseult, and you two seem to like each other very much.”

Now Aeduan’s eyes flashed red. An excellent development. “No.”

“Knifey, you have to work with me on this. We’re going to be together a long time, I think. Assuming you and Iseult really are—”

“Leave him alone,” Iseult barked from Cloud’s back. She yanked her scarf down to give Safi the full severity of her death glare.

And Safi hoisted her eyebrows innocently. “Well, why don’t you thank me then, Iz? Someone here owes me some gratitude. At the very least, these are all my horses from my imperial stables.”

“I take it you’re feeling better?”

“Much.” Lie, Safi’s magic scraped—and as if in agreement, the flames in her arm fanned hotter. She had to fight to keep her face from changing. She prayed her Threads wouldn’t give her away.

A frown tightened on Iseult’s forehead.

“I am ravenous, though,” Safi continued. Lie, lie, lie. “When do you think we’ll stop to make camp?” She batted her lashes. Innocent. Pure. She was not dying by degrees, but rather a hungry Truthwitch who liked the beating wind against her face.

Iseult glanced at Aeduan, and he—to his credit—stared straight back with all the enthusiasm of a dead fish slowly rotting on the Veñaza City harbor. Well done, Knifey, Safi thought at him. Iseult might not trust Safi’s reactions, but she definitely trusted Aeduan’s.

And while part of Safi felt dishonest, manipulative, and generally terrible for lying to her Threadsister, most of her was simply glad that Aeduan was willing to ally with her in this. They had to reach the Well.

“We should travel as far as we can before nightfall,” Iseult answered eventually, gesturing to the horizon. “That storm is getting closer, and I’d like to reach the forests east of Poznin before it breaks. Can you ride any faster, Safi? The hills ahead are less overgrown. We could pick up the pace.”

No! Safi wanted to scream. My gods, no! But she couldn’t scream that, couldn’t scream anything at all. They had to keep moving forward; she couldn’t—wouldn’t—be the reason they slowed enough for more raiders to ambush them.

“Yes,” she gritted out. “Let’s ride.” She waited until Iseult had turned her attention to Cloud before looking again at Aeduan. He drew back his hood, just enough that Safi could more easily see his face in the grayness of the day.

“Well?” she said with more edge than he deserved. “Are you going to help?”

He blinked—a movement Safi was starting to recognize as an acknowledgment. But rather than do as Safi expected, with his eyes glowing and his magic taking hold of her, he simply leaned toward her, hand extended.

A small chunk of rose quartz glittered on his palm. A Painstone. He must have snuck it from the healer kit when Iseult wasn’t looking. “Use it,” he commanded softly. “And I will save the other measures for later.”

Safi swallowed. Somehow Aeduan’s arm was completely still beside her, even though Surefoot ambled beneath him.

The Painstone flashed and shone.

Safi yanked it to her and shoved it down the front of her shirt. The quartz touched her damp skin. Relief soared through her. Up her chest, into her shoulder, and then down, down into the flames. The magic wouldn’t heal the injury, but it would deplete the fires of air so they couldn’t blaze quite so brightly.

“Go,” Aeduan now ordered. “Before Iseult notices us.”

Safi nodded. She didn’t say thank you, she didn’t say anything. Her voice was caught somewhere in her abdomen, the relief from pain so great she thought she might start crying. She dug her heels into Dandelion and let her gelding shoot her forward. Jolt, jolt, jolt.

Behind her, the Bloodwitch followed, Iseult trailing last.

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Iseult knew Safi was lying. She wasn’t a fool; she could see Safi’s Threads, for one, and for two, she knew Safi’s false bravado as intimately as she knew her own. Where Iseult would become more stoic, more centered to push through pain . . .

Safi just got louder.

Iseult had seen Aeduan give Safi the Painstone, just as she’d seen when he took it from the healer kit. Why Safi would accept it from him and not Iseult, Iseult decided not to ask. For now, she was simply grateful that Aeduan apparently had greater powers of persuasion than she, since there were two potential paths Iseult saw before them: they could continue going slower, stopping often to accommodate Safi’s pain. Then the storm would almost certainly crack down right overtop their heads. Or else the raiders that must be hunting would catch up.

Or their trio could push through Safi’s pain and try to reach the safety of a distant forest before the storm unloaded and raiders arrived.

Option two was clearly better, and now that Safi’s Threads had changed—gone were the skittering, frantic lightning bolts of pain, replaced by something muted and calm—Iseult felt as if they could finally push hard.

So she rode them all as fast as the terrain would allow. Each league their horses carried them, the closer they got to the storm clouds. The winds bared their fangs. The temperature plummeted. When Iseult finally spotted a darkening line on the horizon—a shadow to disrupt the endless grass and snow—she cried out with a sound of uncharacteristic exuberance. Because there. There. They would make it, and they could finally pause their relentless, ruthless ride. Safi could rest properly. The terrain would protect them from storm and raiders alike.

Cloud’s hooves churned over the grassy earth. A thunderous beat. Faster, faster. The horse saw what was ahead; she understood that in the forest she too would find relief and rest and safety.

But the wind fought against Iseult and Cloud. It brought tears to Iseult’s eyes. It threatened to rip her scarf from her face. She glanced back to check that Aeduan and Safi were coming. That they too rejoiced in the forest ahead—

A funnel of wind tackled her, so hard it almost knocked her from Cloud’s back. The horse veered like a drunkard.

And that was when Iseult finally sensed it: Threads hurtling toward her, not from the Windswept Plains, but from the sky. She looked up, time sagging. Her vision smearing. Again? They would be ambushed again?

“Windwitches!” Aeduan roared, and yes. He was right. Two shadows streaked this way.

Iseult had been so focused on avoiding raiders in the grass like yesterday, she had failed to keep vigil on the sky.

For half a moment, Iseult gazed at the forest—so near, yet still impossibly far. If she pushed their horses to the brink, could they reach those trees ahead?

Logic quickly thrust in: You cannot outrun a Windwitch.

“Control their bloods if you can,” she commanded Aeduan, yanking Cloud to an unkind stop. Then Iseult was on the ground, frozen grass snapping beneath her.

Aeduan dismounted too. Safi did not. Her Threads were past suffusion by pain and verged on unconsciousness. It was a wonder she was still on Dandelion’s back.

Iseult reached with her magic, latching her focus on to the Windwitches. Four sets of Threads, each vibrantly yellow from their magic. She spread her fingers, teeth grinding against the heat she knew would come when she grabbed their lives, their emotions, their powers . . .

It had been a month since she’d last done this; she had sworn never to do it again. But sometimes Threads made decisions the mind could not. Sever, sever.

Her fingers twined into Threads. One Windwitch, two. Both were fully visible now, and their arms high. Their Threads bright with an imminent attack.

Iseult hauled the Threads to her mouth and chomped down.

There was the heat. There was the skittering from the wild electricity of their power. And oh Moon Mother, there were the Severed Threads of the slow cleaving. These people too were dying. Fire cut into Iseult’s teeth, into her gums. Through her eyeballs and down to her toes. These Windwitches were so close to cleaving on their own, she barely had to bite to finish the job.

Except now, as Iseult tried to hold on to them—as she tried to claim some of their witcheries as her own so she could fight any other forces that might be coming this way—she found she couldn’t. The Threads wouldn’t obey her. They wouldn’t stay woven around her fingers. Instead they were shriveling, burning like fuses downward.

And these two fully cleaving Windwitches were about to crash into Iseult, Aeduan, and Safi. “RIDE!” Iseult roared at Safi as she slapped Dandelion’s hindquarters.

The horse bolted—and Cloud too, just behind. Only Surefoot stayed back, seemingly unafraid of the hot, unnatural winds tornadoing this way.

Aeduan stood beside Iseult, his eyes aflame as if he searched for their blood scents. The winds had ripped back his hood, and now shadows slid across his face from the snow and debris carried on unnatural winds.

But he had no more success than Iseult did. The Windwitches arrived: two women dressed in furs not so different from Iseult’s own.

Nomatsis, she realized as she watched them crash to the earth . . . then writhe back to their feet. Somehow, this was the worst thing to have happened so far. To be faced with two women of her heritage. Two women who prayed to the same Moon Mother.

Iseult couldn’t look at them. She lowered her head, pressed herself into their winds, and unsheathed her mismatched moon scythes. She charged the two Cleaved as they rushed her. Pustules erupted on their faces, spewing tar into their winds. Their lips curled back like they were feral animals, desperate to feed. And that was what they were, weren’t they? They were hungry for pure magic, good magic.

Just as their goddess was.

Iseult reached the taller of the two Nomatsis and swung at the woman’s throat. The furs split apart, then the throat split apart too. But Iseult didn’t get all the way through to the spine before the second Windwitch was upon her.

Iseult toppled to the earth. So fast, she didn’t have time to withdraw her claw scythe from the first Windwitch’s neck. Snarls filled Iseult’s ears. Oil and heat razed her skin. She grappled and fought, both with her body and with her magic. Maybe she could control the Threads. Maybe she could still run.

The woman went completely stiff atop Iseult. It took her several booming heartbeats to notice—to see that the woman was choking and her eyes were losing clarity.

The Windwitch died like that, on top of Iseult. Her winds sliced off, and for half a lung-crushed breath, there was no sound but the wavering grass to fill Iseult’s ears.

Then Aeduan was there and dragging away the woman his magic had ended. “We can’t stay,” he said. His eyes blazed red as a funeral pyre. “More witches are coming. Raiders too.”

Iseult flung out her magic, grasping across the earth and hills and sky. He was right: at least a hundred people marched this way, clearing paths through the grass and snow.

Panic clogged her throat. She felt as she had when the Marstoks had taken Safi away in Lejna. When Emperor Henrick had carved away Safi’s magic to make her a Hell-Bard. When Corlant had looked at Iseult beside the Solfatarra and crooned My daughter.

She was helpless. Completely helpless, no matter how wicked she let herself be. The Threads would not be twisted. She could cleave, but she could not control. She could kill, but she could not dominate.

“I c-cannot control them,” she said as Aeduan helped her stand.

“Then let’s ride.” He tried to pull Iseult toward Surefoot, but she resisted.

“Safi,” she told him. “Go after Safi and keep her safe. I will buy us time.”

His head reared back, eyes widening. The blood within them draining in a single heartbeat. “No.” He reached for Iseult with more urgency. “There is no reason for that. Come, and we can both get away.”

“No, listen to me.” She clutched his bicep and pressed her face close to his. His eyes were such pure, icy blue, she’d once thought them the color of Threads of understanding.

She needed him to be understanding right now.

“I can’t c-control their Threads, Aeduan. I can’t force them to fight for us. All I can do is cleave as many as possible, then h-hope they attack each other.”

“No.” He fumbled for her face. His fingers were so cold. “I won’t leave you, Iseult.”

“And I won’t give you a choice.” Winds thrashed harder; Iseult felt the charge of untamed magic on the way. She touched her forehead to his. “Go, Monk Aeduan. I command you: find the light-bringer and keep her safe until I can come after you.”

Aeduan didn’t move. The war brewing inside him was visible in the quaver of his pupils. In the hardening of his touch against her cheeks. He wanted to disobey Iseult. He wanted to fight with all he had inside him to keep her safe.

But in the end, he had taken his vow. He had named the dark-giver his master. He knew he had to let Iseult claim his Aether and guide his blade.

She laid her hands over his, feeling the frozen skin. The muscles below. His hands had held her in so many ways. As enemies, as allies, as friends.

“I love you,” she said. “Te varuje.” She kissed him. He stiffened for half a moment against her . . . then he leaned into her lips. One hand clutched the back of her head, fingers curling in her scarf. He held her tighter, tighter against him. A panicked kiss with clashing teeth and no time—no time.

Iseult broke away first. “I love you,” she told him again.

“I will find you” was all he replied.

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Chapter 27

When Safi had been young, she’d gone swimming in a lake near the Hasstrel estate. The night had been hot, and there’d been guests at the estate she hadn’t wanted to deal with. So after sneaking out of the family castle, she’d hurried through the nearby evergreens and embraced the shadows.

Once at the lake, its surface a perfect mimicry of the starry sky, she’d stripped off her clothes and dived in. Down she’d swum. Down, down, savoring the silence. Relishing the cool. The pressure increased against her skull. Her eyeballs were compressing and her lungs felt like bursting.

It was a good feeling. A living feeling after too much time indoors hiding her magic.

Until something brushed against Safi’s leg and terror lashed through her. Then she writhed and kicked. She’d still been young enough to believe in the tales of mountain bats, and everyone knew they sometimes liked to swimwhen there were children nearby.

But Safi was too deep for the stars’ light to reach her. She saw nothing.

So she tried to surface, tried to swing her arms and haul herself upward . . . but she only made it a few strokes before she realized she had no idea which way was up. She’d swum so deep and lost so much air from her lungs, she wasn’t floating. For all she knew, she might be swimming toward the night or she might be swimming deeper.

Panic really set in then. It was as if the Void itself had swallowed her, and now she was going to die. Who would find her body? Would it be eaten to bits by a mountain bat? Would anyone even notice she was gone?

Her toes hit something hard. She stretched longer, and yes. That was substrate. Rocky, glorious substrate.

Without another thought—there was no time—Safi kicked hard at the lakebed and swam. No mountain bats ate her, and soon, the shadows shifted as bright mountain stars cut through the water.

When she surfaced, her lungs were a conflagration. She gulped. Her vision spun. There was a very real danger she might pass out, so she made herself flip upward and lie on her back. Breathe. Breathe. Float. Float.

Eventually, Safi made it back to shore. Eventually, shivering and broken, she hauled herself onto the rocky edge and lay there until the stars stopped shaking and her lungs stopped aching. She hadn’t needed Habim or Uncle to inform her how stupid she’d just been. For some reason, Lady Fate had opted to spare her that night, and Safi never—not ever—swam alone or swam that deep again.

Yet now, here she was, trapped in the same shadowy unknown, and with no substrate to guide. True, true, true.She was in a forest with soft earth and barren winter beech trees. There was almost no snow here and even less undergrowth, and Dandelion listed and zagged so much in his panic, Safi had no idea which way would get them out of here.

Worse, her arm was on fire again. The Painstone’s numbing powers were finished, and the blaze was so much hotter than before—no longer confined to just her left side but sparking into her skull, into her chest and abdomen.

Safi squinted upward, trying to ignore how it made bile rise in her esophagus, but there was too much winter gray for the sun to pierce through. She couldn’t gauge which way was north. There could be no desperate final kicks to guide her home.

You can’t pass out, the Cahr Awen clamored. You’re so close to the Well. Just a little bit farther. But even those souls were not as powerful as the Firewitchery that had claimed Safi.

With a groan, she hauled herself off the saddle. Her left arm jostled. Pain stabbed, dazzling and fresh. She had to screw her eyes shut and wait for the wave to pass.

When she lifted her lids again, Dandelion was staring at her expectantly. His breaths whitened the air; he looked as lost as Safi felt. And Cloud—she was no better. She had moved closer to Dandelion, her ears swiveled forward as if she awaited her next command.

No, Safi thought as Dandelion’s ears also swiveled. They hear something. Iseult and Aeduan—it had to be Iseult and Aeduan. They had followed her tracks and were here to rescue her.

Except when no sounds actually reached Safi’s ears, she realized that whomever approached was moving with such quiet care, they could not possibly be an ally.

Cloud whinnied, and Dandelion’s tail flipped in a way that said, I don’t feel safe here.

“Me neither,” Safi croaked, and for several moments, she felt stronger. Clearer. She unsheathed her blade. It sang with such truth that for several seconds, it was the only sound she heard. An empowering echo that shivered inside her ear canals.

Another whinny, this time from Dandelion, and when Safi spun toward him, she spotted four figures rushing her way. They were dressed in gray, faces hidden behind scarves like her own, and they moved with the concerted strength of trained military. Gone was any attempt at quiet. Now they were coming for her.

Shit. She could not fight four soldiers. Even on a good day, those would not be odds for a betting woman like herself. And on a bad day? Hilarious to contemplate.

Safi dropped her blade and lifted her good hand. “I surrender!” she shouted. “I surrender. Take me to the Raider King.”

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Aeduan’s worst fears had come to pass. He’d failed again, and now the consequences were so much worse.

He should have sensed the witches approaching. He should have killed that Windwitch before it could attack Iseult. He should have moved faster, thought faster, reacted better. And he should not have been born the son of the Raider King. It was that, above all else, that haunted him. Where had his father gone so wrong? Why had he, Aeduan, served his father for as long as he had without seeing it?

One need not be evil to become it.

Aeduan thrust all his power into Surefoot, pushing the mountain horse to speeds she could never sustain without his help. It was not a magic he used often, if he could help it. For one, animals’ blood was a challenge to control. The freedom in their bloods ran wild; it took twice the effort to manipulate an animal as a human.

For two . . .

Well, that same freedom sparkling and alive only ever served to remind Aeduan that what he did was wrong. Demon. Monster.

He thought of Boots.

He thought of crocodiles.

Then he squeezed the reins more tightly on Surefoot’s blood and told her where to go. She trusted Aeduan; she didn’t resist his magic and she didn’t resist the speed he pulsed into her muscles.

In some ways, it was good that he was on her back. It meant he had to focus so completely on propelling Surefoot faster that he couldn’t look back or second-guess Iseult’s command.

No one followed him toward the forest.

He hadn’t thought they would. After all, Aeduan’s father wanted the Cahr Awen. His son was merely a disappointment who now stood in the way.

There was a part of him that wondered if he should try to return to his father again, claim he had been serving the cause this entire time. Then he could do the one thing Iseult so badly wanted to protect him from: he could kill his father.

Except going to Ragnor was not the command Iseult had given Aeduan, and Safi would die from her wound if Aeduan didn’t find her. His jaw ached. His knuckles too. He gripped Surefoot’s reins as if they were driftwood in a storm. Go after the light-bringer and keep her safe. That was all he had to do. He did not have to plan ahead. He didn’t have to debate whether he should be here or he should have followed Iseult instead.

I love you. Te varuje.

Why hadn’t he said the words in return? Why was he obeying her instead of chasing after? Coin and the cause, coin and the cause. She’d been right: he had no idea how to live without someone else to command him.

The forest ahead was a black haze across pale grass. Never had he seen trees look less welcoming. The storm that hung above siphoned all light. All life.

Distantly, he wondered why this storm never broke.

At last, he and Surefoot reached the trees. The ground softened and flattened into a forested floodplain. The winds stopped their constant howl, and Aeduan was able to ease his control over Surefoot’s blood.

She slowed. Then stopped entirely.

Aeduan slung off her back, worried she might collapse. That he’d pushed her too hard, and it would be one more creature he had failed to save. But when he studied Surefoot’s face, he found her unharmed. Her breaths were overloud in the sudden silence of this forest, her eyes were wide and terrified . . . but she was all right.

She was all right.

Aeduan lifted his nose, forcing his magic to rise again. He wanted to reach for Iseult’s silver taler first—then he would reach for Safi’s blood. But that was when the six old wounds decided to awaken. Spasms of torture across his chest. He cried out. He slumped over, eyesight crossing and ears ringing. And the fire—the flames. They started in the wounds but didn’t stay there. They lanced outward like wildfires spread by wind.

He imagined he saw arrows with fletching poking from his ribs. He tried to grab one. To yank it out. But of course, there was nothing there.

Surefoot’s face butted into Aeduan’s. She snuffed; her hot breaths steamed. Slowly, the ringing receded. The pain and cold too.

He rasped in air. Again, again, feeling how his heartbeat shuddered through him. Into his lungs pierced by arrows, down toward his abdomen. What was this weakness? This curse? Safi had said it wasn’t cleaving, but it waswrong. Was it some lingering effect from the old one, Nadje? Or some new ailment he would never escape?

You’re bound to the Void, a cursed beast with ’Matsi poison running in your veins.

Aeduan grappled once more for his magic.

This time it obeyed. Weakly, sullenly, but there for the commanding—and Aeduan’s command was to search for the silver taler. He reached until he felt the faintest stirrings of his own blood smeared on silver.

Iseult had moved. In fact, she was aimed for a different part of the forest at this precise moment. That was all Aeduan could sense—not if Iseult was alive, safe, running, or fighting. But it gave him energy and hope. She was near; he would find her after he found the Truthwitch. Then they would all leave this awful forest together.

For Aeduan understood now why this place might have been left unguarded by his father. There was something else at work here. A different danger. An uncanny force he didn’t want to reckon with.

Surefoot whinnied quietly, as if to say Hello? Human? What are you doing? He stroked her neck. Then forced himself to straighten and turn away from the silver taler, away from the dark-giver . . . and toward the light-bringer.

The Truthwitch could not have ridden far in her current state. She had a vibrant blood, made all the more unmissable by her wound and blooming fever. Yet when Aeduan sent his magic stretching out again, he sensed nothing. Yes, Safi had left traces of her blood. Remnants floating like moths. But the physicality of her was nowhere nearby.

Aeduan swallowed and let his hand fall from Surefoot’s warmth. He let his magic fall too. It shrank inward, tail between its legs. I am too tired for this. Give me rest and peace!

He couldn’t do that. He had sensed Safi’s scent to the east, so east he aimed, guiding Surefoot with him. Once at the spot where he’d sensed Safi’s blood, he hauled out his magic anew. Reach, stretch, find. There. He let his magic hide again; he resumed his tired trek with Surefoot.

Twice he wondered if it would help him to dig out the Truth-lens. Maybe it would sense its creator; maybe its magic was still somehow threaded to Safi.

But Aeduan resisted. He didn’t like the way that witchery felt. He didn’t want to have to stare directly in the face of truth.

So on and on he and Surefoot traveled, and bit by bit, they made progress. The undergrowth vanished in some places to reveal hoofprints that must have come from Dandelion or Cloud. Or he would snag a taste of the Truthwitch’s blood scent and know she’d gone this way.

He lost sense of daylight. The forest and its ever-present storm felt beyond the passage of time. Here, it was gray whether night had fallen or not. Here, the wind did not reach and the world did not change. Only the river, expanding and growing and sinking into the porous, hungry earth had any power.

It made Aeduan think of his time trapped and drowning inside his own body. When Nadje had ruled him and he’d felt no hope. Could that Exalted One be the source of this bloodied weeping from his chest?

A sound reached his ears: horses huffing, stamping. A clink like tack. Then a soft whinny to curve and slide around beech and pine trunks.

The Truthwitch.

Aeduan shoved ahead, leaving Surefoot behind as he kicked into a run. He grabbed hold of his magic, yanking it out with almost painful cruelty. There are the mountain ranges and cliffsides, there are the meadows filled with dandelions and the truth hidden beneath snow. The blood scent was weak, but then Aeduan was weak too.

He spotted shapes in the forest ahead. Two horses. One a splash of brown, the other a smear of gray. They both nickered, and one reared slightly as Aeduan stomped through the undergrowth toward them. He was close enough now to see their eyes widening and ears perking. He was close enough to know they were afraid of his rapid, wild approach . . .

And then he was close enough to see the clearing held only Cloud and Dandelion. There were markings and boot prints in the snow, but no Safiya.

Aeduan cast his magic wider. He grasped and felt . . . but Safi was gone.

The gelding reared as Aeduan came to halt before him. His eyes rolled, and Aeduan lifted his hands. “Whoa, Dandelion. Whoa.” His voice was much too loud. The horses were much too loud. This was not a place for hope or life. Here, everything drowned.

Surefoot trudged into the clearing. She needed rest. So did Cloud and Dandelion. Aeduan would have to continue alone. His worst fears might have come to pass—and Lady Fate’s knife might have turned against him—but he couldn’t abandon the cause yet. The light-bringer needed him. The dark-giver needed him.

Hope dies last, he thought, knowing instantly that it was not his own thought, but a ghostly memory from Nadje. Hope dies last.

Aeduan set off again.

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Chapter 28

After binding Safi’s hands, Safi’s captors hauled her onto a horse—one of their own, since they left Dandelion and Cloud behind.

For some reason, this made Safi want to weep. She’d thought she could feel nothing but magma right now, yet an oceanic hole split her chest. She had to fight the tears, had to pump false authority into her voice: “How far are we traveling?” She spoke in Marstoki, of course, for these raiders spoke Marstoki—and she had to assume that meant they were Baedyeds.

The woman riding with Safi blatantly ignored the question.

“I only ask,” Safi continued, “because I’m in a lot of pain. I got shot in the arm—by a Marstoki one-shot pistol, actually. And you know how much damage those can do. This one was even Firewitched, so not only have I lost a lot of blood, I seem to be cursed as well.” She paused here, having to suck in a breath. “It’s quite unpleasant.”

False, her magic laughed. It is so much more than unpleasant.

“There should be a healing kit in my gelding’s saddlebag,” Safi added. “As well as some Painstones. If we could just go back to get him—”

“Shut up,” barked the Baedyed riding at the fore. He glared, his eyes dark holes surrounded by pale scarves. First he looked at Safi. Then at the woman riding with her. “If she speaks again, gag her.”

Safi grimaced. A gag would not do right now. She was already on the verge of vomiting; a gag would make that worse. So she bit her tongue and tried very hard to focus on what little horizon she could see through the forest. The trees were beeches, the underbrush mostly moss over peat. But the ground, she couldn’t help but notice, was softening, eating up each hoof fall.

They must be moving west toward the river, toward Poznin.

And therefore toward the Raider King.

Gods below, everything had gone to goat tits, hadn’t it? Clearly the intel on the Raider King’s forces had been wrong. Or else, her brain prodded with surprising clarity, the Raider King was simply being smart.

An old lesson from Habim percolated to Safi’s mental surface: If the enemy is too small to target, then restrict their range of movement. Make them come to you. This was a battlefield tactic for dealing with stealth units that larger battalions struggled to fight—and it would seem it was precisely what Ragnor the Raider King had done to Safi, Iseult, and Aeduan. He had attacked them from one direction, which had sent them running into a trap.

Safi frowned, her gaze fastening on the Baedyed riding ahead. Then on the raider walking across the earth in front of him.

When Habim had taught her and Iseult about battlefield tactics, he’d used real-world examples from the battles he had led. Against Baedyed raiders in the Sand Sea. These raiders right here.

She compressed her lips. It was one thing to learn lessons about faceless, distant enemies. It was quite another to ride with those enemies and realize that not only did they, in fact, have faces . . . but the reason those faces were here, in Arithuania, was because of the strategies General Habim Fashayid had used against them.

Do not vomit. Do not vomit. She fell forward. Her arm burned, her stomach revolted.

“She is fading,” her companion barked. Then arms slid around Safi to hold her upright.

The man walking at the front called back, “Ride on. We will catch up to you.”

The horse beneath her kicked into a fluid gallop, and the entire forest bled into a hazy, dreamlike blur. The pain was so intense in Safi’s arm that it felt as if her consciousness had simply given up and said, Nope, this is too much for me. But rather than drag her into darkness, it clambered outside her body and watched the scene unfold from a distance.

Tree trunks muddled past, the barks shifting from shapeless beeches to shapeless alders. The ground sucked up all sound. The canopy overhead thickened, not with leaves but with branches that wove and braided until they were almost a ceiling.

And onward the horse galloped. Steady, true. A three-beat rhythm that rocked through Safi in a disconnected unreality. Even the flames in her arm seemed to fade, until she found herself cold. So, so cold.

This is what we call death, she thought, but she lacked the strength to escape its widening arms—even as the Cahr Awen souls were waking up again, were shouting and jostling and clamoring: NO. YOU NEED TO STAY ALIVE AND REACH THE WELL.

It was only when the Baedyed reined their horse to a stop that Safi realized she was no longer in a forest. That snow no longer covered the ground, but only mossy peat and mud. And that the shapes and shadows surrounding her were not trees but instead makeshift tents and hovels.

And people. So many people. They were dressed in all manner—some in Purist gray, some in Nomatsi-style furs, and others with no discernible faction to mark them. They watched Safi pass, aggression on a few faces, but most only wearing fear.

The Baedyed woman dismounted, and a different woman, her blond hair in thick braids, strode up. She hauled Safi down, not roughly but not gently either. Safi’s vision crossed. She doubled over as soon as her feet sank into the earth. She was so cold. She was going to collapse onto the welcoming moss of this strange settlement and then she would never wake up again.

NO. YOU NEED TO STAY ALIVE AND REACH THE WELL.

Safi’s left arm was limp and agonizing. She wished the thrice-damned Cahr Awen souls would shut up and let her sleep. She wished she could vomit or pass out. Anything to end this pain.

Then, as if the souls were actually listening for once, they did quiet. Abruptly. They scattered from her skull like flies from a corpse, and Safi felt their fight drain from her body. The world around her silenced. She swung her gaze upward, stars flashing, to find a path had cleared through the people so a single man could pass. He was cast in shadow, but Safi didn’t need to see his face to know who he was.

The Raider King, she thought. Finally we come face-to-face.

He was not a towering man—the Lusquan woman stood taller—and he was thin. Rangy, even. He wore no crown, no adornments to glitter in the dim light. He was just a man, and distantly Safi appreciated that.

Her eyes sank shut. She let her head loll down, let the mossy earth take her. She wanted to fight, but there was nothing left in her to fight with. The Raider King had won, and this was how her story would end.

She didn’t even have the energy to feel grief or regret anymore.

The Raider King’s boots reached her. Worn brown leather that blended into the dark peat. A chime like buckles clinking. A huff like someone who was tired and . . . of all things, amused.

Then the man crouched before Safi and warm skin brushed her chin. “Domna,” he said softly. “Stay awake. A healer is on the way.”

For several moments, Safi didn’t understand what she was hearing. Domna? The Raider King must have heard I am no longer a domna. She dragged her eyes open. Forced her pupils to find the king’s face. It was veiled by such deep shadows that it had become half shadow itself. His hair was dark and cropped close, his eyes . . .

Ah, his eyes.

“Prince,” she rasped, her voice a tragic, dying thing. “Is it really you?”

“Hye,” he murmured as her magic suddenly woke inside her and sang with a warm, blissful truth. “It’s me, Safi.”

That was the last thing she heard before Merik’s arms scooped beneath her and blessed unconsciousness swept in.

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Chapter 23

Their blood was the wrong color.

Iseult had noticed it as soon as she’d cut into the first raider with her moon scythes. But it wasn’t until now, with the battle won and twenty-seven raiders scattered across the snow, that she could finally see it was not merely blood that was corrupted. Their Threads were the wrong color too.

All of them were cleaving. Just like the blacksmith and his wife and all the countless others she hadn’t been able to save. Every one of these Red Sails possessed faint Severed Threads at the heart of their beings.

“Why have y-you attacked us?” Iseult asked the woman with the pistol. She was the only raider still conscious.

“Because you were in our way.” The woman smiled, revealing teeth coated in blood. Her Threads hummed with a disturbing satisfaction.

“And is that smoke in the distance from you?” Safi clutched her right arm to her side, the pale furs marred with her blood. Red, all of it red, and from a wound that would need tending. “Over there—did you attack others?”

“They had the plague,” the raider answered, as if this explained anything. “So we had to.”

Iseult frowned at the black smoke choking the sky. Then she frowned at Aeduan, who crouched over two raiders. One by one, he was freezing the blood in their veins. Any who were still conscious, he pushed into sleep.

He was tired though. Iseult could see that even from here.

“She’s telling the truth, Iz.” Safi bent closer to Iseult. “Or at least she thinks she is. She really believes whomever they just killed had the plague.”

Iseult’s frown whittled deeper. She supposed it made a tortured sort of sense: the plague had marked the end of the Republic of Arithuania, and burning bodies had stopped its spread. But the dark blood of these raiders, the Severed Threads mingling across this clearing . . .

“Why do you think it’s the plague?” Iseult asked.

“Because they have the same pustules. The Raider King told us what to look for, so we do.”

Safi’s expression—and her Threads—turned grim. Cleaving, of course, made pustules. “So the Raider King has sent you to kill anyone with the plague?”

The woman spat shadowed blood onto the snow. Her Threads settled into a stubborn forest green. There was a hesitancy to them, though. A fear, even, that made Iseult think perhaps Ragnor did not know how many they were slaughtering to eradicate this so-called plague.

Safi sighed. “You have two choices here. Either you can cooperate with us, and we’ll leave you and these other survivors with healing supplies.” She turned a meaningful glare at the nearly thirty bodies scattered about. “Or you can choose not to cooperate, and we’ll leave you here with nothing.”

The woman sneered.

“Storm’s coming.” Iseult pointed to the sky. “I d-don’t think you want to be stuck here.”

The woman looked neither worried nor impressed, so Safi gave a lopsided shrug. “Good enough. The gods can’t say we didn’t try.” She turned away, flickers of pain wincing in her Threads. “Come on, Knifey,” she hollered at Aeduan. “We’re leaving these bastards behind.”

Aeduan straightened. His eyes pierced Iseult’s. One heartbeat. Two. Blood. Witch. Blood. Witch. Then his attention skated to the sneering raider.

Her Threads flashed with blue comprehension. “Hells, you’re him, aren’t you? The Raider King’s son. Which makes you two . . . Oh, this is rich. He’s going to be so happy. He told us to be on the lookout, now here you are.”

Two things happened in that moment. First, Iseult saw the woman’s Threads blare with a new shade, one that spoke of Aether magic and connections spanning miles.

Second: the woman’s whole body locked up. So fast it made her muscles crunch inward like a dead spider. Then she did die. Iseult saw her Threads snuff out moments before she went limp against the black-striped snow. Iseult spun toward Aeduan. His arm was raised, his fingers flexed as his eyes—now pure red—once more pierced hers from across the bloodied grass and snow.

“What the rut, Knifey!” Safi exclaimed. “We needed her!”

“No,” Iseult said. “He did the right thing, Safi. Look.” She knelt beside the fallen woman and tore the glove from her right hand.

A Witchmark winked into the gray light. A hollow circle with a scripted letter inside. “Voicewitch,” Iseult said.

“Well, shit.” Safi wiped her bloodied blade on the snow. “Shit in a gutter, shit on my ancestors. Was she able to send a message before you stopped her?”

“We have to assume so.” Aeduan’s voice was inflectionless. He was the least exerted of their ranks, and also the most detached. But just as Iseult did not need to see a wound to know it was infected, she didn’t need to see Aeduan’s Threads to know he was agitated. Not from the fight, although that certainly contributed . . .

But by what the Voicewitch had said. The orders she’d described from the Raider King to kill anyone who might be sick. That was his father, after all. A man he’d once followed and trusted.

“We’ll have to stay off the road,” Safi said.

“Yes.” Aeduan blinked slowly. “The horses ran off, but I will find them and bring them back.”

“No.” Iseult reached for him before he could stride away. She didn’t touch him, though. “We should stay t-together, Aeduan.” Do not lock up your feelings and walk away.

His lips parted. One heartbeat stuttered past. Two. Then his spine slackened ever so slightly. “As you wish. We will stay together.”

The last thing Iseult saw before she followed Aeduan and Safi into the grass was a bloodied head fallen atop the snow. Empty eyes stared into frozen nothing. Sever, sever, twist and sever. For all that she had avoided using her magic and avoided taking control…

People had still died here. The wickedness had come anyway.

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It slowed them considerably to be off the road. Snow fell. Small, hard flakes that found their way into gaps in Iseult’s clothing. The high grass whipped against the horses. Night was fast approaching. It also slowed them that Safi was hurt. It wasn’t a life-threatening wound, but it was bad enough that it would need tending—and bad enough that nothing but curses had left Safi’s lips for almost an hour.

Until she abruptly groaned out: “What’s that?” Safi pointed with her left hand; Iseult squinted into the darkening sky. Something thrust up from the grass, almost like a tree except it was only the trunk.

Aeduan was the one to answer: “A shrine.” He had once more tucked himself inside his hood. His voice was muffled by snowfall and salamander fibers. “There are many of them across the Plains.”

Iseult nodded; she knew of these shrines, for Nomatsis often stopped at them to pay their respects to Middle Sister Swallow. “Is it safe to make camp there?” she asked him. “Or will N-Nomatsis stop there too?”

What she didn’t add was that most Nomatsis had taken up the cause of the Raider King, so she couldn’t even trust her own people.

“I think we can stop for the night.” Aeduan’s hood swiveled, as if he sniffed with his Bloodwitchery. But there was no one for his magic to find, just as there were no Threads to brush against Iseult’s magic. And this time, Iseult really reached—even as it drained her. Even as she felt her other senses get muddy and numbed.

She couldn’t let them be ambushed again. She didn’t think they could survive another fight like that.

Soon, they were near enough to the shrine that grass and snow could no longer hide it: a stone pillar poking from the soil, twice Iseult’s height. Winds had kicked all the snow to one side of the clearing, carrying with it offerings: food, trinkets, coins, and the uncut stones of a Threadwitch. The Nomatsis feared Swallow’s fickle temper on the Plains; these gifts were meant to appease her.

Safi was the first to dismount—stiffly and with no attempts to hide her pain. Not that her Threads could hide it anyway. “Sit,” Iseult ordered, pointing to a smooth, smaller stone rising up from the snow. “Aeduan and I will make camp.”

Safi scoffed. A sound that was loud enough to reach across the winds. “You’ve got tits for brains if you think I’ll let you do this alone. I’m injured, not useless.”

Two seconds later, a snowball hit Safi’s head—and Safi’s laugh split the falling night.

In the end, Safi did help Iseult and Aeduan by using her heels to drive Nomatsi tent stakes into the earth. Then they guided the horses into the tent, arranging them at the back and using the remaining space to lay out a single pallet for Safi. This would not be the first night they’d shared their tent with the horses, but it would be the first night someone was injured.

Safi was worse off than she claimed—a fact which became obvious as soon as she tried to remove her cloak and her arm wouldn’t lift higher than a few inches. It made her face and Threads crumple with pain. So Iseult helped her peel off layers, each one more soaked with blood than the last. It filled the tent with a coppery scent that overwhelmed even the smell of the horses.

“Well, that doesn’t look great.” Safi grimaced at her arm in the light of a Firewitched lantern. They hadn’t made a proper fire; the smoke would be too dangerous. For now, the warmth of so many bodies would have to be enough. “It didn’t hurt that much when it happened.”

“Could you not sense how bad this was getting?” Iseult aimed her question at Aeduan, her voice sharp. “Why didn’t your magic alert you?”

He didn’t answer right away. He was rubbing down the horses, and his ministrations to Cloud continued uninterrupted. Gentle, steady. Until at last he paused near Cloud’s hindquarters and said, “Yes, I sensed the blood, but it was not a life-threatening wound.”

“And it still isn’t,” Safi insisted. “I’ve had worse.” She grunted and shifted her weight. The lantern wobbled.

“Sit st-still, Safi.” Iseult studied the gash. It was an ugly shredding of skin and muscle that hadn’t sliced cleanly through. Bits of cloth and fur were stuck in the open flesh, and although Iseult had brought Evrane’s healing kit . . .

Well, maybe they should have simply brought Evrane.

“We’ve switched places.” Safi’s voice was light, joking—but her Threads gave her away. “Only a few months ago, you were the one with an injury, and I was the one taking care of you.”

Iseult was willing to play along. “You mean Evrane took care of me.”

“I helped her.”

“Sure. By pissing off a prince, attracting sea foxes, kidnapping a Firewitch healer—”

“Yes, yes, I did all of that too.” Safi laughed, but it rang false. And no matter how many times Iseult murmured Relax, Safi couldn’t seem to soften her muscles or deepen her breaths.

After tending the horses, Aeduan brought a second lantern to Iseult’s side. All of their camping gear was now from Alma, which meant all was easily stowed and carried.

At Aeduan’s whispered Ignite, flames flared, while outside, the winds briefly flared too. The tent wavered and flapped. Drafts of frosty air swirled through the gaps.

Iseult smeared a Waterwitch salve on Safi’s arm, meant to keep the blood in her wound pure. Then a Firewitch salve to heal Safi’s muscles, and finally an Earthwitch salve for the skin. Scents of lavender and calendula soon replaced the smell of blood. And soon, Safi did relax, just like the winds outside.

“Thank you,” she mumbled once Iseult had wrapped the wound. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me hundreds.” Iseult tried for a smile. “But I stopped counting years ago.”

Safi matched her smile.

“Do you want a Painstone?”

“No.” Safi bit her lip. “Let’s save those, in case I need them to, ah, you know . . .”

Iseult nodded. In case you need them to get through a fight. In case you need them at the Well.

They were so close to Poznin now.

After unrolling two sleeping pads, Iseult helped Safi lie down. Then they shared the cold remains of a rabbit caught the day before. Once Iseult was satisfied Safi had eaten enough, she layered a blanket over her. “Sleep.” She tried again for a smile.

This time, Safi didn’t match it. She simply closed her eyes, and in seconds, her Threads hazed into sleep.

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Chapter 24

Aeduan was furious with himself. Beyond furious. Irate. Seething. He had not sensed the raiders until too late. The Cahr Awen had nearly died. How could he forgive himself for that?

Worse than his rage, though, was his fear. It was not an emotion Aeduan felt often. After all, as he’d once told Lizl: I do not know what fear is, so I can never be brave.

Right now, he knew fear. For if his father had been warned the Cahr Awen were coming, then it was only a matter of time until Ragnor caught them. He had witches; he had weapons; and he had numbers. The only advantage Iseult and Safiya had possessed was the element of surprise, and now they’d lost that.

Because of Aeduan.

Because the old wounds were getting worse. Crueler. And he’d been trapped in a rout of scalding pain when the raiders had arrived.

At least once a day now, the six holes in his chest would detonate. Like firepots loosing. Like pistols shot at close range. Sometimes he could barely move from the intensity of it. When Aeduan was atop Surefoot, he could hide the onslaught. Mask the sudden collapse of his spine with a pat for Surefoot’s head or a casual checking of his saddle.

But if he was trying to sense ambushing raiders . . . Or if he was in the middle of a battle against such enemies . . .

He’d almost killed the Cahr Awen with his lapse.

And now he was so angry. So afraid.

It was too cold, here on the Windswept Plains, to peel off his clothes and examine the wounds. He knew what he’d find anyway: blackened scabs that hadn’t been there before—that he knew had healed in the Well, but now were opening up again.

Aeduan had thought perhaps he was cleaving. After all, so many now suffered from that slow spread of oily black lines. It could strike anyone; it could strike him. But he had no lines; he had no shadows or pustules burbling beneath his skin; and the stench he’d smelled on those raiders had been death come early, a song cut short. Aeduan’s blood had none of that.

It was just the old wounds, returned after a brief respite. A cruel pause he’d thought would last forever.

The world was quiet around Aeduan as he stalked in concentric circles around the camp. Around the shrine. The night sky hung low, a ceiling of gray. No stars, no Sleeping Giant. With the lanterns snuffed out in the tent, there was only the snow to brighten the world. Everything became black-and-white. Everything became a threat.

Aeduan would not lapse again. He would not let this awful, inexplicable pain consume him.

He scanned the tall, endless grass around them. This shrine was too vulnerable to raiders. And to Itosha too.

That name—Itosha—was not one Aeduan knew. It had clawed up from the depths of his memory, where the marks of Nadje would never be scrubbed free. And while Aeduan could conjure no face, he could hear a cackling, hateful laugh.

Itosha. The Exalted One.

Nadje had feared her, and illogical as it was, Aeduan now felt that ancient fear too.

He spurred his magic wider. Harder. And for hours, he only ever sensed Safiya and the horses. And of course, the silver taler Iseult always wore around her neck.

Which eventually stirred within the tent, and moments later, Iseult revealed herself. Her eyes were thick with sleep, her face creased from a bedroll. “The first watch ended an hour ago,” she scolded. For once, the winds had softened on the plains—as if perhaps one of the many offerings here had finally appeased Middle Sister Swallow. “You should have woken me.”

“You need the sleep, Dark-Giver.”

“As do you, Bloodwitch.” She stepped toward him, picking her way through cleared snow. “Let me take over.”

“No.”

“Please. Aeduan.” She’d rarely said his name since leaving the hunting lodge. They had both been careful to adhere to their roles. He was a Bloodwitch monk; she was the Cahr Awen he served. Or failed to serve. Formality was safest when so much was at stake.

And yet . . .

“Forgive me.” Aeduan felt his face crease inward while his feelings reached outward in a way he didn’t want to place upon Iseult. “For earlier. I failed you and the Empress.”

“How?”

“I should have sensed the raiders coming. But I did not, and I failed you.”

“You failed no more than I did. I d-didn’t sense them either.”

“Yes, but you have not sworn vows to protect me. This is my one duty. The reason I’m here.”

Iseult’s golden-green eyes thinned. For several seconds, she simply stared at Aeduan. Then she murmured: “Maybe I should, though.”

“Should what?”

She didn’t answer, but instead claimed another step toward him. “Have you ever not had a master?”

“I . . . don’t understand.” It was true: he didn’t understand. He also didn’t like how instantly his abdomen tightened.

“You became a monk so young. Have you ever existed w-without some outside force telling you what to do? First it was the monastery.” Iseult waved vaguely east. “Missions that sent you out for coin. Then it was Guildmaster Yotiluzzi. Then it was your f-father. Then . . . the Old One.” She shivered here. “And finally . . . me.”

Aeduan’s abdomen knotted tighter. “You forget the times I disobeyed.” Now he was the one to approach. To claim a single step. “I broke orders to help you find Safiya. To search for Owl and her tribe. To get you from the Aether Well to safety. And now . . .”

“And now,” Iseult replied. Her face pinched up. An inward frown that sent her gaze to the snow. Made her head wag with a self-loathing he recognized. “I don’t like it. I know I accepted your vow at the lodge, and I know I a-agreed to bring you—”

“Do not make me go back.”

“No.” Her gaze shot to him again. “But I want to know: if you could do anything, Aeduan, what would it be? If there was no Cahr Awen, no Well, no Raider King or slow cleaving or war across the Witchlands. W-what would you do?”

He sucked in sharply. Frozen air sliced his throat, his lungs. He felt the six old wounds throb as if they too awaited his answer. Run, my child, run.

“I do not know,” he said eventually. It was an honest answer, if a bleak one. “I . . . do not know.”

Iseult sighed. It was a sound of sadness, of grief, of pain. “Then I will make a vow to you.” She closed the space between them. Her fingers came to touch his jaw; they were cold, but then so was he.

Her eyes bored into his, a shade like the sun through forest leaves. “When this is done, you’ll serve no one but yourself, and we’ll find what you want. Together . . . i-if you will have me.”

Aeduan’s heart skittered. More frozen air cut deep. Then he scoffed and shook his head. “Stupid.”

Iseult blinked. “My vow is stupid?”

“No. Wondering if I will have you is stupid. Have I not made it clear?”

Her lips twitched with a nearly imperceptible smile. “Made . . . w-what clear?”

“In Lejna, when I told you to trust me as if my soul were yours—I had never said that before. Yet I was compelled to do so. I still am.”

The smile widened. “Then you accept my vow?”

“Stupid,” he replied before kissing her. Deep, full, with all the fury and the fear that still pulsed inside him. He had failed her hours ago by the road, but he would not fail her again.

He pulled away within moments. It was his only choice; otherwise, he would get distracted. He would lose sight of the plains and the bloods and the cold, gray night. “Go back to sleep,” he told her.

Her lips were parted. Her eyes wide. “No.”

“I will keep watch.”

“No.”

Now she was the one to kiss him. A brittle, urgent thing. Before she too pulled away. Then pointed at the tent. Her hand, Aeduan couldn’t help but notice, trembled slightly. “I will take second watch, Bloodwitch. I command you to sleep now, and please remember: I am your master, so you must obey.”

He sniffed. He could argue if he wanted, but truth be told, he was exhausted. Now that his wrath had quieted, there was only gaping fatigue left behind. And the wounds, of course. Always those six old wounds.

So Aeduan bowed his head, “As you wish, Dark-Giver.” Then he kissed her on the forehead and returned, pace agitated, to the tent.

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Chapter 25

“How bad is it?” The Truthwitch’s voice rasped through the tent, and when Aeduan turned from where he checked Surefoot, he found her gazing up at him. Her face, much too pale, glistened with sweat. Her freckles stood out like constellations.

Aeduan didn’t try to help her as she sat up.

“Earlier,” Safi continued with a grunt, “you said you sensed my injury wasn’t life-threatening, and that was a lie.”

Yes, it had been a lie.

“So how bad is it?”

“Better now.”

Safi rolled her eyes, a move that was barely visible in the shadows. She finished sitting up, her hurt arm hugged tightly to her chest. “You know you can’t lie to me, Knifey. So I’ll ask again: How bad is it?”

Surefoot snuffed. Dandelion stamped. But there were no sounds to suggest Iseult was near enough outside to overhear them.

“It’s more than a surface wound,” Aeduan said honestly. “And you should be resting.” He tried to turn away, to resume his careful checking of the horses. But Safi leaped to her feet, surprisingly agile for someone with an injury as bad as hers—and it was bad. She had lost enough blood that the mountain ranges and cliffsides were nearly swallowed up by the meadows filled with dandelions and the truth hidden beneath snow.

That didn’t mean her magic had suddenly become stronger, but rather that all those Cahr Awen souls inside her were crushing down on the pieces that made Safi who she was.

Her arm muscle was also ripped apart. Aeduan was no healer, but he would wager there was bone damage—and also that she had the start of a fever. It did not radiate off her yet, but there was a certain shallowness that hit blood when infection took hold.

Safi’s was beginning to throb that way.

“You can’t help me.” The way she said this was more statement than question. “You, who controls people’s bloods . . . you can’t do anything to help me.”

“No.”

She staggered toward him. Aeduan tried to withdraw, but there was nowhere to go. And in the shadows of the tent, her blue eyes had become storm gray.

“Because you will not or cannot?” She crooked toward him, her voice lowering until it was almost lost to the winds outside, until not even the horses could hear her. “Make me a promise: if I cannot walk to the Well, then you will walk me there. You will take control of my blood and move me like a puppet every step of the way.”

Bloodwitches cannot do this. They cannot control people like this.

Aeduan swallowed. “We have Painstones.”

“Not many.” Safi’s right hand whipped out and yanked him close. The feverish gleam in her veins was unmistakable. “Not enough to last us two days and carry us through armies. Which means, Knifey, that when the time comes, you will take control of my blood. Whatever consequences might come from that magic, we’ll reckon with them after the Well is healed.”

Aeduan did not answer. He took in the sweat on Safi’s forehead, the faint scar above her brow. He took in the intensity of her eyes and the strength of her grip upon his cloak.

He didn’t like this Truthwitch. Perhaps he never would. She was rash and loud, spoiled and obscene. But there was a steel in her he recognized, a determination to do what had to be done no matter the cost to herself.

And, at the end of the day—at the end of everything that was careening nearer and nearer—Aeduan had sworn his vow to the dark-giver and the light-bringer. “Yes,” he said at last. “I will take control if I have to.”

Demon. Monster.

Safi nodded. Her shoulders relaxed and her grip on him too. As she drew away, her muscles shook. But Aeduan didn’t let her get far before asking: “What did you mean by consequences?” It was a flat question, almost bored.

“Since we left the lodge, there is something off inside you.” She wiped sticky hair off her brow. “My magic senses it.”

“Like . . . cleaving?”

“No.” Her breaths sawed in. Out. “Something different. Something else . . . wrong.”

I can smell it on you: you’re bound to the Void, a cursed beast with ’Matsi poison running in your veins.

“Clearly you don’t want Iseult to know about it. And I don’t want her to know about me. So.” She gestured at her hurt arm. It made her whole body sway. “You will tell her I am healing quickly. Do you understand?”

It was a threat, and against his will, Aeduan found his estimation of the Truthwitch rising. Iseult was their Sleeping Giant, forever pointing north, and if they lost her, then both Aeduan and Safi would have nothing left to follow. No reason to keep traveling to Poznin. When Iseult had called herself a “master,” she hadn’t been far wrong. But it wasn’t because she forced people to follow. It was because everyone who met her felt compelled to.

So Iseult had to keep going because it was the only way Aeduan and Safi could keep going too. Yet Iseult would stop immediately if she thought either Aeduan or Safi were hurting.

Aeduan bowed his head at the Truthwitch. It was the closest to an agreement he would offer Safi, and she seemed to realize this, since she finally released him. But rather than hobble back to her bedroll, she reached to her neck and withdrew a length of silver chain from beneath her many layers. Bits of quartz and brass dangled off it.

Aeduan’s fingers flexed. “The Truth-lens.”

“Yes, Knifey. Good job at stating the obvious. I . . . want you to take it. The person I made it for is in Nubrevna, according to Uncle’s spies, and in case I don’t survive this . . . Well, it’s your job to deliver it to her.”

When Aeduan didn’t claim it from her, Safi sighed. Impatience set her muscles into motion. She shoved it against the skin of his neck and wrapped it around like a scarf. Against his will, he staggered back. “That is . . . overwhelming.”

True, sang the crystals and glass. True, so very true. It was a heady feeling that buzzed like a hundred Painstones in Aeduan’s skull. He ripped the necklace back off again and thrust it at Safi.

But she flipped out a weak hand of refusal. “You don’t have to wear it, Knifey. You just . . .” Pant, pant.“Have to deliver it if I can’t. I’d give it to Iseult, but then she’d know what’s wrong with me. So just . . . shove it in your pocket and deliver it to Vaness if I don’t make it out of the Well.”

“You will make it out of the Well. I already said I would control your blood.”

“To get me to the Well, yes.” Her eyes scrunched. She wiped clumsily at her brow. “But neither of us knows what will come after that.”

There is something off inside you.

Demon. Monster.

The necklace glinted and swung in Aeduan’s grasp. The wounds on his chest throbbed. He didn’t nod or agree, but he did slide the lens into his pocket where it couldn’t affect him.

“Good,” Safi said, though nothing in her voice sounded triumphant. “Now, I can sleep.” She slogged back to her bedroll—and snorted loudly when she got there. “I agree,” she declared as she folded herself back into the covers. “This tent is way too small for this many bodies. But I promise it’s not me that’s stinking up the place.”

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Aeduan had nightmares after speaking to Safi. He saw the Cahr Awen ghosts inside her skull, pushing at her like too many crabs inside a basket. He saw Iseult with her abdomen carved out and Threads crawling from it like worms. He saw the Truth-lens, but on each bit of quartz or glass was a shadowy face he couldn’t recognize.

He saw a mountain filled with stars where shadowy ice clawed for anything it could grab on to—except for him. It never dug into him.

He saw four Exalted Ones in quick succession. Ferisien on a mountainside. Itosha on the plains. Rakel beside the sea. And, most violent of them all, Lovats spreading flames. That Exalted One was the one they’d all feared, even Portia with her power over Void. And certainly Nadje, who had never quite known which side he ought to choose.

Then Aeduan smelled it, poignant and inexorable: A sky singing with snow. Meadows drenched in moonlight. Sun and sand and auburn leaves falling.

“Run, my child, run,” said the voice like his mother’s while heat roared, wood cracked, and embers flew. Blood dripped from her mouth. “Run.”

Aeduan did not run. He did not move. He waited, exactly as he had as a child, for the flames to overtake him and the world to burn alive.

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As mentioned, I’ll share the last three Early Access chapters next ready. So stay tuned for that, and thank you—as always—for reading and supporting.

💚 - Sooz

I’ve also posted the next two chapters in Early Access, but rather than bog down this newsletter (or those chapters), I’ve posted them separately here. Enjoy.

WE ARE SO CLOSE TO THE END OF EARLY ACCESS—and to the book’s FULL release. Only three weeks away. 😱

Pre-order, pre-order, pre-order! (And vote!)

Last week, we hit 1004 pre-orders and unlocked TIER 2 in the short story pre-order campaign—meaning your awesome pre-orders (from all around the globe!) have gained access to a longer short story.

Now, if you want to get amazing, exclusive CJ Merwild art, we need to hit 1500 pre-orders!

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Get your Witchlight tour tickets!

Since the book hits stores in only three weeks, that ALSO means I will be gong on tour!

So make sure you get your tickets!

• Schuler Books

  • Grand Rapids, MI

  • Tuesday, November 4, 2025 6:30 PM

• Roselynn Hill Winery (with A Novel Neighbor)

  • Louisville, KY

  • Wednesday, November 5, 2025 6:30 PM

• Neshaminy Mall Barnes & Noble

  • Bensalem, PA

  • Thursday, November 6, 2025 6:00 PM

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  • New York, NY

  • Friday, November 7, 2025 6:00 PM

  • In conversation with Lyssia Mia Smith and moderated by Emily Taylor!

• Texas Book Festival

  • Sunday, November 9, 2025 1:00 PM

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Truthwitch GIF Recap on Instagram

For those of you from the OG Witchlanders crew back in 2017, you may recall the Truthwitch GIF recap I did on Twitter to prep you for the release of Windwitch.

Well, the awesome Emily Ritter kindly compiled that WHOLE thing for me, and I was able to share it on my stories on Instagram!

So now you can head to my highlight in my profile and enjoy as if it were 2017 all over again…

Check out the recap here!

Witchshadow Recap

In the spirit of recaps, I FINALLY wrote the official Witchshadow recap for my website.

I’m not going: this took me two entire work days to write. There is just so much plot in Witchshadow. (Which is to be expected, since I had to cram two books into one.)

Still, I had to really get picky in my summary about which details were worth including—and how to arrange them to be the most logical in a recap format.

So just be aware, this isn’t a beat-for-beat recap, and some flashbacks were skipped as well as smaller character moments.

Now onto the Witchshadow recap!

Read ALL the recaps here!

Part 1

In the opening prologue, we watch from the Rook’s point of view as Safi and Iseult heal the Earth Well. Leopold is there and delighted, and scene closes with the Rook heading off on a mission for someone unknown.

The book cuts ahead an entire month, and the reader is given no context about how we got here. All we know is that Iseult faces off to Hell-Bards who have hunted her from Praga into the Ohrin Mountains. And we see Iseult tap easily and brutally into her Weaverwitch magic, cleaving each Hell-Bard and taking their supplies.

In Praga, we discover Safi has been married to Emperor Henrick—and worse, bound to the Hell-Bard’s Loom. She no longer has her magic; the world has lost its spark; and the emperor controls her every move.

Here, a flashback cuts into the story, showing Iseult shortly after the Earth Well was healed. Someone calls to her outside, and she discovers a white weasel with pages from Eridysi’s diary in her mouth—and the weasel is none ther than Esme the Puppeteer. Somehow, rather than die by the Air Well, her soul was bound to an animal’s body. Now she is here to teach Iseult what she knows.

The story returns to the present day, show Iseult and Owl at an abandoned hut. Owl seems to hate Iseult even more now than she did before. Perhaps because she wears a heretic’s collar around her neck that Iseult cannot remove, meaning Owl in turn can’t access her Earthwitchery. Worse, as long as Owl wears the collar, the Hell-Bards can keep tracking them.

Esme—still a weasel—is guiding Iseult east toward Arithunia with the promise that Eridysi’s diary will be there. And, in turn, Iseult will be able to fully embrace her powers and save Safi from Emperor Henrick. However, when Iseult tries to enter the Dreaming by using a Hell-Bard’s noose, she is immediately pounced upon by Corlant, the Cursewitch from her childhood who has been hunting her since Truthwitch. He now knows where Iseult is now and he plans to find her.

Meanwhile, in Veñaza City, Vivia Nihar is with Empress Vaness trying to earn the alliance of the Dalmotti Doge so they can reclaim Vaness’s stolen empire. However, the meeting is a trap—and Dalmotti has allied with the Raider King. This leads Vivia and Vaness through a wild ship battle on the Jadansi Sea.

Things are no better for Stacia Sotar (Stix) who is in the Pirate Republic of Saldonica with Ryber the Sightwitch. Stix is beset from voices from her past as a Paladin, and those voices have sent her to the Slaughter Ring, where Stix convinces the pirate, Admiral Kahina, to let her fight in the ring.

That night, in Praga, we see Safi dance with Leopold—and he gives her the Truth-lens she crafted for Vaness in Bloodwitch. It would seem the prince is part of Uncle Eron’s twenty-year plan to bring peace to the Witchlands. And it would also seem the Truth-lens still contains a piece of her magic.

Another flashback shows Safi at the imperial palace in Praga, in the room where Hell-Bards are noosed as Henrick shows it off. The room is filled with thousands of gold chains, and Safi steals one. We also learn that Safi’s uncle was arrested for the crime of hiding his niece’s Truthwitchery, and that Henrick has promised Safi she can see Uncle Eron after she and Henrick are married.

Back in the Ohrins, where Iseult and Owl continue their travels east, Iseult encounters someone she believes is Aeduan. Except she quickly sees that he is not Aeduan, for somehow he has Threads—and those Threads say he is hunting her. Iseult tries to run, but False Aeduan captures her and takes her to a camp, where Evrane is also clearly possessed by someone who is not her. (Just as she was in Bloodwitch.) Owl is already tied up, but there’s no sign of the weasel Esme.

We finally slip into False Aeduan’s point of view, only to learn that although the remnants of Aeduan are still inside the body, this is the soul of an Old One. He given this body by someone he believed was a fellow Exalted One named Portia (the Exalted One of Void). False Aeduan’s mission (and the possessed Evrane’s) is to stop their enemy, the Rook King.

Another flashback reveals a conversation with Lev about the first Hell-Bard, Midne, who had her magic stolen from her to create the first Loom. And Iseult knows from stolen diary pages that Esme gave her, that Midne was a Paladin of Void, and Portia (her counterpart) was the one who bound her to make the Loom.

In the Slaughter Ring in Saldonica, Stix fights a flame hawk, and in turn, Admiral Kahina essentially admits to being a fellow Paladin like Stix—but of fire, instead of water.

Meanwhile in Praga, Safi meets Leopold, where he surprises her by leading her through a secret tunnel under the palace—and there, he proves he’s working for Uncle Eron. His tale prompts her to take a wild risk the following morning: she joins Hell-Bard training and intentionally loses a knife fight to Caden, which means she is sent to Hell-Bard Keep for special healing. Once at the Keep, she and Zander rush to the Hell-Bard Loom in secret—and while she is slowly dying because her noose was removed to do this trick—so she connects to her uncle over the Loom and learns he is near Arithunaia.

Iseult’s situation also grows more dire as she and Owl are delivered to the Purist Priest Corlant. False Aeduan and False Evrane serve him, and he has amassed many followers. Worse, as Iseult watches on, Corlant reveals himself to be a Cursewitch, able to steal magic from anyone he touches. He tells Iseult she is the same, but she resists this—surely it can’t be true.

Another flashback reveals Owl and Zander have grown close, since he is her personal guard in Praga. She wears her heretic’s collar to block her magic, which makes her seem younger than her six or seven years. She bets Iseult tell her a children’s tale about a witch whose hedgehog was brought back to life by praying to the Moon Mother. We also see that although Leopold continues to prod at Iseult with banter, his Threads reveal he might have actual feelings for her.

In the Nihar lands of Nubrevna, Vivia and Vaness go ashore only to find Cam, Vivia’s most important adviser, has been taken captive by Master Huntsman Yoris. Vivia and Vaness surrender themselves to keep the young man safe, and they learn that Vivia’s own father, King Serafin, has ordered this. She is now considered a traitor to Nihar, and Yoris will deliver her to the capital. They are taken to Noden’s Gift and locked away.

In Saldonica, Stix once more fights in the Slaughter Ring, this time against two sea foxes. But Kahina raises the stakes of the fight by throwing prisoners into the water that Stix must save. She fails, and in her rage, demands to know what Kahina wants from her: the answer is the Blade and Glass first seen in Sightwitchthat Stix now possesses. Stix says she will deliver them if Kahina will empty the Ring—since what Stix truly wants is to finally finish unlocking her Paladin memories. (And to free all the prisoners under the Ring.)

In the Ohrin mountains once more, Iseult awakens in the night to find the weasel has chewed her bindings. She and Owl are able to escape, but Iseult first steals the diary of Eridysi that Corlant has. This awakens him, but Iseult is able to gouge out one of his eyes.

She and Owl flee with False Aeduan in pursuit. However, Iseult is able to take him down as well—and while he’s incapacitated, the real Aeduan awakens and urges Iseult to run. She doesn’t want to leave him, but there’s something else pursuing her Owl in the woods. Something massive that wears ancient Threads of violence.

In Praga, Safi finally has her chance to remove the noose without slowly dying by the “Hell-Bard’s Doom”: she has transformed her Truth-lens into a necklace, which lets her keep part of her magic upon her. This also means she can finally leave the palace (and the noose), for Henrick will have no power over her. To test this, she meets Leopold and they foray into Praga through his secret tunnels. While in Praga, Leopold tells Safi he knows where Iseult is, and he can take her there.

Once more in the past, we see the wedding of Safi and Henrick through Iseult’s eyes. This is part of their plan—it will save Uncle Eron and allow Safi to claim control of Cartorra. While watching dancers in a balcony high above, Leopold arrives and asks Iseult to dance. She sees Threads beneath his cultured mask and once more senses he has feelings for her. Not only that, but that he is a deeply lonely and a deeply conflicted young man.

In Noden’s Gift, as Vivia and Vaness linger in a cell, Dalmotti assassins arrive and try to kill them. Vivia uses the moment to escape, but the assassins pursue all the way to the Water Well. Vivia’s magic overwhelms her, nearly killing her, and Vaness drags her into the spring’s healing waters to save her life. However, as soon as Vivia awakens, she finds an entire armada of Dalmotti ships awaits beyond. It would seem her own father has offered to trade Vivia (and Vaness) in exchange for independence from the Raider King. But rather than give themselves up, Vivia and Vaness flee.

As Iseult and Owl, meanwhile, evade the magic creature hunting them and the again-possessed False Aeduan, they reach the acid lake known as the Solfatarra. A Nomatsi trail cuts through, and Iseult barely gets herself and Owl to a Nomatsi tribe hiding within all that fog. To her shock, the tribe she finds is one led by her own mother Gretchya and Gretchya’s apprentice Alma.

In Saldonica, Stix meets with Kahina, only to intentinally misdirect the pirate Admiral to a secret place in the mountain where the Blade and Glass used to be. Then Stix and Ryber hurry into the empty Ring to free all the prisoners below. Unfortunately, before they can finish their plan, Kahina returns and ignites the Ring on fire. She takes the actual Blade and Glass and leaves.

Gretchya attempts to interrogate False Aeduan, whom the tribe has captured and bound. Yet shortly after, False Aeduan realizes the full extent of the Bloodwitchery in this body, and he is able to escape. He hunts after Iseult (and Owl), who have already left. When he catches up to them, however, he discovers Iseult waiting for him. She threatens to destroy him if he doesn’t help her, but their bargaining is cut short when screams sound.

Iseult rushes back to the Nomatsi camp to find it under attack by Corlant and a monstrous, Void-bound shadow wyrm. As Iseult tries to fight and protect her fellow Nomatsis, she clamps onto Corlant’s Threads so she can cleave him. But she fails, and in that moment, she discovers he is actually her father.

In several flashbacks, we see as Safi and Iseult try to finish their plan against Henrick by noosing him. But it fails, and suddenly Henrick is the one noosing them. Iseult and Safi fight back, but they’re unable to get away before Safi’s Threads are bound to the Hell-Bard Loom. Iseult, with Leopold’s help, is able to escape the palace along with Owl. Before he separates from hem, he tells Iseult he loves her. And she tells him, “No, Rook King. You have simply forgotten what it feels like to be seen.”

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Part 2

Safi manages to flee Praga with Leopold, only to be met by her Hell-Bard Thread-family: Caden, Lev, and Zander. Leopold is furious Safi has brought them, but there’s nothing he can do. After finding a special laboratory of Leopold’s, hidden far away, they board a Windwitched flying machine named the Eridysi and take aim toward Arithuania.

In Nubrevna, Vivia and Vaness have escaped, but they are both on the verge of collapse from this new overwhelming surge of their magic and their own exhaustion. They finally find a ship that was part of Vivia’s “pirates” known as the Foxes.

Meanwhile, Stix and Ryber are trapped in the burning Slaughter Ring, and finally—finally—the voices give Stix what she needs. She finds a secret room that unlocks all of her Paladin memories and powers, which allows her to flood the Ring, stop the fires, and go after Kahina.

For Iseult, the revelation that Corlant is her father has sent her into a numb despair. She cannot forgive her mother for this awful secret, and she learns from False Aeduan that Corlant is in fact a Paladin of Void—and that for some unknown reason, Iseult is the only person who can kill him. With this knowledge, she “allows” Corlant to train her on how to access the Hell-Bard Loom via the Dreaming. While there, she finds a connection to Safi and learns Safi is headed this way.

Sure enough, Safi is almost to the Solfatarra—but Lev, Zander, and Caden are now suffering from the Hell-Bard’s Doom, sent to them over their nooses by Emperor Henrick. They are dying, and Leopold reminds that he did warn of this. Things get far worse, however, when the flying machine loses control and crashes into the acid world of the Solfatarra.

Corlant’s next lesson is to teach Iseult how to cleave her fellow Threadwitches, but Iseult refuses to harm Alma. So Corlant simply stabs her—yet Alma is quick and attacks him first. Which prompts a new battle between witches and Purists, Nomatsis and Corlant’s followers. The shadow wyrm returns to attack, and Gretchya lurches between it and Iseult—which saves Iseult’s life but condemns Alma to Corlant’s knife. Iseult realizes in that moment that there is a way to defeat Corlant—and, she hopes, bring Alma back. But she needs Safi with her to succeed.

Iseult flees and sure enough, she and Safi are reunited—and Safi possesses their Threadstones, which are exactly the tools Iseult requires to finally defeat Corlant. Because in those stones—which Corlant has been seeking since Gretchya first stole them in Truthwitch—possess all the souls of previous Cahr Awens. Iseult doesn’t know how or why, but those souls can now be used to power her own magic. But Corlant senses what she plans and begins to amass vast amounts of his own power to stop her.

Meanwhile, in Nubrevna, Vivia has returned with her Fox ship to the Dalmotti blockade. She and Vaness have a plan to bring these ships down, and a violent battle begins in which they must tap into all the magic that has been overwhelming them recently. Unknown to them, however, there are also Paladins on shore assisting this fight: Stix and Kahina.

Now that Stix has caught up to the old Admiral, she realizes the woman isn’t a reincarnation of the wicked Exalted One Lovats like she first assumed, but instead her old friend Rhian (from Sightwitch). They are both part of the Six, both on the same side against the Rook King who betrayed them a thousand years ago by warning the Exalted Ones what the Six had planned.

Together, Stix and Kahina will track down the Rook King to destroy him—but first, they must keep their Chosen Rulers alive.

In a crumbling, ancient tower beyond the Solfatarra, Iseult tries to break the Threadstones and claim the Cahr Awen souls within. However, Henrick arrives at this moment—forcing Safi to fight him while Iseult continues her work in the Dreaming.

False Aeduan, having chosen to fight against Corlant and on the side of the Dark-Giver Iseult, faces off to False Evrane so she cannot hunt down Iseult or Safi and cause more harm. Once their battle ends, the Rook King—Leopold—arrives and removes the Old Ones’ souls from their stolen bodies. But first, he makes False Aeduan (whose name is actually Nadje, and who was an Exalted One of Aether) promise to fight on the side of the Cahr Awen when next he returns.

In light, the Rook King tells Nadje, Twelve will meet on lands long contested. While in darkness, the shadow-ender will topple nightmares and the world-starter will build us all anew.

Nearby, after defeating Henrick, Safi finds Corlant has come for her now. Since she is still a Hell-Bard—and since he is actually the Exalted One Portia who created the Hell-Bard Loom—he can control and destroy her. Iseult tries to save Safi, but Corlant is so powerful, she is flung away by his storm.

Where she is saved, unexpectedly, by the shadow wyrm, who is an unwilling tool of Corlant’s and has been for a thousand years. Now, Iseult finally knows what she must do and she has the power of the Threadstones with which to do it. She enters the Hell-Bard Loom one last time and tracks down Corlant at the center. She fights him, and back in the real world, as she faces a defeated, broken man, she is on the cusp of killing his body too.

But Leopold arrives and does it for her, claiming no one should have to kill their own parent.

Meanwhile, back in Nubrevna, Vivia and Vaness have managed to defeat the Dalmotti blockade—although barely--and now they take control of the ships for their own. On the shore nearby, Stix doesn’t want to leave Vivia, but Kahina tells her they can only return once the Rook King has been destroyed and balance restored to the Witchlands. She, Ryber, and Stix all go into Sleeping Mountain (from Sightwitch) via a nearby magic door under the Water Well.

Meanwhile, deep inside that same mountain, Merik finally awakens from his sleeping ice to find two strange girls before him urging him to get up and find the Raider King. And also to protect this storm hound puppy floundering on the ice before him. He names the puppy Aurora, because the idea of a new dawn gives him hope.

Now that all the Hell-Bards are free, including Safi, she rushes to her uncle in his prison. He is barely alive, but she will save him—just as she will save all of Cartorra now that she is the empress in charge.

Aeduan—once himself —finds a quiet moment with Iseult. She is scarred and damaged from handling so many scorching Threads, but she seems more content than he can remember. She kisses his cheek, and he feels a renewed urgency to protect her. Both as the Cahr Awen and as something more.

In the final scenes, Iseult returns to Alma’s corpse and using the magic from the tale she once told Owl, she asks Sirmaya to help the girl and restore her spirit. We see Leopold arrive—as the Rook King—and use his special Paladin magic to do just that. But not before he speaks with Owl, who no longer wears her collar and is now a full Paladin herself too. She accuses Leopold of betraying the Six “good” Paladins, but he insists it was never him who betrayed.

Someone else is out there. And that someone else is still waiting to act.

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CONFIRMED PALADINS AT THE END:

• Kullen (Bastien)

• Stix (Lady Baile)

• Owl (Saria)

• Kahina (Rhian)

• Leopold (Elias, the Rook King)

CONFIRMED EXALTED ONES AT THE END:

• Corlant, who was pretending to be Midne but was in fact Portia, the Exalted One of Void.

• Nadje, whose soul possessed Aeduan but was released by the Rook King, was the Exalted One of Aether.

• We also know an unnamed Exalted One possessed Evrane until the Rook King also released her.

• We also know of the Exalted One Lovats through Stix’s flashbacks, but we have not met him in the present day.

Chapters 21 and 22

As mentioned above, to keep this email from running so long that your email provider clips it, I’ve already posted the chapters here for reading.

And you can expect THREE more chapters per week—because I really want to hit a Very Special Reunion in Chapter 28 before Witchlight hits stores.1

So read the new chapters, or start Early Access now, and don’t forget (of course) to pre-order and vote!

💚 - Sooz

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Chapter 22

Caden fitz Grieg knew his own weaknesses. Intimately. And one in particular had always bothered him: he was not well educated. Wasn’t it bad enough to be a nobleman’s bastard? Why did he have to be an ignorant one too? He’d found ways to compensate, of course. He couldn’t recite every emperor that had come before Henrick III or what the architectural style around the palace courtyard was (he thought those curvy things might be called buttresses?), but he could read people. He knew what their emotions were as plainly as if they’d been written on their faces.

He’d asked Iseult det Midenzi—half in jest, half in seriousness—if this was what Thread magic was like. She’d said no, but then, in that thoughtful way of hers, she’d added: Though I suppose that makes you even more dangerous than we are. He hadn’t been sure what she meant by this, and now weeks later, he still didn’t know.

What he did know was that the Nomatsis didn’t like having him in their tribe.

And honestly, he couldn’t blame them.

Caden stood in the empty clearing where the tribe had disassembled their camp. Tents had been folded down to their component parts, then rolled tightly into packs for all the mules and horses. The cooking fires were long gone, no smoke to linger in the frostbitten air, and if the Nomatsis bustling about felt any disdain for the brown-haired, freckled Cartorran in their midst, they weren’t showing it. At least not in obvious ways.

Caden felt their secret glares. He felt their nervous confusion, and although he’d tried to ease it with a few smiles, he only ever got hostile stares in return.

Thank the hell-gates I’m not traveling with them anymore.

He’d been grateful for the idea, and he would have followed through. But then the Bloodwitch had shown up at midnight with Lev’s and Zander’s nooses. Monk Aeduan had found them right beside the Earth Well, so that was where Caden now planned to travel. And honestly, Iseult’s mother had seemed as relieved as Caden that he wouldn’t be staying with the tribe.

Gretchya had, however, insisted she at least give him the promised Threadstones before he go.

So here he stood, awkward, stiff, and cold while he waited for the apprentice to walk his way. She was beautiful. Unnaturally so. Like a sculpture carved from ice: he could look and appreciate the attention to detail, but ice didn’t make good company. “Come,” she said in accented Dalmotti. “We are ready.”

Caden nodded, and feeling the stares of literally everyone in the tribe on his back, he traced after Alma through the camp’s remains to the only two things still intact in these old ruins: a Threadwitching desk and low stool. Light and color flashed from tens of gemstones that lay before Iseult’s mother. She sat with her eyes closed until Caden was near. Then her hazel eyes snapped wide and fixed onto the space above his head.

One breath. Two. Her gaze lowered to meet his.

And Caden forced himself to stare. I know you see what I’m feeling, but I’m not afraid of you.

“We see what you feel,” Gretchya said as he came to a stop at the table, “but we do not see what you are thinking. Your mind, Hell-Bard, remains your own.”

These words didn’t comfort Caden, but rather than say, I’d prefer if my feelings were my own too, he simply bowed his head. “Tell me what I must do.”

It was Alma, again, who spoke: “In order to find your Thread-family, we will need to craft three Threadstones. One will be for you, then two will be for your friends.”

“Choose,” Gretchya commanded, “three stones. Let your hands guide your arm.”

Don’t hands always guide arms? Caden frowned at the jewels. The attention of the tribe watching him was like a frozen wind he couldn’t wriggle out of. If he thought he’d felt tall and discordant in the middle of the camp, now he felt like the gap in a coat of armor.

He knew of Threadstones, of course. His fellow soldiers had loved to acquire them—sneakily, since Nomatsis weren’t welcome in Cartorra. For safety, for love, for beauty. But Caden had never had one for himself. And he’d never wanted one.

“May I touch the stones?”

“Yes,” Gretchya answered. “In fact, it is better if you do.”

Nodding, Caden reached out with both hands. At first, he felt nothing beyond general foolishness. He was waving his hands over a bunch of precious stones in an absolutely freezing forest while people gawped at him and pretended they didn’t. To make it that much stranger, he would have gladly stolen every one of these jewels as a child. Even today, so many years later, there was a part of him that itched to take things that weren’t his—fine things that would buy his mother food and firewood . . . and buy himself a warm meal or twenty.

As Caden thought about that childhood—about how he’d actually met Zander on the same streets, well before either of them had been pressed into the Hell-Bards—Caden felt a stirring at his fingertips. It was a subtle warmth in all this cold, and it made him think of sunshine and green things. His left hand moved down, down, seemingly all on its own, before plucking up an emerald.

Meanwhile Caden’s other hand felt tingly. Scratchy. Like the fuzzing of wool before an electric crack! is set free. Then the spark came, and it was above an opal.

Both stones were rough, uncut, muted in color and wild in shape. And both felt instantly right as soon as he grasped them. Ah, his heart seemed to say. Here is your Thread-family.

“Well done,” Alma murmured, and for the first time since meeting her, Caden sensed a slight waver of emotion. She was excited he’d found the stones. She liked this part of her job.

“One for you still,” Gretchya reminded. No feelings roiled off of her, no indication of how she’d known thesestones belonged to Caden’s friends and not to him.

Caden drew in a long breath. “Good enough,” he replied. More to himself than to them. It was what his mother had always said: Good enough, Cay. Good enough. And he’d liked the solid, reliable way she’d said it. As if, although life might not be perfect, perfect was never what she’d wanted anyway.

His hands paused over a red rock that might have been a ruby.

He swallowed.

Clearly these gems—or perhaps these witches—were like fishing lines. They reeled memories to the surface. His past, his person, his promises, and he’d be lying if he said this process didn’t frighten him. It sounded so very much like being bound to the Loom. Woven into something completely outside himself.

Except it all happened so quietly, so seamlessly. While Gretchya grabbed the opal and the emerald, Alma retrieved the ruby. Then they both withdrew spools of colored thread from large pockets in their coats and with fingers that were deft despite the cold, they wove and they wound. They whispered and they worked.

Bind and bend, build and blossom, family fills the heart.

They spoke in Nomatsi, of course, but Caden wasn’t entirely new to that language. Owl had spoken so much of it to Zander in Praga, and that giant man with his kind heart forever projecting outward had spent hours practicing it whenever he could.

Alma finished her stone first, since she only made one Threadstone. The Threadstone that was meant to be Caden’s. With small, focused movements, she tied off a braid of dark and light green threads, attached them to a leather thong, and handed it to him.

Now all of the tribe was openly watching, and many people had clustered in like an audience. Caden couldn’t decide if it was better than the sneaky scrutiny or not.

Alma rolled onto her toes so she could drape the threaded necklace around Caden’s neck. He had to bend deeply so she could reach him. Her breath ruffled his hair. She smelled like campfire and laurel. Then the leather was around his neck . . . .

And he felt exactly the same as he had a few seconds before. If some great magic had just happened, he wasn’t sensing it.

“Rubies,” Alma explained, “stand for honor and love, which you must have in abundance. And Threads in these shades represent focus and determination—which you will need to find your family.”

Caden swallowed. “And . . . the emerald?” he asked. “The opal?” Gretchya had just finished tying pink threads around the stones, and now she handed them to Alma.

“Emeralds stand for certainty,” Alma explained. “The man this stone represents is like an anchor in a storm. Opals, meanwhile, are for loyalty, and the woman this connects to would die for those she loves. The threads around both stones are the shade of deep, unbreakable family.”

Alma moved in once more, and Caden leaned down again to meet her. “I don’t feel any different,” he told her quietly. “Should the stones do something?”

“They are.” Alma made a slight, barely there smile. So tiny, Caden was certain only he spied it before it smoothed away. “The stones are now bound to your Thread-family. That means you can find them.”

“Right.” Caden wasn’t entirely sure what else to say. If he felt nothing while he wore these, then that wasn’t going to do much for him as he trekked west into the Ohrins. If anything, three gems of such size were going to make him a prime target for the criminals he’d once aspired to be.

“Well, uh, thank you,” he started. “I appreciate the stones, and—” He shut up. The stones were suddenly winking in the morning light. At first he thought it was sunlight playing over them, reflecting color into his eyes. But there was no sunlight today; the clouds let none through.

And now Alma was pushing in close again.

“They’re in trouble,” he rasped, as she grabbed all three in a fist. “That’s what that means, isn’t it?” Caden remembered how Safi’s Threadstone had warned her whenever Iseult’s life was at risk. “What do I do?”

“We follow,” Alma answered, eyes still shut and her face taut with concentration. “And quickly, for we do not know how much time we have.”

“We?” Caden asked. But the question was lost in the sudden clatter at the desk as Gretchya shot to her feet.

“But what of Saldonica?” she demanded. “The tribe cannot wait for you, Alma.” Gretchya spoke Nomatsi, but there were enough words there for Caden to understand.

Just as he understood what Alma replied: “I know.” Her eyes opened, but rather than look at her tribe’s leader, she gazed only at Caden with eyes of pure silver and ice. “I do not expect you to wait for me, Gretchya, but I also cannot let this Hell-Bard go alone. I will take him where these Threadstones lead.”

Ah. It wasn’t at all what Caden had wanted, and yet it was also deeply and desperately what he needed. “I will make sure she gets to Saldonica,” he told Gretchya in Dalmotti. “Whatever it takes, I will get her there.”

Gretchya didn’t respond. Nor did the rest of the tribe. If Caden had been able to see Threads, he imagined they would all be stretched like bowstrings about to snap. Until Alma, again, offered him a secret, almost-nothing smile.

“Tell me what to do,” he said to her. The stones were still blinking, beams of color to flash through gaps in her fist. “I don’t want to waste a single moment.”

“Nor do I.” Alma turned from him to bow, hands at her sides, at Gretchya. “I will see you again soon. May Moon Mother light your path.”

“And may Trickster never find you,” Gretchya replied.

It was all they exchanged before Alma laid her cold hands on Caden’s wrist. “Hurry, Hell-Bard. There is no time to waste.” She pulled, Caden moved, and the sun rose, unseen, behind thick clouds above them.

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Dear Uncle,

Iseult and I are leaving to heal the Well. I know you’ll send troops after us, but please don’t. You won’t catch us—not before we reach Poznin, anyway. And the movement of your troops will only alert the Raider King that something comes his way.

You trained me for this moment. You, Mathew, and Habim. And you trained Iseult too, claiming it was because no one else could protect me like my Thread-family . . . But that wasn’t the whole story, was it? I see that now. My magic sees that now.

You knew all along what we were and what we were meant to do.

So please let us do it. Let us heal the final Well on our terms as the Cahr Awen. And if I don’t make it back, I hereby decree that you are my heir. A bit unorthodox, I know, but you’re the only family I have, and you’re a much better leader than I ever could be.

Just don’t screw it up.

—Safi

P.S. The crown is in my closet at the bottom of the trunk filled with those hideous gowns you insisted an empress needed.

P.P.S. Don’t kill Henrick. He’s actually pretty useful, if you give him enough books to read.

Kullen,

There are two new doorways in the mountain. The portal kind like Eridysi made a thousand years ago. On top of that, the old doorways have reopened again—the ones I destroyed two months ago.

It shouldn’t be possible. I broke the standing stones in the meadow beside the Sightwitch Sister Convent. I severed the Threads that bound Sirmaya’s magic to those megaliths. That power was gone. The doorways were shut. So who could have opened them again? And who could have built new ones, too?

Part of me wants to leave the mountain right now and check the Standing Stones. See if I can find a clue. To build a magic doorway, you need a stone from the destination—a big stone. And then you need to anchor Sirmaya’s Threads to that stone. Eridysi figured out how to do it a thousand years ago, and it’s not easy magic. In fact, no one but a Sightwitch should be able to do it, and since I am the last Sightwitch Sister . . .

I cannot leave my work in the Crypts to go searching for answers. Things are so unstable in the mountain. Quakes rattle through every few hours, and the sleeping ice covers everything. Any magic it can find, it tries to claim.

I only know of the new doors because the Rook has brought me a map—the map I drew for you. But someone has added these doorways. I sent the Rook to check, and he tells me in his bird way that they are real.

Goddess, I wish you’d wake up. I wish Sirmaya would release you. But now I’m really starting to fear that will never happen. Not while she needs every scrap of power she can claim. Otherwise, all the Witchlands will die. All the Witchlands will cleave.

But you are my focus. The taro cards tell me so, every day. Lady Fate, the Cleaved Man, and the Paladin of Hounds. That is all they will ever show me when I draw from the deck. So I will stay focused on you.

You’re important. I always knew that, and I only grow more certain of it each day.

I love you.

—Ryber

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Chapter 22

For three days, Iseult pushed everyone as hard as their horses would allow. After all, Eron must have sent people after them; they needed to be so far ahead, his riders could never catch up.

In some ways, it was good they had nothing more than three Nomatsi packs to sustain them. They were lighter, faster. And in some ways, it was very good they had Aeduan. Without their food supplies, now burned to ash, his magic let them find rabbits and fowl that would otherwise stay hidden in the snow.

Occasionally, the trio passed camps at the roadside. Sometimes, they spotted smoke on the horizon. Twice, they found traveling caravans of traders. Yet no one ever bothered them; no one ever asked, Why are you traveling east into war?

On the fourth day, the gusts that had howled off the Windswept Plains softened, and for the first time since leaving the imperial lodge, they let their horses slow to a walking pace. But clouds hung like frowns on the horizon, and it felt to Iseult like the brewing storm waited for a moment when she might look the other way. Then it would strike with all its might.

It reminded Iseult of the storm Corlant had conjured, when he had cleaved the very sky to chase her.

On the fifth day, they rode hard again. Poznin was close now, three days at most if this blizzard would hold. The lands rolled with uneven, unpredictable hills, as if some god had left their shallow footprints across the plains. It made seeing ahead difficult.

As did the grass that hugged the highway, high as their horses’ chests and spanning as far as their eyes could see.

Halfway through the fifth day, they spotted smoke. Black coils had blended into the storm clouds. Aeduan drew up his mount, letting Iseult and Safi trot to a stop beside him. Then they all waited, their horses’ breaths pluming into the cold as their masters gazed ahead and wind beat against them.

That same wind scattered the smoke, taking thick, black clots and shredding it to papery tendrils.

“That’s more than just a campfire,” Safi said. Her Threads were a muddied mixture of suspicion and worry.

“And the highway goes right through it.” Aeduan, whose face was hidden within his Carawen hood, pointed to the road’s dip and rise. It would indeed take them directly into the smoke and fires. “We will have to circle around.”

Neither Iseult nor Safi responded to this. Instead they met each other’s eyes. “Someone might be hurt,” Iseult said. Cold stung her cheeks and nose.

Safi lowered the scarf across her face. Her freckled cheeks shone red. “We can’t risk finding that out, Iz.”

Iseult’s nose twitched. She knew Safi was right, but that didn’t make it better. Either we lose thousands of lives now, Leopold had said in the Dreaming, or we lose the entirety of the Witchlands when Sirmaya dies. Tell me which sounds preferable to you.

“All right.” Iseult nodded to Aeduan. “Lead us off the road.”

He bobbed his head, eyes flaring red within the shadows of his hood. Then he steered Surefoot into the tall grass. Safi followed atop Dandelion, while Iseult took up the tail with Cloud. This was their usual arrangement, for Aeduan could reach ahead for blood scents while Iseult could reach behind for Threads. The grass was a new challenge, though, slowing them severely.

Which turned out to be the point.

Threads suddenly wavered at the edge of Iseult’s magic, closing in fast. “Raiders!” she shouted at the same moment Aeduan roared, “Attack!”

Then the raiders were there. Tens of Threads zooming in from all sides in an ambush that couldn’t be escaped. Some Threads bore magics. Some only a thrill of cruelty. Yet all wore a shade like violent iron, and there was no stopping the response of Iseult’s magic in kind. The bad side of it that liked to sing, Sever, sever, twist and sever.

She squashed it down. Hard. That magic was only for final measures. Only in situations of last resort. Iseult had blades; she would use them.

Aeduan was already off his mount. Safi too, their blades unsheathing as figures manifested in the grass, hulking shapes lit by brutality.

Threads that break, Threads that die.

“Aeduan!” Iseult shouted. “Can you freeze them before they arrive?”

Aeduan glanced back. His hood had fallen, his eyes glowed red. “Some, but not all.”

“Then do it,” Safi barked, her Threads blazing with imperial expectation.

“Yes.” Aeduan stretched out his arms. His eyes flamed so red it sent lines across his face. And Iseult watched as the nine nearest raiders became statues within the golden grass. Their Threads burst with panic and surprise.

But they didn’t pass out. Instead of Aeduan’s usual magic to dominate them, his hands began to quaver—and already, there were more raiders crashing this way.

Iseult rounded toward Cloud. The horse sensed the tide of violence barreling toward her, but she was trained for war. She made no movement as Iseult freed her weapons from the saddle. First a moon scythe of sharpened steel. Then a second scythe from a mountain bat’s claw. It was the only remnant of Owl that Iseult had, and every time she held the hilt—every time she felt the claw radiate with ancient Threads of earth and stone—she thought of the little girl who wasn’t a little girl at all.

Long ago, when the gods walked among us.

Iseult turned to Safi, and without another word, the Threadsisters launched themselves at the first raiders finally toppling through the frozen grass.

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All Safi saw were Red Sails. Because of course it was Red Sails. When the slaughter was at its ugliest, they were always near.

And this slaughter was ugly. Eight raiders stormed from the grass toward Safi and Iseult, and there was no missing the blood and soot across their vicious faces. Whatever that smoke was from, people had died there—and here were their murderers.

Two men at the front split apart to try to flank Safi and Iseult. Fools. She and Iseult had been trained for this. The reactions lived inside them, written onto their bones by a Firewitch general who accepted no failure. It was a dance, a rhythm, a gliding arrangement of steps that required two partners. And although it might have been months since Safi had fought with Iseult, they were still Threadsisters. Still sun and moon, light and shadow, two halves forever orbiting each other.

The raiders reached the girls.

Initiate. Safi ducked for one man’s knees with her shoulder. He went down while her blade went up. Complete. Iseult bounded over Safi, both moon scythes extended toward the second raider.

Neither man had time to react before steel sliced through and blood sprayed. Hot blood that seemed to sizzle the instant it was exposed to air—as did the organs oozing out with it.

Their bodies hit the snow, but two more raiders were already leaping up from the grass. Safi and Iseult twirled toward each other. Iseult swiped with her mountain bat claw at the first. Safi attacked with steel at the second.

And somehow, as the incoming raider growled at Safi with savagery, as his blood-smeared cutlass swung at Safi’s head, she felt her own sword become the truest steel that had ever sung. It was as if her magic responded in that moment, reaching down her arm, her fingers, sliding into the hilt and blade.

She’d bound her witchery before. First, when she’d made the Truth-lens in Marstok. It had required careful study, using the book Understanding Threads to make the correct knots and braids, loops and weavings.

Second, when she’d turned the lens into a necklace. She’d only had intuition and memory then. It had been slow work, but satisfying.

And now, here she was a third time, and it required almost no effort at all. Here were the Threads of her power; here was the Arlenni Loop, exactly as she’d once seen it on the page. Then the Vergedi knot—harder to make, but stronger in the end.

All of this happened in the space between seconds. The stutter between heartbeats. Then leather and fur split apart, followed by muscle and bone. With a single, frictionless movement, Safi carved off the man’s head.

He went down, his head following a split second later—and with the same expression of shock scored onto it that Safi must be wearing as well. How had she done that? And without any thought at all, only instinct?

No time to wonder or contemplate. Another raider struck, lashing out with a long, pointed blade. But when his steel connected with Safi’s parry, the blade snapped in two.

This was as unexpected as the decapitation—although it shouldn’t have been. She’d imprinted her magic onto the steel. Now it was a blade so true, nothing could stand in its way.

Safi kicked the man in the groin. Flung a flat fist to his chin. Then she levered her leg behind his, and a heartbeat later, the man hit the ground beside his fellows.

The snow in the clearing had turned red. “Incoming,” Iseult yelled, darting away from their miniature battlefield as another clump of raiders tumbled from the grass.

Three froze mid-stride, then collapsed. Safi didn’t need to look back to know Aeduan had joined them. His magic, strangely weak before, seemed to have returned in full force. Which was why, rather than careen directly for the remaining five raiders as Iseult was doing, Safi cut left toward an exposed flank where raiders coalesced in the grass.

Two toppled toward her. They were easily dispatched with her sword that could apparently slice through spine and steel now. True, true, true.

But that was when a third raider whom Safi hadn’t noticed—a man who must have come at her from behind—sprang. The force of his tackle crumpled them both to the earth. Knocked her sword from her grasp. She rolled and wiggled, but her winter furs slowed her.

The man’s face was the only part of him Safi could see. It was thick with stubble. His breath—hot, foul—panted over her. He was trying to pin her to the ground, both his hands pushing her arms into cold tundra.

So Safi let him. For one breath, she relaxed fully and let him get into the position he thought would give him power. False, her magic seemed to laugh. False, false, lies. Then the breath had ended and the man was leering down. Spit fell from his lips. He wasn’t much older than she.

Safi grinned at him before bracing her feet against the man’s, then hefting up her hips and flipping him sideways. He fell, and Safi used the moment to roll the other way. He grabbed for her legs. His fingers clamped onto her calf, and he tried to drag her back. But she had her sword now.

Pivot. Swing. It cut through the arm that held her. At the elbow, clean as a butcher’s knife through fresh meat.

He screamed. His blood sprayed.

And it was then, in the frantic moments while Safi scrabbled to her feet and another raider sprinted toward her, that she saw something she hadn’t noticed on the other raiders: this man’s blood wasn’t truly red. It was too dark. It should have been scarlet upon the snow, but instead it was almost black.

He was cleaving.

No time to assess what that might mean for this fight. The next raiders had arrived, and Iseult was facing a woman who was just as nimble and fast as she was. Worse, she was drawing a Firewitched pistol from her belt. She aimed. Safi dove. The single shot cracked out.

Pain lanced across Safi’s left shoulder. Down to her fingers, up into her skull. Had she been holding her sword in this hand, she would have dropped it. As it was, though, nothing vital was damaged—so despite pain bright and burning, the fight still pumped through her like a sunrise.

Safi ran for the woman with the pistol as the woman tried to reload. The cold made her slow. Or maybe the intensity of it all made Safi fast. Either way, she reached the woman before the pistol winched high again.

“Big mistake,” Safi snarled, and in two arcs of her blade, she carved the pistol from the raider’s grasp—and carved away half her hand too. Then she aimed the sword at the woman’s neck.

Iseult, her cheeks flushed and blood-splattered, now staggered to Safi’s side. “Get on the ground,” she ordered the raider. “Now. Or we will put you there.”

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Today’s Early Access chapter is a big one.

A really, really big one. So if you don’t want some serious spoiler-ing before the release in a month—if you want to savor all of Witchlight in one go, then don’t read on.

But if you just can’t wait—if you’re so tired of waiting, Sooz!!!, then read on. Because your moment has finally come.

(And if you’re just not yet caught up to appreciate the next two chapters, then make sure to start reading the entirety of the Early Access chapters at the button below.)

Witchlight Early Access

Also, we’re less than ONE MONTH until Witchlight hits stores! So be sure you’ve not only pre-ordered, but have also submitted your receipt and VOTED in the short story polls…

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Now onto the moment so many of you have been waiting nine years for… 😌

Chapter 19

Aeduan didn’t need to be told twice. He had smelled the prince near—both of the man’s blood scents—and if Leopold was the one who had set off the explosion . . .

Then Aeduan would destroy him.

With nothing more than a nod of obedience for Iseult, Aeduan abandoned the stream. His muscles flamed with strength, pumped there by his magic. Faster, faster through the trees. He sprinted and veered. Any direction his witchery sensed the prince, Aeduan followed. Two bloods to track.

Leopold fon Cartorra: New leather and smoky hearths.

And the Rook King’s: Clear lake water and frozen winters.

There it was, the Paladin scent. Paces away, but to the left. Aeduan halted so hard, his cloak cracked like a whip. Then he turned and followed Leopold anew.

He knew that he was once more that broken bear from Saldonica, and Leopold was forcing him to stomp and spin wherever he desired. Yet what else could Aeduan do? He couldn’t rest if the prince was here. He couldn’t rest when he knew Leopold might try to hurt Iseult again.

Wind slammed against Aeduan, dismantling snow drifts. Singeing his eyes. He almost missed when the forest changed. The trees went from spaced and natural to a tunnel of nearly locked branches. Footsteps tracked inside.

Aeduan swerved after them.

Faster, harder. Not his mind. Not his body. A collection of seamlessly interacting parts—although . . . He was also inexplicably flagging. Worse, his old were pricking awake.

But the prince was so close. Aeduan could feel the imminence of capture. The lure of prey that could not get away. Any rising pain was a mere distraction. Not his mind, not his body.

Exept halfway into this uncanny tunnel—with the clear lake waters and frozen winters right there—the highest two wounds on Aeduan’s chest erupted with such fire, he gasped. He stumbled.

Run, my child, run, came his dead mother’s voice.

Aeduan’s vision wavered. His rib cage felt as if it were collapsing, and he could do nothing but gulp for air while Leopold’s scent sidled away. Aeduan had had these wounds since childhood, yet never had they tortured him with such brutality. It was as if his dead mother had fallen atop him all over again. As if the six arrows that had punctured her were now puncturing into him again too.

Run, my child, run.

The pain eased. Reluctant, sluggish. Then urgent and freeing. Aeduan regained his footing. Resumed his forward hunt.

Not that it mattered; his prey had flown, and soon the stink of the Solfatarra snaked into Aeduan’s nose. Flickers of rotten eggs and acid before the fog, thick and deadly, rolled into the branch-woven tunnel.

Leopold’s boot prints strode right into the fog.

So Aeduan strode in after him. His chest wounds still ached, but with a throb he could once again ignore. Especially since the acid mist that trawled over him ate at his face wherever his fire-flap didn’t cover. It ate his hands too, and any other part of him not protected by salamander fibers—although even the cloak couldn’t resist this acid forever. And as fast as Aeduan’s magic healed the blistering parts of him, it would never be fast enough to outrun the Solfatarra forever.

Water splashed beneath Aeduan’s boots, a sign he’d reached the poison lake at the heart of the mist. He had no choice now but to stop and abandon his pursuit.

Yet again, the prince had won.

Yet again, the Rook King would fly free.

Run, my child, run.

For several seconds, Aeduan stood there, listening to the silence of the Solfatarra. Feeling the acid burn, scrape, carve into his lungs . . . Then it came: a laugh. Soft, ghostly, unreachable. A mocking sound from a Paladin who lived for mischief and games.

Aeduan’s fingers moved to the sword at his hip. Come, he dared the prince. Come so I may end you. His lips ached where a hole was forming in the flap. His eyeballs were on fire.

But the prince never came, because in the end, he was a coward. Forever working from the shadows. Never stepping into the light. He might make the bear dance, but he would never dare face it head-on.

No man could avoid Lady Fate’s knife forever, though. It would come for Leopold eventually. It would exact all payments owed.

And Aeduan only hoped it would be his hand holding the knife when the prince finally paid up.

None of the supplies survived the blast. All of the carefully accumulated food, kindling, blankets, weapons—all of Iseult’s and Safi’s things, right down to the crates, had been destroyed. Only embers and splinters remained, and scraps from a salamander blanket that would not burn.

Somehow, Iseult preserved her calm as she limped through the tower, searching for anything that might be salvaged. In the end, only the Nomatsi pack from Alma was still intact, thanks to the Nomatsi shield attached to it. But even that was now pocked with holes along the top, where the shield had not protected it.

Perhaps the worst blow of all, though, was Eridysi’s diary. It was gone. Not because the flames had claimed it, but because Leopold had. And in its place was a new book, hidden by rubble. A History of Arithuania’s Rise, Iseult read as she wiped off melted snow and ash. It was an old book, written from before the plague had wiped out the entire Republic—and now it was filled with handwritten notes and drawings.

Leopold clearly wanted Iseult to have this. And given how he’d left it where it could have been easily destroyed, he also clearly hadn’t expected to almost kill Iseult in the blast. He might have known about her and Safi’s supplies, but he hadn’t known about the firepots.

Grim as it was, Iseult was almost satisfied by his miscalculation. What would he have done if he had killed her? How would he have proceeded then? And how much more would he have hated himself for such a vast mistake?

Iseult held the new book toward what few flames still burned. She’d seen Leopold’s neat scrawl before, and now it was crammed so small she had to squint to read it.

One page in particular was thick with annotations: a fold-out map of Poznin, except it was the city as it used to be fifty years ago, before the roads and buildings had been flooded, then eaten away by despair. Leopold had marked all the locations that the Raider King might utilize in his favor. Streets where Ragnor would probably move troops, where he would probably reinforce walls, where he would probably guard most heavily against an attack.

And it was clear the Raider King could defend Poznin and the Air Well for weeks, if not months. The only thing that could possibly defeat such strength and such magic (for Ragnor had many, many witches at his disposal) were numbers. Exactly as Leopold had told Iseult in the Dreaming.

And Leopold had also laid out exactly where to direct such numbers. While the bulk of the Cartorran and Carawen monk forces could attack head-on in a dizzying, aggressive onslaught of bodies against a siege, in the hidden background, the Cahr Awen could infiltrate the city using ancient tunnels that the Raider King had not yet discovered.

In other words: with one hand the armies would distract while the other hand cut the purse.

It was a good plan; Iseult couldn’t deny that. From the arrangement of Cartorran forces upon the field to the use of long-forgotten passages beneath Poznin. But as Iseult had told Leopold less than an hour ago: the cost was too high. She couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t do it. And destroying all of her and Safi’s supplies was not going to force the Cahr Awen to change course.

Iseult clenched her eyes shut. Her fingers moved to a Threadstone that was no longer there, and for half a moment—on a pause between smoky breaths—she felt the Threads that bind. She felt Safi miles away inside the hunting lodge.

Or at least, that’s what Iseult imagined she was feeling.

And she imagined too that she wasn’t here. That instead, the heat sweeping against her was from sun-baked cobblestones in Veñaza City. That it was just her and Safi, two Threadsisters facing off against the world. The only thing they’d wanted in those days was to get enough money to forge out on their own. For years, they’d had adventures and made mischief and cared for nothing but what the next day might bring.

Now here they were, hundreds of leagues and countless lifetimes away. So much had changed in the last few months. And yet nothing has changed at all.

At that thought, a plan assembled in Iseult’s mind, slicing through her brain as clearly as Leopold’s drawings upon the page—except these were her thoughts and her visions of a terrain that waited ahead. Planning had always been her greatest strength. Logic, organization, careful strategy. These were the skills she used to complete all the wild, impulsive schemes that Safi initiated them into.

And while Safi might not have started this particular scheme, that didn’t mean Iseult couldn’t find a way to finish it.

Her hand fell from her collarbone. She closed the book on Poznin history. It was thinner than Eridysi’s diary, but only by half an inch. Otherwise, its dimensions were nearly the same—meaning it slipped easily into the case at Iseult’s hip. She fastened the buckle with a click, then crouched over to grab the now-pocked Nomatsi pack. The weight settled across her shoulders with creaking ease. The shield, however, was no use anymore, so she left it behind. One more artifact for this tower to claim.

Threads raveled at the corners of Iseult’s magic. Hell-Bards and soldiers, she assumed, wondering why an inferno had erupted into the night. She didn’t want to explain, and she certainly didn’t want to be caught with this pack upon her shoulders or crates of supplies aflame.

So she left behind the tower where she had almost died—more than once now—and she felt no regrets over the wreckage. Instead, she felt only cold fury and hard, indomitable determination.

Safi awoke thinking that war had come. Cannons, she thought. I hear cannons.

But there was no follow-up boom, and she was not on a battlefield or trapped on a warship. She was simply in her room, the shadows complete because someone had banked her fire and blown out her lamps.

She felt drunk as she tried to rise. Why did I hear cannons? The bed spun. She was still dressed.

A knock at her door. “Come,” she growled, her throat fighting her as much as her mind and body did.

A Hell-Bard shoved in. “There’s been an explosion in the forest, Your Imperial Majesty. About half a mile from here. We don’t know if it’s an attack or something else.”

Something else? Safi wanted to demand. What the tits else causes an explosion? But she only waved at the man and barked, “Update me as soon as you know.”

He bowed. He turned to leave.

“Wait. What is the hour?”

“The twenty-third chimes just sounded.”

So late? Safi waved at him again. The word, Dismissed, was beyond her current capacity—and he seemed to understand, for he said, “Should I send for Monk Evrane?”

She shook her head. Then regretted that movement. Then waved even more emphatically for the Hell-Bard to go. This time he obeyed.

Once her door clicked shut, Safi gulped in air and probed at her head with her fingers. The Cahr Awen were still in there, but so was Evrane’s magic. It wanted to suck her back into sleep. It wanted to roll her out to sea on the tide.

But if it was almost midnight, then it was almost time for Safi and Iseult to leave. So Safi dragged herself from her bed. Surely whatever had just happened in the forest would not affect Iseult. Surely at any moment her Threadsister would shove in wondering why Safi wasn’t ready for the road.

Except . . . Cannons. War. Explosion in the forest. Safi’s stomach plummeted. Her breath punched from her lungs. Suddenly she knew exactly what could set the night on fire.

As did the Cahr Awen souls. Already, she could feel them reawakening. The barrel of bees stirring, wanting to sting and buzz and shove back into the cracks of her brain. You must leave. Do not let this stop you! Do not stay here!

“Yes,” she snarled, staggering toward her closet—and toward the clothes she had already chosen to keep her warm on the road.

Her fingers moved for her Threadstone. But it wasn’t there, because it hadn’t been for weeks. Safi still felt incomplete without it.

Gods below, she hoped Iseult was all right. And gods below, she wasn’t about to wait here to find out. She let her hand fall. She had a secret way out of the castle—one she and Iseult had used whenever they needed to evade Caden and his Hell-Bards.

Thinking of Caden made Safi’s ribs hurt.

Thinking of Iseult made them hurt far more. But the girls did have a backup plan in case the worst happened. A spot to meet, where they could regroup, recalibrate, and reevaluate without the controlling eyes of Eron or Evrane.

In minutes, Safi was dressed. All beige, all wool or fur or leather meant to withstand the Windswept Plains and their ire. A scarf cloaked her face, gloves warmed her hands. She was boiling in her bedroom, but she’d be glad for the extra heat as soon as she slid through the hidden doorway tucked in the closet’s back corner. It was a spot Henrick had told her about because why not? It was no use to him anymore.

Once she’d strapped a sword and a parrying knife at her hip, Safi tugged the final piece of preparation she needed for the night. It was not intended for the road; it was nothing more than a letter folded over and sealed with Hasstrel blue wax—and the Hasstrel mountain bat stamp. Love and dread, she thought for the second time that day as she placed the letter on her desk.

Cold air coiled off her window. Snow billowed and spun outside. And in the hall, a three-beat rhythm that heralded Uncle Eron and his cane stomped out. “Let me in to see Her Majesty.”

Sorry, Safi thought. You’re just a few seconds too late. She spun from her desk, reaching her closet just in time to hear the bang-bang-bang of a furious fist against the door. She slunk into her closet, wedged behind a shelf, and found the hidden bump that marked a hole in the stones.

Knock, knock, she thought as she tapped out the secret rhythm. The stones vanished. Frost billowed against her. Her bedroom door cracked open and Eron called her name, an edge to his voice that meant he suspected what she was up to.

But he was too late to stop her. His empress had escaped. The night and freedom had claimed her.

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Chapter 20

Iseult went to a new spot in the forest. It was beside the same stream where Aeduan had left her, but a different clearing. A mere patch of shore where trees hadn’t grown. This was the secret backup spot to meet Safi, in case things went wrong.

And things had gone very wrong.

Here, there was no hole in the ice to reveal dark waters. Here, the snows had not banked quite so high.

Iseult dropped the Nomatsi pack, reaching for the taler at her neck. This was her chance to slip away. She should have removed it at the tower . . . but she hadn’t. She should have removed it at the tribe, but she hadn’t. She should have removed it at any time in the past week, but she hadn’t.

For all that she had criticized Safi, Iseult was absolutely no better. And even now, she didn’t remove the taler.

The night was too quiet around her. Too real after the sensory overwhelm at the tower. Iseult’s senses were so keyed up, she felt raw. Overly receptive to the wind’s bite, the stream’s burble, the snow’s talons. She heard Aeduan long before she saw him. And she felt how incensed he was, as if Threads really did weave above him, revealing all he felt while he stalked from the trees.

She just hoped it was not with her that he was incensed. He would have every right to be.

“I lost Leopold,” he told her once he was near enough to be heard. “I am sorry.” He came to a stop beside Iseult on the shore, his cloak swishing around him. His cheeks were red with exertion, his eyes red with magic. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

His gaze flicked to the pack. Held there for three breaths. Then flicked to Iseult’s face again. “Why did Leopold try to kill you?”

“I don’t think he meant to. He was . . .” Iseult wet her lips.

“Trying to keep you here.”

“Yes.”

“You were going to leave for Poznin.”

“Yes.”

An expansion of time. A stilling of Aeduan’s chest as he studied Iseult. His witchery drained from his irises; the usual pale blue returned. “And now? Will you still go?”

“Yes.”

His nostrils flared, but he said nothing more. He didn’t ask if he could come, he didn’t insist that Iseult should stay. In the distance, a crow cawed into the night. Ice popped and groaned on the stream, while the overwhelm of Iseult’s senses ratcheted up another notch.

The snowflakes were too cold on her cheeks. Her breath was too big in her lungs. Her clothes were too constrictive across her body.

And Aeduan . . .

Aeduan felt too dangerous. There would be no escaping him now, and she couldn’t believe she’d ever wanted to. That she had ever convinced herself that leaving him would be the right course. There is no we, there is no us. He had said that to her in Tirla, and it had broken her heart.

Now she had planned to do the same—and standing here, facing him in a clearing made of winter, she couldn’t pretend she hadn’t known it would cut him. That even though his face wore no expression , inwardly, he was bleeding.

“I . . . did not want . . .” Iseult bit out each word. Carefully. Clearly, so there could be no confusion. “To leave you. But . . . I saw no o-other way.”

Aeduan didn’t reply. The exerted flush from his cheeks was fading, blending the pallor of his skin into the pallor of his eyes into the whiteness of his cloak—and into the snow tangling around them.

“You should not have to face your father,” Iseult continued. “I d-don’t want you to have to choose.”

“I have already chosen.”

“Yes, but . . .” Iseult gritted her molars. “No one should have to kill their parent. And wh-what if it comes to that in Poznin?”

Aeduan’s jaw clenched. His eyes glinted red. “Then I will choose exactly what I chose before.”

Yes, and that is the problem. For Iseult could not deny one powerful thing: she was glad she had not killed Corlant. She was glad Leopold had shoved that blade through her father’s spine so that she wouldn’t have to. Wretched as it was, it had been a gift.

And Iseult wanted to give the same to Aeduan.

“I will stay here,” he said flatly, “if that is what you want from me.”

Iseult’s eyes screwed shut. She could feel Aeduan retreating into himself. Closing off emotion as adeptly as a Threadwitch. She understood that instinct because it was a match for her own: reject that which might reject you, for it hurt less if you were the one to act.

You can lie to yourself, she’d told him in Tirla. But you cannot lie to me.

She opened her eyes. “I don’t w-want this. Of course I don’t want this, Aeduan.”

A pause. A gnarl of fogged breath. Then: “So do not do it.” Fabric rustled, snow crunched, and in a sweep of speed, Aeduan closed the space between them. He knelt before her on the snow. “Please, Dark-Giver. Please . . . Iseult. My blood I offer freely.”

Iseult reached for his face.

“My Threads I offer wholly.”

Yes, she wanted to say.

“Claim my Aether.”

Yes. She ran a knuckle down his jaw.

“Guide my blade.”

Yes. She gripped Aeduan’s chin and forced his head to rise. Forced his icy gaze to meet hers as he uttered the final words: “From now until the end.”

Yes. Iseult sighed. Blood. Witch. Blood. Witch. The words pulsed through her in time to her heart. In time to her blood. How had she ever thought she could leave him behind?

“Come with me,” she finally offered in Nomatsi. Quiet as the fireflies that had once floated with them beside a different stream in a different forest far away. “Come with me, Monk Aeduan, to Poznin.”

Now his eyes were the ones to shutter, and he was the one to sigh. He sank into her hand. “Yes. I will come.” He slid his fingers around Iseult’s wrist, and pressed his thumb into the place where her pulse did not flutter so much as boom. Blood. Witch. Blood. Witch.

She softened her grip on his chin. His breath was warm against her fingertips, so at odds with the winter night around them. Iseult’s muscles moved without conscious thought. Her thumb stretched long. She touched Aeduan’s bottom lip. Stroked down.

His eyes snapped wide. His breathing ceased, as did hers.

Then he tugged at her wrist. More request than command, but it made Iseult’s legs collapse all the same.

Her knees hit the snow. Her eyes came almost level to his, and there was a look on his face she’d never seen before. As if he were afraid to hurt her. As if he feared he might break her if he made any further move.

But didn’t he know Iseult better than that? Didn’t he know she had gone through seafire to save him and broken a Well to heal him? This frozen moment could do her no harm.

Then it struck her: Aeduan didn’t fear she would break at his touch. He feared that he would. So she leaned in. An inch. Then two. Closer, closer, slow enough that he could pull away if he wanted to, needed to.

He didn’t pull away. Their lips grazed. Their breaths mingled. And at last, the Threads of the moment gave way. The red strands that bound them snapped taut.

At the touch of Iseult’s lips, Aeduan broke in two. A stiletto in his heart. A breaking of his spine beside a lighthouse. He felt his magic surge. Inexplicably, because he’d never been able to sense Iseult. Never felt his witchery respond to her nearness. Yet it swelled and burned all the same. No pain in his old wounds, nor even an awareness of the wounds in the first place.

There was only Iseult, pulsing and here.

A moan unraveled from her. The vibration of it curled into Aeduan’s mouth, into his chest. His fingers dug into her wrist; her fingers turned to claws against his chin.

She swiveled her hand in Aeduan’s grasp—a move he had taught her months ago, in one of their many sparring sessions across the Sirmayans. It broke his grip and forced his entire arm to follow wherever she led it.

Which was above him. Then behind him, so that he abruptly toppled backward onto the snow. Iseult toppled with him, bracing her legs on either side of his body with such ease Aeduan would have been vexed by her win—if he weren’t so transfixed by her above him. Had she always looked so powerful? Had she always felt so strong, with her face of shadows and moonlight? Her lips shuddered with each breath. Her hair flew on the breeze, and her thighs trembled against his waist.

“I will stop,” she murmured, “if you want me to.”

“Te varuje,” he replied.

And there was that smile of hers. Subtle and disarming. It sent a thrill into Aeduan’s gut. Made his witchery and his desire respond in turn. He flipped her.

She saw it coming, of course, but he was much too fast for her to stop. His hips bucked; his right leg swung out; she fell. Yet before her back could hit the snow, Aeduan caught her and eased her down. She grabbed his baldric in two white-knuckled fists. Then he settled her onto the cleared patch of snow his body had left behind.

“You shouldn’t waste energy,” she told him, “on showing off.”

“And you should not challenge someone more skilled than you.”

“Then teach me,” she replied, and she yanked Aeduan to her. Their lips touched a second time. Their teeth and tongues too, while Aeduan’s mind, Aeduan’s body, and Aeduan’s magic shattered all over again.

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I hope you enjoyed that.

I spent actual days trying to make it perfect, going back again and again to their most pivotal interactions throughout the series so I could echo that language and help build the scale of resonance I felt their first kiss deserved.

More chapters to come soon—and more ships to sail too. 😘

💚 - Sooz

I wrote this years ago with the thought that maybe I’d explore it in a novella…But clearly the novella hasn’t happened (yet). That doesn’t change their love story, though!

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We have a pretty clear winner so far in terms of our short story set-up…

But it’s still early days. That trajectory could change with enough votes!

Now on to the main event…

The Tale of Mathew and Habim

Devastatingly handsome (and devastatingly serious) Habim Fashayid is a young Firewitch general in the Marstoki Army. He has risen through the ranks not merely by the strength of his witchery, but also by his head for strategy.

When he gets stationed at a prison camp in a lake-side city in the Sirmayan mountains known as Tirla, he is less than thrilled. Sure: it is a key stronghold, right on the ever-shifting border with Cartorra and Dalmotti. And sure, the city is a bustling hub of soldiers and merchants and supply chains, so his knack for logistics is often called upon. But this definitely wasn’t the wild battlefields he expected to brave.

Meanwhile, in the same city, lives a devastatingly handsome -- and devastatingly charming -- young Wordwitch: Mathew fitz Leaux. He runs a grand smuggling operation, selling things to prisoners, to guards, and to soldiers from all three armies nearby, and no matter how hard the Marstoki army (or Cartorran or Dalmotti armies) try to catch the wily con artist...no luck.

Which is why Habim makes it his goal to bring the man down. Of course, every trap Habim sets, Mathew escapes. Over and over, Habim tries to get to Mathew -- but in every single instance, Mathew escapes at the last minute with a winning smile and clever compliment.

Over the course of his mission, Habim unwillingly gets to know Mathew. He has to research the man to follow him, and he suspects Mathew has been researching him in turn. How else can the man so deftly evade each of his traps?

And what is Habim supposed to make of the gifts suddenly arriving in his quarters and on his desk? His favorite Marstoki wine, his favorite dessert, a unique painting that would look nice in his quarters. But most important of all -- the one gift Habim can’t resist: coffee. Real, rich Marstoki coffee.

Meanwhile, throughout this game of cat and mouse, Habim has been attempting to finally crack a Hell-Bard prisoner of war named Eron fon Hasstrel. The young man is a close confidant of the new emperor, Henrick, so he knows things. However, much like Habim’s failed attempts to catch Mathew, every interrogation attempt unravels. Eron won’t share a damned thing that might endanger his countrymen, but he’ll gladly preach and philosophize about peace in the Witchlands.

Outlandish ideas, of course. This war has gone on in some form or other for centuries. However, the more Habim talks to Eron, the less outlandish his ideas sound.

When word reaches Habim’s desk that the Twenty Year Truce is about to happen, Habim realizes he has a choice: he can either go back to Marstok and continue to serve by training troops. Or he can try to actually make a difference and stop this war altogether.

He can join Eron fon Hasstrel.

But in order to do that, Habim will need to make himself disappear -- while also not disappearing at all. Fortunately, there is a certain smuggler who might be able to help him with that...

Honestly, reading this summary made me want to write this so badly. I can’t deny it. The chemistry between Mathew and Habim—THE CHEMISTRY. Not to mention the importance of all this backstory for what comes in the core Witchlands series…

But alas, for now, it will just have to remain a summary. One day, when I don’t have so many books due, perhaps I can turn my attention to it. 🔥

TELL ME: what’s your favorite ship in the Witchlands? Do you have one?

Leave a comment

I obviously don’t have one, although I do really, really, really, REALLY love a certain ship and how it develops in Witchlight. There is a twist that will be shared in the Early Access that I can’t wait for you all to get to…

More chapters next week!

💚 - Sooz

Only 56 days until the book hits shelves and e-readers and headphones everywhere! So be sure you’ve finished your reread, pre-ordered the book (US links here, UK links here) and are emotionally ready for the EPIC CONCLUSION coming your way!

I’ve got a lot of Witchlands content coming at you in the next eight weeks, and that means a lot of Witchlight early access chapters!

So scroll down to get reading, and stay tuned for more goodness in your inboxes soon. 😌

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Chapter 17

Safi knew she needed to finish packing. She’d gotten the map; she’d handled her Hell-Bard captain; all that was left was to gather her travel clothes for the night’s departure. And eat—she should probably eat.

However, all Safi was actually able to do was to stagger through the lodge toward her bedroom. Tears over Caden had accumulated in her skull. And worse, always worse, the Cahr Awen were being noisy.

Relentlessly noisy, but in an incoherent way that resulted from a hundred souls mashing together with no single language and no real grasp on reality. It was like having a beehive for a skull. They buzzed, they droned, they never wanted to sleep.

Tonight, they were especially rattled. Do something seemed to be their message—but that was as much clarity as Safi could glean from them.

And gods below, her head hurt. All she wanted to do was curl onto her bed with her velvet band across her eyes. Surely the souls would quiet eventually, and maybe, if she was lucky, she could get a few hours of sleep after that.

Unfortunately, Safi didn’t reach her door before Monk Evrane cornered her. So close, Safi thought, gazing at her nearby square of Hell-Bards.

“Excuse me,” Evrane said, holding a satchel the size of two fists. “I have a healer’s kit here that Iseult requested. But she is not in her quarters. Perhaps I can give it to you?”

“Of course,” Safi forced out. Be polite. Don’t cringe. “That’s very helpful of you, Monk Evrane. Thank you.” She tried to move past.

But the monk cut into her path. “I thought perhaps Iseult was injured, but now I suspect you are the one who is actually hurting.” Then she quickly added, “Your Imperial Majesty.”

Evrane was a woman accustomed to titles and royalty, and as such, she hadn’t once tried to cross the barriers of Safi’s crown since joining them. A wall had come up around Safi that only Uncle Eron and Caden seemed comfortable enough to cross. And Iseult, of course.

Although, to be fair, Safi did avoid Evrane as often as she could, giving the woman no opportunities to even pass within her imperial cage. Safi’s brain hurt all the time. She didn’t want Evrane nagging her precisely as she was doing now.

Liar, her magic nudged. You know that is not why you avoid her.

“No pain,” Safi lied, “I am fine.” Her voice didn’t sound convincing—and Evrane clearly didn’t believe her, because for once, the monk pushed against Safi’s cage.

“Are you injured?”

“No, I’m fine.” Her magic scratched at her spine. Lie, lie, lie.

And Monk Evrane nudged once more: “I can ease pain, you know. Or craft you Painstones that will help whatever it is that ails you.”

Painstones. Safi had tried one of those a week ago. It hadn’t helped at all.

“Or,” Evrane continued, advancing a single step closer and dropping her voice, “I can help you fall asleep.”

Ah. Now they had gotten to the crux of the matter. “It’s the Cahr Awen souls, Monk Evrane. All the souls that are trapped inside me from the broken Threadstones. They . . . push.” Safi dug her fingers into the left side of her forehead, as if this motion might somehow explain how it felt. “It hurts and makes sleep difficult.”

“Hmm,” Evrane agreed, as if all of this made sense to her. “I cannot relieve your burden, Your Imperial Majesty, but I can attempt to dull the pain—and I can certainly give you enough relief for sleep. That is . . . if you will allow me into your quarters?”

Safi swallowed. She didn’t want Evrane in her quarters. She didn’t want Evrane talking to her in this voice accented by Nubrevnan. Most of all, she didn’t want to open her eyes and meet the dark Nihar irises she knew were standing right there. Inescapable.

Safi swallowed a second time. Then, after several seconds of only taut silence to fill the hall, she twisted away from Evrane. “All right,” she said, finally letting her eyes open. “You may come inside.”

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Safi didn’t bother to remove her day’s clothes, filthy though her shirt was and even filthier the gray breeches. Even her boots she kept on. The flames in her hearth rolled heat through the room and flickered orange light over a tall, many-paned window with a desk beneath it and a wide canopied bed several paces away—a bed onto which Safi now flung herself.

“Do what you will,” she said with a flip of her hand toward the monk who’d followed her. Then Safi closed her eyes and waited. She couldn’t look at Evrane closely. She couldn’t.

Evrane didn’t move for several seconds, and Safi could easily imagine the indecision the monk must feel. She adhered so strongly to formality. To ritual and station, to bows and titles and of course, the holy adulation she afforded both Safi and Iseult. All her life Evrane had dreamed of finding and supporting the Cahr Awen, now here was the chosen pair. Now, here were all the Wells being healed one by one.

But in the end, Safi was still just a girl with a headache who hadn’t slept in so very, very long. And in the end, Evrane was a healer witch.

Safi heard when Evrane moved: a slight clinking of belt buckles and blades, a soft swish of her white Carawen cloak as if she pulled it back from her shoulders. Safi felt the weight of the monk easing onto the mattress beside her.

“It is your head that hurts? Anywhere else?”

“No. Just the head. And . . . well, the neck in turn.” Safi was careful to keep her eyes clenched shut. Evrane was very near. Nearer than she had been in the hall. Nearer than she had been since returning to Safi’s company a month ago.

Almost as near as her nephew had been during their brief encounter inside a mountain.

“I cannot draw out the souls that cause the pressure,” Evrane explained, lowering her voice to a gentle intimacy. “I will do what I can to dampen the pain by reducing the swelling in your brain—only by a small amount, of course. But it should help relieve the pressure. And then I will send a sleeping wave through your body. Will that be all right, Your Imperial Majesty?”

Again, Safi nodded. It was all she wanted; it would make her days so much more bearable. It would make the pain and the pressure more bearable too, since they were not a burden that anything could relieve other than healing the final Well.

Which I am about to do, she reminded herself—and reminded the souls in turn. In a few hours, I am going to do what you want.

But that didn’t appease them. It never appeased them. They were bees trapped in a barrel, and now they simply buzzed worse than before.

“I will touch your head,” Evrane said. “But my hands are cold. I am sorry.”

“Cold is good,” Safi murmured, and it was true. Sometimes, when the weight of her blindfold wasn’t enough, she would tuck cold stones beneath her velvet wrap so they pressed against her eyes.

Evrane’s hands laid upon her, and ah. There was the wave, like a sweet tide on the Jadansi. For several minutes, as pain dripped and dropped out of her skull, Safi felt as if she were back in Veñaza City. Back beside the sea forever lapping against the wharf where Mathew’s coffee shop lived.

It made her throat choke up. Made her entire rib cage ache. How long had she and Iseult been gone? Could she even measure how much their lives had changed? They would never get a place of their own now. They would never get to escape and simply be.

Despite Safi’s best efforts, she was less free now than she’d ever been. She had a crown upon her head—and it weighed almost as heavy as these souls trapped inside her. Meanwhile Iseult had a power so vast, she was stuck forever on a knife’s edge, afraid that if she moved, the knife would cut and kill all she loved.

At some point, Safi wasn’t sure when, tears started to slide down her cheeks. And although she knew where the tears would lead her . . . although she knew she would have to wipe her cheeks eventually . . .

Safi opened her eyes and looked at Evrane. The monk’s hands were on Safi’s brow—no longer cold—and the fire behind the monk lit her hair into a silvery halo.

“He’s not dead,” Safi said in Nubrevnan, and there it was. The words Safi was afraid to say. “He’s not dead, and I saw him.”

For several seconds, Evrane did not move. Her gaze was fastened on Safi, her pupils large and unfocused while her magic still floated through Safi. Then Evrane’s eyelids shuttered halfway. She breathed, “Oh.”

Her hands withdrew. The caress of her magic did not. “How do you know?”

“I saw him inside a mountain,” Safi said simply. “It was filled with ice and winds and shadow, and although he was scarred and . . . and . . .” She motioned to the right side of her face, to where burns had changed the prince into someone almost unrecognizable. “I knew him in an instant.” I knew his eyes, so very much like yours.

“He isn’t dead,” Safi repeated, more forcefully this time. “Merik still lives.” She pushed upright, a wobbly movement that sent Evrane grabbing for her and shoving pillows behind her back. But Safi didn’t need pillows. She felt better than she’d felt in days. Perhaps, she thought vaguely, because this was a pressure that needed releasing too.

“I don’t know where he is now, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I don’t really understand what I saw or how Merik came to be there. For a time, I thought maybe I’d dreamed the entire thing. Except, I know . . .” She pressed at her stomach. Then her chest. “I just know in the very core of my magic that it wasn’t a dream. Merik’s alive, somehow, and he’s out there.” She waved ineffectually toward the window, as if Merik were merely on the ramparts. As if he might turn up at any moment, scarred but still himself.

Evrane nodded slowly, a thoughtful triangle forming between her brows. It was clear she didn’t understand what Safi was saying—and how could she when Safi didn’t understand it herself? But it was also clear she was overjoyed to learn her nephew lived. Safi didn’t need to be a Threadwitch to spot this.

“Thank you for telling me, Your Imperial Majesty.” A pause. A swallow. “I will . . . will send word to all my contacts so they may search for him.”

Safi exhaled a soft Hye. Then she added: “And I have already asked all the spies in Henrick’s . . . or rather, in my vast network to search for him too. Hopefully we can find him. Hopefully you can see him again.”

Evrane didn’t answer. Her thoughts currently lived in another place, her fingers splayed across her lap like sea stars in a tidal pool. She looked older than she was. And tired. Neither monk nor healer witch, but simply a woman who’d lost too much.

Then, as if watching the tide rise up—as if watching the sea stars climb back into the waters they knew best—Evrane’s demeanor changed. “Sometimes I marvel at how selfish grief can be. Are we sad for those we lost? Or are we sad for what we did not remember to do?” She fastened her dark Nihar eyes onto Safi, and with the same gentleness from before, she eased Safi onto the pillows.

Then she laid her hands on Safi’s forehead, and the soothing, salty tides swept into Safi anew.

“I know you hate your uncle, Safiya, and I suspect that in many ways, Merik feels the same way toward me—and likely Aeduan feels it too, for I raised him with as much harsh care as I gave Merik. But in the end, nothing can change that we do the best we can with the tools we have. Sometimes we use our tools wisely. Sometimes . . .” Evrane shook her head. “Sometimes our best is not enough.”

The tides swept in more strongly, but they were not drowning waters. Nor rough and stormy. They were gentle currents meant to carry Safi’s floating body out to sea, where healing and sleep awaited.

“I hope that I see Merik again one day, if only so I may tell him that he has turned out far wiser and far fiercer than I could have ever dreamed he would be. Now sleep, Safiya, and dream of peace in your mind, peace in your body.”

Safi sighed. Her muscles softened. And there it was: the true sleep that had eluded her for days.

The last thing Safi heard before she sank under was: “Thank you, Light-Bringer, for this gift you have given me tonight. It was the reminder I needed that the path I am on is true.”

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Chapter Eighteen

The moon was fully risen by the time Iseult navigated the Nomatsi trail again. She did not return to the hunting lodge, but instead made her way to the ancient tower with its altar inside. The pack weighed heavy on her back, but it was steady. Comfortable, even.

She scanned the tower, full of shadows. A world of black and white. Snow still skated languidly down, and a barely perceptible wind whispered by every few seconds. But something was wrong. Something had changed since Iseult had come here with Safi that morning.

There were the supplies, tucked into the darkest corner with the blanket above. Snow had once more banked around the crates.

There was the altar, only ten feet away. Still, silent, timeless.

There were the crumbling walls and broken staircase and winter trees beyond.

Iseult shifted her weight, splaying her toes in her boots, trying to find warmth. The pack shifted with her. She should add its supplies to the organized crates in the corner. Open up the leather and catalog exactly what Alma had given her.

But Iseult didn’t move. Instead, she eased the pack off her back, letting it land directly behind her. A bulwark against cold—and against the strangeness still huddling around her.

There were no Threads here, so she did not fear humans. And she didn’t fear animals, since they, like men, avoided this place. Of course, there were ways to hide Threads. Ways to travel that even a Threadwitch could not see . . .

Wind pulled at her hair as she withdrew Eridysi’s diary from a leather pouch at her belt. She always kept it with her, for its words were too precious, too dangerous to ever leave untended.

Iseult lowered to the snow-covered earth, folding her legs beneath her before lay the diary on her lap. She closed her eyes. She slipped into the Dreaming.

It was so easy here, in this old tower where the walls between this world and the Old Ones’ were thinner. She only had to imagine the Dreaming, and suddenly she was there. The night hazed around her. The edges of her vision blurred into gray nothing.

“Leopold,” she called. “I know you’re here. Show yourself.”

She sensed his emergence before she saw him. A heaviness where her periphery smeared—a slowing of time that made the snow drift differently, as if gravity no longer operated by the same rules.

She turned toward him and found he was not Leopold at all, but the purest distillation of his Paladin form. He stood at the tower’s entrance, a ghostly figure. Almost insubstantial, yet also many people at once, many genders and many races before all the incarnations of his Paladin soul finally settled into the version Iseult knew best: Leopold fon Cartorra.

Except now he wore the Rook King’s silver crown, and his cloak was black and bulky, adding breadth to what she knew were lean shoulders.

“This is a welcome surprise.” His voice and Threads indicated it wasn’t welcome at all. “I did not think I would see you again, Dark-Giver.”

“Don’t c-call me that.” It was Iseult’s title as the Cahr Awen, but Leopold always made it sound insulting. She rose to her dream feet while her physical body remained behind. “Where are you? I know you must be near.” The last time she had seen Leopold in person had been here, after he’d stabbed Corlant in the back.

Leopold paused at that altar now, inspecting the precise spot where his blade had cut through Corlant’s spine, as if he were an artist looking upon his work. “Is it so strange to want to see how the Cahr Awen fares?”

“Yes.”

“I have spent a thousand years trying to heal the Wells. Give an old soul this . . . pleasure.”

“Except you were the one who betrayed the Six. Oh yes, I’ve read the diary in full now, Leopold. Eridysi writes that you betrayed the Six so that the Exalted Ones knew of your plans. The Six were going to kill the Exalted ones, but you warned them. And so the Six failed.”

“And Eridysi was wrong. I was not the betrayer, Iseult.” A pause. A contemplative twirl of Leopold’s Threads as he motioned toward the altar. “I was, in fact, the one who ensured the Exalted Ones were slain.”

“Portia was not slain.”

“Was not, but now is.” He smiled, and although he didn’t add it, Iseult could practically hear him saying: Because I slayed her. She was in Corlant’s body, and I killed Corlant so you would not have to.

“Why are you here, Leopold?” Iseult spoke more forcefully now. “Why are you in this tower, lurking so I’ll find you? I w-want an honest answer. None of your charm or lies.”

“Ah, but charm is a prince’s only weapon, remember?”

“And you are not a prince anymore.”

He laughed. A twinkling sound that clashed with the brutal frustration in his Threads. “I am here because it would seem that you and Safiya are leaving. Abandoning all the forces Dom fon Hasstrel and Monk Evrane have assembled for you.”

Iseult wanted to recoil. Wanted to gasp. How does he know? Who has he told? But she clung to her Threadwitch training. She was stasis through and through.

“It will be a march to your death,” Leopold continued. “If you travel east, just the two of you, you will not survive long enough to heal the Well. You will not even reach Poznin, for that matter. The Raider King is not a man to be trifled with. He is the greatest strategic mind of the last millennia.”

Iseult presented a thoughtful silence. One breath. Two. Then she said coolly: “I’m surprised you would say that about someone who isn’t you.”

A snort and a flash of Threads that, for once, actually matched the amusement on his face. “Why do you think I made him my general? I know what my strengths are, and they are not battlefield tactics. Meanwhile, Ragnor has both knowledge and experience that span generations.”

“So why not kill him?” Iseult flipped a dismissive hand. “Why not use a-all your sneaking and shadowy tricks to eliminate him, Leopold?”

Another snorting laugh, this time with Threads of violet disappointment. As if Iseult was a particularly slow pupil. Against her will, heat burned in her chest.

“Trust me, Dark-Giver: I have tried to kill him, but he has accounted for every strategic possibility—including assassination. So only brute force will get you through his armies.”

“Brute force,” Iseult repeated. “Meaning people will die. Countless people—on his side and ours. Don’t you care about that at all?”

“Not particularly.” Leopold opened his arms. The black of his clothes smeared like wings. “Either we lose thousands of lives now or we lose the entirety of the Witchlands when Sirmaya dies. Tell me which sounds preferable to you.”

“Funny how you never put your life at risk, though.”

A sneer carved down Leopold’s handsome face. His Threads however remained placid and unperturbed. “You have no idea what risks I’ve taken. I have done nothing but help you and Safiya. Please recall who found you in Tirla, all alone. Who reunited you with your Threadsister in Cartorra. Who gave you an army, that you foolishly set free—”

“Because Hell-Bards are people, not tools.”

“—and who killed your father so that you would not have to.” Leopold strode toward Iseult, closing the distance between them until all she could see was his face. All she could feel was the icy core of his Threads, crackling with static and cold. He had a Paladin’s Threads. Overwhelming in power and violent in their intensity.

“Everything that has gotten you and Safiya this far—it has been my doing.”

“No.” Iseult cocked up her chin. “It has been your manipulation. Because you work forever behind the scenes, never willing to take direct action. Why is that, I wonder?” She canted toward him. Closer, closer, until only inches separated them in this cold, hazy place of nothing. “I think you avoid direct action, Leopold, b-because then, if you fail, you can absolve yourself of any blame.”

The silvery core of his Threads dilated. The sneer carved deeper down his face. But Iseult wasn’t finished yet.

“Tell me, Leopold, how many Cahr Awens have you nudged along and given armies to over the last thousand years? How many of them failed and died because you refused to ever work with them directly?”

“I will not let you and Safiya go alone to Poznin. I will not let you leave this lodge without an army.”

“And what will you do to stop us?” Iseult motioned to her body, still seated in the real world with the diary upon her lap. “Stopping us would require you to act, and I don’t think you’re capable of it.”

“Do not underestimate me, Dark-Giver.”

“Do not underestimate me, Trickster.”

The sneer fell away. In its place, a smile curled across Leopold’s lips, like an asp coiling to strike. His Threads folded outward in a meteor shower. “Trickster,” he purred. “Yes, that is what you so love to call me. But what is it the Nomatsis say? May the Moon Mother light your path, and may Trickster never find you.

“Well, I’ve found you. And I have acted in a manner that is quite direct and not at all conducted behind the scenes.” Now Leopold was the one to motion, although not toward Iseult but rather to the dark corner where her supplies awaited.

They were not so dark now.

“Enjoy the flames, Iseult. They burn so brightly in this ancient place of memories.” Leopold backed away. The charge of him receded, his body fading like smoke into the sky.

Iseult lurched out of the Dreaming, her body crudely trying to remember how muscles connected to ligaments connected to bones. Heat billowed, orange and blue, fed by the fuel of Iseult’s and Safi’s supplies.

They were all on fire.

Somehow, while Iseult was distracted in the Dreaming, Leopold had ignited the crates, and now they all burned.

Iseult half crawled toward those flames, toward the smoke and heat billowing above it all. She didn’t think to cover her mouth or face, nor did she think to protect herself in any way. Not until she made it five steps over and suddenly remembered what was inside the crates.

Firepots.

Iseult flung herself around. She crossed five steps in only two bounding leaps. Then she jumped, headfirst behind the altar.

The first firepot exploded. A mere stutter, a mere crack! before the rest of the cataclysm joined in.

Fire, heat, noise, and stone. It convulsed over Iseult, rippling with power and rage. She was midair, reaching for the snowy banks behind the altar—when the force of the explosion slammed her down. Right into snow and stone. She lost all hearing; she lost all sight; she lost all sensation in her limbs, her lips, her skin. She could do nothing but lie there, facedown and limp, while heat and shockwaves boiled across her.

She thought of how Safi had described being trapped beneath a flame hawk. She thought of earthquakes and Sirmaya and all the power of a Firewitch contained inside a single clay pot. Inside fifty clay pots.

The tower burned.

Iseult burned with it.

Until suddenly she was being moved. Someone was rolling her over. Then tugging her to him. There was so much smoke, her eyes streamed. She coughed and gasped. She couldn’t see her savior, but she knew who he was anyway.

He had no Threads.

“I’m here,” he told her—or at least, she thought he told her that. Everything was echoey and vague. Fire and smoke swirled like Threads. Her body hurt where Aeduan held her. As he carried her step by steady step out of the tower.

Then it was not fire, but snow.

It was not smoke, but starlight.

Cold air beat across her. Aeduan solidified into sharp specificity: fire-flap across his face, eyes glittering like bloodied ice. He walked and walked until the tower became nothing more than a distant torchlight. Until they were beside a stream, frozen save for one patch where ice had not laid claim. There was no light to create reflections upon the black, burbling surface.

Here, Aeduan eased Iseult down. She had, by now, reclaimed her senses. Reclaimed her mind too, and a thousand questions crowded in: Why is Aeduan here? He should not be home yet. What will this do to our plans? What can we do if we have no supplies?

But there was only one question that really mattered in this immediate moment. She coughed and scrubbed ash from her eyes. “Where is he? Where is Leopold? F-find him, Aeduan, before he can get away.”

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Thank you for reading! As you can see, the stakes are rising and things are about to get VERY real and VERY urgent for our Cahr Awen.

See you again soon, DenNerds!

💚 - Sooz

Before I dive into all the Witchlands stuff below, I want to make sure you all know that the FIRST EVENT ON MY TOUR HAS CHANGED DATES!

I will now be at Main Street Books in St. Charles on August 24th (instead of the 25th).

I’ve updated the dates on my main tour announcement, and you can find all tickets and info there! Just click the link below.

Sorry for the change and inconvenience. 💚

Witchlight Goodies Ahead

It’s been a bit since I shared Witchlight chapters—but don’t worry. I haven’t forgotten you, Witchlanders. I just have the imminent release of The Executioners Three, so that’s taking the bulk of my focus right now.

(And oh yeah, please pre-order? I’ve got links to all editions here!)

But to make sure you know that I know everyone wants more of our Cahr Awen girlies and their hangers-on…

Well, I’ve got two more chapters below! AND a poll, so you can decide what the next extra content release will be…

Enjoy! 😘⚔️

Read Earlier Witchlight Chapters

Chapter Fifteen

Caden was not at his post outside Safi’s bedroom.

On the one hand, Safi was glad for this—it would actually be easier to confront him outside the lodge. On the other hand, she was furious. Truly, furious. He dared to boss her about, but then he was the one sneaking out as soon as he had the chance?

She knew exactly where he was.

Through the veil of a snow-dusted evening, she could just make him out, riding at a brisk canter ahead. Ah, the hypocrisy, Safi thought as she nudged Dandelion faster—although never fast enough to catch up.

They were two miles west of the lodge when Caden finally left the road, as Safi knew he would. Cold bit her face, while snow gathered on her lashes. Her fingers and toes ached with numbness. But she did not slow, because Caden did not slow.

Another quarter of an hour passed before the first snarls of the Solfatarra reached Safi’s nose, strong in stench and barbed with acid. Another five minutes, and the acid was thick enough to choke. Her eyes watered. The Solfatarra’s sulfuric edge must be near . . .

Yes, there it was. If she squinted, she could just see a pallid fog erasing the forest and killing all it touched. And there was Caden too, no longer mounted but instead striding on foot toward it.

In seconds, the fog swallowed him.

Safi hopped off Dandelion in a wide clearing where gray sky frowned. Nearby lay Leopold’s ruined flying machine in splintered pieces. Snow covered what little had not been scavenged for wood and sailcloth. Soon enough, snow and the need for kindling would decompose it entirely.

Safi had come here since the crash, of course. The Bloodwitch had too, searching for two Hell-Bard scents he’d never found. So why Caden thought he might have better luck, why he kept insisting on walking into that acid fog . . .

Safi didn’t understand.

Liar, her magic frizzed. You would do the same for Iseult. You would do the same for Caden.

After roping Dandelion beside Caden’s horse—in the shelter of a towering pine—she marched to the flying machine’s corpse. It was on that Windwitched invention that Safi had realized Leopold couldn’t be trusted. She’d had inklings before, of course, but it was only upon the Eridysi that she’d realized just how much he was not on her side.

Her fingers fisted. How clever Leopold must have thought himself, bringing Safi and the Hell-Bards to his workshop. Showing them an invention the real Eridysi must have helped him design a thousand years ago, when he’d been the Rook King.

She hated him. Gods below, she hated him.

Footsteps stomped at the edge of her hearing. She whirled about right as Caden coalesced from the fog. He aimed for the pine tree with the horses. Then paused when he spotted Dandelion. Moments later, his gaze found Safi.

They stared at each other. He was covered head to toe in scarves that now bore holes, and a pair of lenses protected his eyes. She was covered simply in snow.

“Well?” she called.

“Well,” he replied. His head began shaking as he strode toward her. By the time he reached her and the crashed Eridysi, he’d removed his lenses and scarves. Acid had gotten him in multiple places, despite his defenses. There was a line of blisters around each eye, and along the bridge of his nose.

“Well,” Safi repeated. “What do you have to say for yourself, Hell-Bard?”

“Nothing, Heretic.” He shook his head again. “Only that you shouldn’t have left the lodge without a square of Hell-Bards to protect you.”

Safi snorted. “Let’s dispense with the horseshit, please. Why are you here? Again? As your empress, I forbade you from entering the Solfatarra. You do remember that, don’t you?”

“And as your Hell-Bard captain,” he countered, “I forbade you from leaving the palace without protection—”

“Don’t.” Safi stamped a foot. Snow kicked up around her. “Caden, we have to talk about this. Although, could we perhaps do so while returning to the lodge? I’m freezing.”

Caden winced. First at Safi’s request, then as snowflakes landed on fresh blisters. “You forget,” he offered eventually, “that I am a Firewitch now . . . or rather, again. I can get us warm and we can talk here.”

There was so much contained in that one sentence: the fact that Caden’s magic had returned, the fact that he still wasn’t accustomed to it . . . And the fact that he was subtly refusing to obey her because he wanted to remain beside this graveyard.

“Fine,” Safi said eventually. “Let us burn what remains of the Eridysi.” And let me finally have this conversation I’ve been avoiding.

It took Caden three times to get his magic to spark—and that was only after he and Safi had cleared away as much of the snow as they could. Then it took another three times before the Eridysi’s wood, damp and cold, would listen to his witchery and feed his magicked flames.

Now the wood burned like a funeral pyre, and Safi had to admit there was something healing about the flames. It must have cut Leopold deep to see his precious creation crash. She hoped this blaze could be another twist of the knife. A sprinkling of salt on a thousand-year-old wound.

Neither Safi nor Caden sat, but instead stood near the fire and let the smokeless heat roar against them. It added color to Caden’s haggard cheeks. It made his new blisters gleam orange.

Far, far in the distance, chimes clanged out the eighteenth hour. “I think you should leave,” Safi said. False,scratched her magic. “I think your time with me is done.”

He stared into the flames, silent.

“You want to search for Zander and Lev, don’t you? Beyond the Solfatarra? Because you must know they’re not here.”

Caden shifted his weight, and for the first time since being cornered, his posture relaxed. “I don’t know they’re not here or I wouldn’t keep searching. But yes, I would . . . like to look farther abroad.”

True.

“Why haven’t you asked for permission to do so?”

“Because.” Caden glowered at the pyre, his thumb tapping against his collarbone—where a golden noose used to hang. “I’m still a Hell-Bard captain. My duty is to protect you, and I take that seriously.”

False, Safi’s magic warned at the same moment it murmured, True. She moved toward him, and with gentle care, she pulled his hand from his neck. He didn’t resist, and so they stood there, hand in hand. “But that isn’t the only reason you’ve stayed, is it?”

For her, this was a conversation between friends, yet she knew that for him—no matter how close they might be, no matter how much hellfire they might have fought through . . . For him, it would always be a conversation between a captain and his empress. She might be his Thread-family, but he could not shed duty. He could not shed his vows.

Sometimes, she wondered what Caden had been like before his father had sent him to Hell-Bard Keep. She saw glimpses of that boy from time to time. Certainly the Chiseled Cheater who had first swindled her out of coins was part of that old persona—the same charming, almost mocking man who could navigate a fraught card game with an admiral in the Red Sails. Who could say Good enough even as the world literally burned around him.

It was a personality like her own. Someone who laughed easily and enjoyed a good drink; who reveled in mischief and teasing, yet would never intentionally harm.

But that person was not who Caden was any longer. The Hell-Bard Loom scraped people of their essence, stealing their color and their life. Safi had only been bound for weeks, yet she was forever changed by that Void magic. Small divots had been left upon her soul; they would heal and they would scab, but the scars would never go away.

Caden had lived as a Hell-Bard for so much longer. He’d been consigned to the Loom so much younger. And no matter how often he might say that phrase—Good enough—Safi didn’t think it was true anymore.

“I’ve crafted a mission,” she said, “which will allow you to search for Lev and Zander.” True, her magic whispered at the same moment that it whispered false. Because she had made a mission—but it was not merely so Caden could search. It was mostly so he wouldn’t be in the way.

“No.” Caden reared away from her. “You can’t give me special treatment, Safi. People disappear all the time, and we don’t go looking—”

“Of course we do.” Heat from the pyre licked against Safi’s side.

“Well, I won’t do it. I won’t accept the mission.”

“Even if I command you to?”

Caden set his jaw. The scar on his chin shone, a white line from some blade that didn’t quite hit. “You will have to discharge me, Safi. I will not obey.”

“And if I do discharge you? Then what? Will that make you search for them?”

His forehead cinched down.

“They are your Thread-family, Caden, and until you find them—or at least learn what happened to them—you’ll never be whole.”

His forehead sank lower. “You think me unwhole?”

“Yes.” She tugged him closer; he did not resist. Snow tumbled between them. “You’re gruff and withdrawn. You don’t sleep. You don’t enjoy the revelries like the other Hell-Bards, and when I offered everyone a chance to exit the service, you were the first to bark, No.”

“Because I want to protect you.”

“Lie,” Safi spat, planting her free hand over her heart. “I can feel it right here”—her fingers curled into a fist—“that this is a lie, Caden. One you don’t even believe. You stay here because you have no one else to care for and nowhere else to go.”

His eyes flashed with a spark she hadn’t seen in a long time. It wasn’t anger so much as insult. She had hurt him.

And that, in turn, hurt her. She needed him to leave—she wanted him to leave. And as much as Lev and Zander were deeply important to her, they were only a secondary motivation. A distracting left hand while her right hand cut the purse.

Caden tugged free from her grasp to stalk four paces away. “Most Hell-Bards have no one to care for and nowhere else to go.”

“And you are not most Hell-Bards.” She chased after him, matching his drawn shoulders and set jaw. “If I have to discharge you to make you search for your family, then that’s what I’ll do. But please don’t make me do that, Caden. You’ve done nothing dishonorable, so I’ll have to tell a terrible lie, and we all know how much I hate lying.”

This startled a laugh from him. His brown eyes softened. “Tell me: Does your magic catch you when you lie?”

Safi grinned—even if inwardly she grimaced. “I don’t want you to go.” True. “You must know that, Caden.” True. “But I think you have to.” She reached up and cupped his face.

He sighed and settled into her hand. Once, Caden had been her enemy. Now he was her Thread-family. Safi didn’t want to send him away. She didn’t want to be away from him. But Lev and Zander did need finding.

And where she was going, Caden couldn’t follow.

“If you won’t do this for yourself, Caden, then at least do it for me. Lev and Zander are out there, somewhere, and you need to find them.”

Another sigh. His eyes closed, and he leaned his forehead against Safi’s. She smelled the day on him: steel and snow, Solfatarra and horse. Above all, though, Safi felt the truth of him: strong, reliable, real. “Where do I even start, Safi?” Caden’s voice was gruff, and the crackling of the fire almost stole his words. “I have no leads.”

“No,” she agreed. “But Iseult has an idea—a good one that I can’t believe we didn’t think of sooner: Threadstones.”

Caden’s cheeks twitched. “You mean the things Nomatsis make?”

“Yes. Iseult’s mother and her apprentice Alma are both Threadwitches, and they’ve agreed to bind your Threads to stones. It will let you find your Thread-family.”

Caden’s breath caught. “And . . .” He wet his lips, his head still pressed to Safi’s. “Why would they do that for me? What must I do in return?”

“Travel east with them. To Saldonica. They could use a trained soldier at their side.”

“So you’ve already set this up, I suppose.” An observation, not a question.

“Yes, I have.” A whole week ago, in fact.

Caden didn’t answer, and for several dragging moments, Safi could see him mentally mapping out what all of this might mean. Traveling with Nomatsis; guarding them while they built him a Threadstone; using that stone to find Lev and Zander . . .

“So this is my mission? And I have to comply?”

“No, of course you don’t have to comply.” Safi cupped his face again. “But Caden, I want you to. I want you to find peace, and I don’t see any other way to give it to you.” Her eyes burned with tears as she said this, and her magic sang with truth. “I will miss you, Hell-Bard. You know that, right?”

Caden sighed and leaned once more into her touch. “And I will miss you, Heretic.”

“Does that mean you will accept the mission?”

He nodded against her.

“Good.” Relief poured through Safi now, mixing with her magic—and prickling more tears into her eyes. “Just promise that after you find Lev and Zander, you’ll come marching right back to me. After all, who else is going to nag me when I don’t have a proper escort?”

Caden didn’t laugh, nor even smile. Instead he laid his hands over Safi’s. “I will, my Empress.”

“Toward death with wide eyes,” Safi murmured as she pressed her lips to his forehead.

“All clear,” he answered softly. “All clear.”

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Chapter Sixteen

Snow fell, thick and white. Iseult’s boots left tracks as she trudged through the forest toward the Nomatsi encampment a mile away. Caden’s too, five paces behind her. His Threads were alight with nerves, and she could hardly blame the man. Navigating a deadly trail toward a tribe of people who might decide to kill him instead of letting him join?

Oh, yes. She’d be nervous too.

Actually, Iseult was nervous. She had only visited the tribe three times in the last four weeks. Not merely because the Solfatarra breathed poison nearby and she had to follow this Nomatsi trail through it—a trail that was constantly changing—but because for all her newfound understanding of her mother, things were not suddenly easy.

Plus, there was Alma, and what was Iseult supposed to say to a girl who’d died by her hand and then come back to life by her hand too?

“Shit,” Caden yelped behind her. “Is that a bear trap?”

“It is.” Iseult wanted to laugh. Instead, she kept her face flat. “And there are more lurking in the shadows. Stay close, Hell-Bard.”

“Right.” He tugged his wool cloak to him. Then shifted so his heavy pack rested differently. Then seemed to realize Iseult was already striding onward without him, so he scooted after, plowing up fresh snow.

The encampment was quiet by the time they reached it. The sun was setting; most of the Nomatsis were in their tents, preparing end-day meals. Smoke coiled toward a snow-clouded sky. Horses snuffed and pawed, layered beneath blankets. Goats bleated.

Iseult had timed this arrival well. It had been challenging enough to convince Alma and Gretchya to accept Caden as a guard; she was absolutely not up to the task of convincing the entire tribe.

She found Gretchya’s tent, the largest at the center of the encampment. A fresh pot of borgsha simmered, oozing out spicy, fatty scents that slithered over Iseult as she shoved inside. Lanterns flickered near Gretchya at the clay pot of stew; Alma worked at a traveling desk covered in gemstones.

Both women looked up at Iseult’s arrival. Then their attentions quickly latched on to the man following just behind.

Caden looked absurd inside the tent. He was a tall man by Cartorran standards, and even more so by Nomatsi standards. His Threads, though, were what really shrank the tent down three sizes. The erratic newness of his magic, fiery and fierce. The sputtering pale discomfort of being in a place he’d never expected to be. The green determination encasing all the other shades because although he hadn’t expected to be here, he would make the most of it.

There were also bolts of white fear. A sign he knew perfectly well that his emotions were visible to these women. A sign he wished it were not so. He might be used to Iseult, but strangers reading his mind too?

Iseult couldn’t blame Caden for such feelings; it was how most people felt when meeting a Threadwitch and one of myriad reasons Nomatsis were so hated across the Witchlands.

“Welcome.” This was Alma, rising from the desk, because she was ever the diplomat—and also, the more adept at fashioning her Threadwitch face into the expected emotions. Were they her real feelings? Iseult still didn’t know. But at least now, Iseult no longer let her confusion bother her.

Alma swept toward Caden, her Threadwitch black gown twirling and sucking up all light. He had paused at the ring of stools that always fill a Threadwitch’s home. “I am called Alma,” she said in Dalmotti. “And this is Gretchya. Your bag—I can take it.”

Caden bobbed his head, the discomfort quavering toward a teal certainty in his Threads. “Caden fitz Grieg. And I can handle the bag. It’s heavy.” He did let it slide to his feet. Then squared his body toward Gretchya and did exactly as Iseult had taught him: with his hands at his sides, he bowed and said in smooth, lilting Nomatsi: “Thank you for welcoming me to your tribe.”

The reaction was instant. Alma smiled—a real one, Iseult suspected—and Gretchya’s posture at the pot relaxed. She had not wanted an outsider to join them. But the truth was Gretchya couldn’t say no. Caden’s presence here was a favor to Her Imperial Majesty of Cartorra, and that Imperial Majesty of Cartorra had thrust so much coin, food, weapons, and horses onto this makeshift tribe that Gretchya felt indebted to her very Threadwitch core.

Gretchya dropped her stirring spoon and wiped her hands on her gown. Then she approached Caden in the same way Alma had.

“Welcome.” This was in Dalmotti. “Sit, and we will feed you, Caden.” She glanced now at Iseult, her face carved into its usual Threadwitch implacability. “You too, Iseult. We have much to discuss with this visitor, and the night could run long.”

The conversation that followed went better in many ways than Iseult had prepared for. Caden’s Threads settled into a calmness that spoke well of his adaptability. She’d known the man had been sent on countless missions across the Witchlands, to strange situations ranging from conning a Truthwitch out of coins in Dalmotti to capturing that same Truthwitch in the Pirate Republic of Saldonica. But he’d been so consumed by grief these last weeks—and his new, unsteady magic—that Iseult had forgotten this other side of him.

The Chiseled Cheater, Iseult kept thinking as she watched him turn on the charm in much the way Safi or Mathew would. He had a mission again; it would hopefully bring him to his friends.

Gretchya and Alma could interpret Caden’s Threads too, and although they themselves might not wear any Threads Iseult could see, she knew her mother well enough to sense Gretchya was warming to Caden as they sat on their stools and pored over a map of the Witchlands.

“The River Tine will get you south,” Caden murmured in Dalmotti, “but it is usually iced over here, where blizzards funnel out from the Windswept Plains—although you should have almost a full month before that happens. Winter comes more slowly in the south.”

“We will have to leave the Tine before that, I believe.” Gretchya tapped several spots near the map’s center. “These cities here are well known for hostility against Nomatsis.”

“Right.” Caden’s Threads moldered with both shame and frustration. He swiped a hand through his chestnut hair. “In that case, we can disembark here.”

We, Iseult noted. Not you. A quick transition—and she suspected Gretchya and Alma heard it too. She sipped at her borgsha. Then frowned at the half-eaten stew. The horse meat, taken when the beasts died at the Moon Mother’s will, was overcooked and greasey. She’d never enjoyed it.

“Not to your liking?” Alma asked. She sat two stools away, her face cast in firelight. Gone was the golden green of her eyes; now, they were pure silver. As pale as the icicles gathering on the trees outside.

“I have gotten spoiled off food fit for an empress.” Iseult flushed.

“As have we. Safiya has given us so much. But . . .” Alma slid over to the stool beside Iseult. This near, her eyes practically glowed. “You will have to adjust your tastes once you are on the road.”

Iseult tensed.

“When do you leave?” Alma asked.

Iseult’s tongue fattened in her mouth. “W-when Dom fon Eron d-decides our armies are large enough.”

Alma’s eyebrows arced. She didn’t believe Iseult at all, but she also didn’t contradict her.

So Iseult gave up. “How did you know?”

Alma dipped closer. “Because Rikra, who is selling you a tent, ratted you out. Although, to be fair, she only said something because I cornered her and asked.”

Iseult sighed. “I see.”

“This is not a bad thing,” Alma insisted. “She was going to sell you a broken tent for too much coin, and I will give you a good one for free. And.” She leaned closer. Then she half whispered: “I have assembled more things that might be useful. We Nomatsis travel so much, you know. We have useful tools that weigh less and pack smaller. It’s all in a bag behind the tent. I’ve covered it with pine branches.”

Iseult didn’t know how to respond to this. It felt so much like a moment a month ago when Alma had followed her through the forest east of here and given her a satchel of supplies. Iseult had asked why Alma had helped then, and Alma had answered: Because Moon Mother always protects her own.

Iseult didn’t ask Alma why she helped this time. She knew the answer would be the same—but now they both would remember the time Iseult hadn’t helped Alma at all.

“Does m-my mother know?”

“I have not discussed it with Gretchya, but I would think she can guess what you intend. After all, there is no other path before you.”

No, Iseult thought. There isn’t. She and Safi might not have known it, but they’d been locked into the future from the day they were born.

“I saw her, you know,” Alma continued, still so near. Still so quiet. “She was surrounded by stars and shadow. And I felt whole. I felt unafraid and loved to the core of my Threads.” Alma’s glowing eyes held steady on Iseult’s face. “But she is dying, and I fear these new Threads, this new slow cleaving—it is her attempt to take back what little power she can.”

“Yes,” Iseult agreed on an exhale.

“Until you heal the final Well, none of us are safe. Any of us might be the next target Moon Mother takes from.”

Iseult nodded.

“So it is good that you go now to heal the Well. And if there is anything more I can do to help you along your way, then you need only ask.”

“Ah.” Iseult sighed again, a sad, heavy sound that sank into the earth. There was so much building inside her. More than her lungs could contain. More than her heart or chest could hold.

She forced her throat to swallow. Then she clasped Alma’s bicep. “Y-y-you . . .” She paused. Tried again: “Youhave already done too much, Alma. I will ask for no more.”

“It is not for you that I make this offer, though.” Alma’s lips twitched in a way that might be a smile, or might simply be annoyance. “It is for Moon Mother, because if you do not heal the Well, we all will suffer.”

Iseult let her hand slide off Alma. “In that case, all I ask is that you keep my mother safe. And . . . well, Caden, too.”

“I will watch over them both, Iseult. With every tool and weapon I have.”

There was the swelling again, but now it pushed against Iseult’s skull. She wiggled her nose—once, twice—before standing. It stretched a distance between her and the girl who could have been her sister if only Iseult had let her in.

Caden did not look up. His Threads were fully concentrated on the map. Gretchya, however, did. She blinked at her daughter, her eyes nearly orange in the firelight. And she nodded once, knowing. Or perhaps there was something else, something almost sad, almost frightened.

But something that her Threadwitch training still couldn’t let free.

Iseult twisted away. “I w-will find you and my mother again in Saldonica,” she promised Alma. A simple good-bye before she left the tent. Left the tribe.

The night and its moon whispered a Nomatsi good-bye as Iseult found the pack Alma had left beneath furry branches. It was a proper Nomatsi pack, with structural rods meant to be hefted onto the back or alternatively reshaped across a horse.

Alma had added a Nomatsi shield too, a wooden square meant to protect one’s body when on the run.

Iseult’s lungs compressed, pushing air from her lungs as she hefted the pack onto her shoulders. Snowflakes fell anew, tender things. Hesitant even, as if they weren’t sure the world was ready for them.

Iseult wasn’t sure either, but she set off into the night anyway. Cold embraced her. Snow swallowed her footsteps.

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Chapter Thirteen

Iseult det Midenzi knelt over the dying man. He had been fine two days ago, his wife said, but now he had these shadowy lines across his body. Please, are you the one who heals the Cleaved? Please, can you help him?

Iseult couldn’t help him.

She had tried. Since dawn, when the woman had first found her at the imperial hunting lodge, Iseult had tried to weave this man’s Threads back into life as she had done with the Hell-Bards a month ago. Living, living, breath and living. Threads that heal, Threads that thrive. But it was early afternoon now, and still his Threads had not responded.

It made no sense. Iseult should be able to control these Threads. She should be able to heal this slowly cleaving man. Yet it was as if, by destroying Corlant, the very nature of cleaving had changed. Gone was the quick, vicious death that bubbled up from the core and burned a person from the inside out, magic turned molten and cruel. Now it was this agonizing thing that crept over a person for days, sucking the life from them.

It was horrible to witness, and Iseult hated that none of her tools as a Weaverwitch could stop what Moon Mother had decided must be.

“Iseult,” Safi whispered, kneeling beside her. “You’re exhausted. You need to stop.”

“I c-can’t.” Iseult’s hands trembled as she wove them through—again—the man’s Threads. Strands like burning silk. Here were the ones that bound him to his wife and his three daughters. Here were the ones that bound him to his work as a blacksmith. And here were the Severed Threads eating him alive.

They seared against Iseult’s palms, as Severed Threads always did, except now she couldn’t control them. She was going to have to turn to this man’s wife and say, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

It was the third person in as many days Iseult hadn’t been able to heal—and the fourth person in a week who’d had no magic but had begun cleaving all the same. Why?

“Come,” Safi repeated, and this time, she gripped Iseult’s elbow, gentle but unrelenting. Iseult didn’t fight her Threadsister; there was no point, and Safi was right: she was exhausted.

“I will come back soon,” Iseult told the wife, a lie on two fronts. First, because soon wouldn’t save the man. Second, because Iseult was leaving soon. Tonight, in fact. She and Safi were leaving this eastern corner of Cartorra to brave the Windswept Plains.

Still, it gave the woman hope to offer promises. It made this woman feel like someone cared enough to do something—and Iseult did care. And she was going to do something. “Keep him warm and make him drink water.”

“Thank you,” the woman replied. The lines around her mouth and eyes were stark with exhaustion and fear. And with love too, for the Threads that bind etched deep marks upon the soul.

Yet as the woman offered Iseult jars of lanolin meant for oiling blades, as a thank-you, Iseult spotted faint shadows within the woman’s weathered hands. They followed her veins, and were it not for Iseult’s magic—her constant connection to Threads and the corruption that can work inside them—she would never have noticed. But she did notice, she did recognize, and her heart broke for the second time that day.

It was spreading. This slow, incurable cleaving was spreading.

“Th-thank you,” Iseult murmured to the woman before her weak grasp on stasis could give her away. Then she hurried with Safi out of the woman’s home.

They mounted their horses, a chestnut named Dandelion and a gray named Cloud, and set off into the afternoon. Half the morning had passed while Iseult bowed over that blacksmith. Wasted time with no one saved or healed.

Her throat ached. Her tongue felt sluggish behind her teeth.

“The w-wife is cleaving too,” she said once they had left the small village behind. Snow dusted the road, hiding potholes along the edges. Knowing Safi, she would send Hell-Bards to fix those holes later today because, even if she kept saying she was not Empress—even if she and Iseult were leaving at midnight, Safi couldn’t seem to let the responsibilities go.

It had been a month since Safi had taken full control as Empress of Cartorra. They were calling it a military coup in Praga, and already domnas and doms gathered to oppose Safi. Little good it would do them. Many of the Hell-Bard forces backed her, and although they were no longer bound to a Loom or impervious to magic, they were still the best soldiers in all the Witchlands.

Thousands of newcomers arrived each day to the lodge, Hell-Bards and soldiers summoned from the capital, servants and nobility Safi’s magic told her could be trusted, and of course, the necessary craftsmen that followed large crowds and war.

Including that blacksmith and his wife.

“Evrane will go in your stead,” Safi said over the whip of wind through barren trees. Over the clop-clop of Dandelion’s uncrushed gait. “She will comfort the man more than you can. Her magic can at least soothe his pain.”

Iseult leaned forward to pat Cloud’s neck. The gray mare’s breath fogged. Iseult’s did too. “Maybe I can still find a solution. We haven’t left yet.”

“You said that yesterday.” Safi’s tone was sharp, her Threads fluttering with impatience. “And you said it the day before too, Iz. I don’t see how twelve hours will change anything. Which is exactly why we’re leaving: because you know what we have to do to help people.”

Yes, Iseult did know. She and Safi must heal the final Well. They had to heal all magic in the Witchlands, and only then could this cleaving end.

And only then could she and Safi finally step away from the noise, the Threads, the expectations. They were both so tired all the time.

Safi was especially exhausted, what with the added pressure of running an empire—not to mention the Cahr Awen souls stuck inside her. They gave her headaches, bulging her Threads to clotted thickness. Safi never complained, nor even mentioned the pain. But Iseult could see it so vividly.

And Iseult knew there was only one cure for it.

Ahead, the road split: one way toward the imperial hunting lodge, the other south to circle around the Solfatarra. A wagon trundled toward them; a square of Hell-Bards trotted north toward the lodge.

The girls sank into their hoods, fur-lined and drab brown. We are nothing more than standard travelers on the road. Look the other way, please. Certainly, their cloaks were finely made, their boots a supple black, and their horses too well tended to be steeds for the road-weary. But as Mathew always taught: people saw what they wanted to see. As long as Iseult and Safi hunched with exhaustion, as long as they kept their horses moving at a shamble, they were invisible.

The wagon’s driver nodded at them. The Hell-Bards never noticed they were there. And at the fork, they ambled Cloud and Dandelion south, away from the lodge and all its demands. At this distance, it was nothing more than a lump of white blending into the snow and sky.

A quarter mile down the new road, a trail veered into thickets and trees. Safi reined Dandelion that way; Iseult followed with Cloud. Few people traveled south, and fewer still aimed toward the Solfatarra. Within minutes, a new lump appeared—this one a daunting, shadowy place that both locals and newcomers avoided.

Cursed, they called it, and they weren’t far wrong. This ancient, half-collapsed tower was where Iseult had broken her Threadstone and Safi’s too. That act had freed all the souls and power that now thundered inside Safi’s brain.

It was also where Corlant had died, at the altar in the center. His body was gone, his blood had long since soaked into the earth. There was nothing to show he had ever been here, had ever lived at all—nor anything to show how often Iseult and Safi had visited. For the snow always fell anew. It always erased their passage.

Iseult’s cheeks were cold, her toes numb as she and Safi dismounted beside the tumbled stones at the tower’s edge. Each girl removed sacks from her horse’s saddle before striding into the tower. Past the altar they strode, and into a shadowy corner beside the curved remains of a staircase. Here, a massive mound of snow awaited. The girls each grabbed a corner of a waxed tarp.

Yank. Snap. Snow flew, spraying into Iseult’s face. Flaying her cheeks like blades as she and Safi flung the tarp aside and revealed crates to the winter morning. Ten of them, each carefully organized.

“Don’t you dare put that there,” Iseult snapped as Safi moved toward a box on the left. “That’s our camping supplies, and your pack is filled with food.”

“Right, right.” Safi scowled. Her Threads flashed with russet annoyance. “Food goes . . . here?” She kicked at a bottom box.

Iseult gave her a flat-eyed stare.

“Here?” Safi kicked at another.

More staring from Iseult.

“Here? Here?” She kept kicking, red suffusing across the entirety of her Threads with each failed kick. “What about here? Here?”

“Oh, don’t kick that one, Safi! That’s got firepots inside!”

Safi flinched back. But then promptly resumed her kicking, if more gingerly now. “Here? Here? Hell-pits, Iz, what about here?” She had reached the literal last crate.

“That,” Iseult answered with a stately nod, “is the one for food. Well done, Safi. You clearly have a knack for this.”

“Oh, shove it.” Safi stomped to the box. “It’s all going to get mixed up on pack horses anyway—”

“It absolutely will not.”

“—so who cares where I put this dried meat and wheel of cheese? Maybe it’ll taste better if it’s with the firepots.”

“We’ve come here at least eight times in the last week, Saf.” Iseult shuffled to the first crate Safi had kicked. “How do you still not know where things go?”

“I’m a doer. Not a planner.”

“Painfully accurate.” Iseult wedged off the lid and dropped her own supplies inside: a Firewitched candle that could burn even in high winds, a blanket of salamander fibers, and finally, the newly acquired lanolin jars.

Once it was all inside, she returned the lid, then joined Safi several paces away. It was clear from the way Safi eyed the crates that she still didn’t know what was inside them. “What else are we missing?”

“Not much,” Iseult said. “Just the Aetherwitched troop map, which you need to get. And then a tent . . . wh-which I’ll get tonight when I go to the tribe.” She now leveled her whole attention onto Safi—who pointedly avoided that gaze. “In other words, Safi: you n-need to talk to Caden. Now.”

A fresh flare of annoyance on Safi’s Threads, but this time it was tinged with mustard shame and a rusted gray dread. Because Safi knew what she had to do, and understandably, she didn’t want to do it.

Iseult could hardly blame her for that. If she had to do to Aeduan what Safi was about to do to Caden . . .

Well, there was a reason Iseult had timed their departure for when Aeduan was away.

Safi swiped a hand across her hair, brushing snowflakes off the row of short braids she’d made along the top. “Yeah, yeah. Talk to Caden. I’ll do it, Iz.”

“Now.”

“Eventually.”

“Now.”

“I’ll start with the map first.”

“Safi, if you k-keep putting this off—”

“Yeah, yeah, Iz. I know. But I promise I’ll get it done before you go to the tribe tonight. Does that satisfy you?”

Iseult grunted. It didn’t satisfy her at all, but she knew when she’d nagged enough.

Safi heaved a sigh. It was a sound so weary, it briefly veiled all her Threads in bruise-like despair. Her spine slumped. “Why does it have to be us, Iz?”

“What do you mean?” Iseult bounced on her feet; her toes were getting numb standing here.

“Why do we have to be the Cahr Awen? Isn’t it bad enough that I’ve got to be an empress? Now I also have to heal a thrice-damned Well surrounded by raiders?” Safi opened her arms to the crates. “I mean, surely the goddess could have found better candidates than us.”

Iseult snorted, but it was a humorless sound. She didn’t like the worry twining through Safi’s Threads—and she liked even less the way the Cahr Awen souls swelled those Threads to twice their usual size.

“If you’re getting cold feet, Safi, it’s kind of l-late for that.”

“I don’t have cold feet. Well, I do literally.” Safi lifted a booted toe. “But not about our plans. We’ll leave tonight. I promise. I’m merely wondering philosophically why it has to be us? You know, it’s like asking why the sky is blue. I realize there are no easy answers.”

“The sky is blue because sunlight gets scattered by things in the atmosphere. Goddess, Safi, didn’t you listen to any of our lessons from Mathew?”

A pause. Then a huff. “Of course I listened. I meant blue as in sad. Why is the sky so sad?”

“Because you keep disappointing it w-with your lies.”

Safi laughed, her Threads brightening with pink, warm in a way the tower around them never could be. “Gods below, Iseult det Midenzi, it’ll be nice when it’s just the two of us again.”

“And by the Moon Mother, Safiya fon Hasstrel.” Iseult smiled back. “I agree.”

The girls and their horses retraced their route. Back to the main road, back to the fork, back toward the crowded lodge, where hundreds of Threads coalesced like a quilt upon the horizon.

When the bridge over the dark-watered moat to the lodge came into view, one set of crimson, furious Threads stood out: Caden fitz Grieg.

Ever since three searches of the Solfatarra had failed to turn up his Thread-family, Zander and Lev, the Hell-Bard had become a walking firepot. And he’d taken to expressing his frustration at anyone who so much as looked at him wrong . . . which was, more often than not, Safi.

It didn’t help either that Caden’s Firewitchery, which had been culled from him by the Hell-Bard Loom, was now returned. He and countless other Hell-Bards were suddenly brimming with powers they hadn’t felt or used in years.

He spotted Safi across the drawbridge and kicked into a canter her way. His Threads pulsed like storm clouds. “How many times are you going to do this?” he demanded once she was in earshot. “I realize you’ve no concern for your life, Your Imperial Majesty, but have some concern for mine.”

“I didn’t ask to be an empress,” Safi retorted.

“And I didn’t ask to be your guard, but here we are.”

And this, Iseult thought, is why you should have spoken to Caden sooner. She had heard this argument so many times in the past month, she could now recite it by heart. Next, Caden would say, If you leave the lodge—

“If you leave the lodge,” Caden barked, twisting his horse into step beside Safi, “you need a square of Hell-Bards around you. That is the rule.”

“And the rule is stupid. I can handle myself. Besides, I have Iseult with me.” What Safi didn’t add was what they all knew: And she can easily kill almost anyone.

“Ah yes,” Caden said, taking on a calm, thoughtful tone. “The other half of the precious, irreplaceable Cahr Awen.”

Iseult sighed. She had better things to do than waste her time and energy watching Safi and Caden rehash the same argument. Especially since Safi’s own temper was fueled by grief. She knew what she had to do—and she absolutely didn’t want to do it.

Iseult spurred Cloud into a canter. The horse’s hooves clattered into a three-beat rhythm on the road, and neither Safi nor Caden noticed her departure. The Threads that bound them had turned fiery with mutual irritation, mutual unspoken pain. There was little space in their Threads for anything else.

Iseult did not look back.

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Chapter Fourteen

Safiya fon Hasstrel knew that her pacing bothered her uncle. But if she didn’t pace, then all this energy wriggling in her body was going to come out through her fists. Back, forth, back, forth across the long room that had once held feasts and feasters, but now held all the missives, tomes, and ledgers necessary to run an empire. The dining table that stretched almost thirty paces was now invisible beneath maps of the empire—and, more importantly, maps of Poznin.

Those were the maps that interested her. Every day, more figurines were added to them, just as every day more were added to the area representing the Solfatarra. And wherever those figurines were placed, corresponding images would appear on smaller Aetherwitched maps that were given to the spies or soldiers who needed them.

Understandably, these maps were closely guarded, because they revealed not only Ragnor’s troops but Eron’s as well.

“Safi, are you listening to me?” Eron demanded when she reached the midpoint of her usual path alongside the windows overlooking a courtyard.

“No,” she admitted, even as her magic whispered, False. She always listened—sometimes she even cared. But when she’d told her uncle she had no plans to be Empress, she had meant it. It was bad enough being the Cahr Awen; she couldn’t do both.

She frowned up at a portrait above the central window. It showed Henrick’s mother, a woman with a comparable underbite to her son’s. “Do you think,” she mused, “the artist tried to emphasize her jaw that way or was he just bad at shading?” She glanced at her uncle. “You knew the woman, yes?”

“Gods dammit, Safi.” Eron hauled to his feet, and Safi felt a twinge of shame at the stiffness in his rise. At the grunt of exertion he tried to hide, but couldn’t swallow back.

Turn around, she willed at him. Turn around.

He didn’t turn around.

Scowling, Safi planted her hands on the table opposite him and forced herself to recite, word for word, everything he’d said: “The Carawen monks and their new Abbot Lizl will leave their Monastery in one week—although only if the snows continue to hold off. You would almost prefer the snows arrive, however, and slow them, because at this point, we do not have a reliable supply chain from Ontigua. Thus, when the monks do arrive, we will be forced to ration.”

For several moments, the only sound was the crackle of the fire in the two hearths at either end of the room. Then Eron matched Safi’s scowl—the same slouch to his brow, the same sideways curl of his lips, and the same thoughtful gleam in his Hasstrel blue eyes. Clearly she had learned this expression from him, and that only made her own scowl sink deeper.

“The problem with our Ontiguan supply chain is the Hell-Bards,” Eron continued, pointing shakily toward the map next to the stack Safi needed to pull from. “With half of them leaving the service, our forces are—”

“Weakened to the point of useless. Yes, Uncle.” Safi straightened. “I know that’s why you sent the Bloodwitch on his special errand.”

“And if Habim and Mathew do not succeed on their offensive here . . .” Eron stretched toward another map, using a quill to gesture at the Sirmayans. “Then we will be on tight rations the entire winter. Which is why you must return to Praga. You and Iseult, before the Carawens can reach us.” Eron wiped at his brow. His skin was too pale. He needed to sit again, and his scowl was now shifting toward one of personal frustration. He was glad to be alive, but he was not yet accustomed to the body the acid-thick dungeon had left behind.

True.

Unfortunately, Safi couldn’t let him sit again.

“The best way to recruit new soldiers is to show them for whom they fight.”

“Yes, and for what they fight.” Safi scrubbed a hand at her eyes as she walked the length of the table again, her tan breeches rubbing against the wood. The map of Marstok showed ample soldiers in Habim’s forces, but all were blocked by mountains thick with blizzards. The one pass the Marstoks could cross was still held by the Raider King. His people would die. The Marstoks would die. Cartorrans would die, and even the Carawen monks. And for what?

War, war, war. All in the name of peace. All in the name of the Cahr Awen.

But then, that is why we’re leaving.

“Your plan was such a foolish one,” Safi said, her voice fuzzy as she tried to count just how many people would die—or how many she might be able to save. “So many years,” she went on, “and so many people. How did Mathew describe it? There are big wheels in motion. Wheels your uncle and many others have spent years rolling into position.” She shook her head. “What a waste of your time and energy.”

“Stopping a war is a waste?” Eron’s voice wasn’t, for once, angry. Nor even insulted. If anything, he sounded surprised—and mildly amused.

“The way you did it, yes.” Safi turned to face him.

“Except that war in the Witchlands has ceased, hasn’t it? Marstok no longer fights; Cartorra no longer fights; and Dalmotti has withdrawn after a rout at Nubrevna. So I should think my ‘foolish plan’ has actually succeeded.”

“The Raider King still remains, though. Blood will be shed to stop him. A war’s worth.”

“Yes,” Eron agreed. “But once he is gone—once you and your Threadsister have healed the final Well, peace will reign.”

“And you think I am the naive one?”

There—that finally did it. Eron set his jaw and turned to face the window. He stared over the soldiers, over Hell-Bards, over the servants and tradesmen rallied to an imperial banner.

In seconds, Safi was back at the map of Poznin and Arithuania. Of course the stack she needed was stuck beneath the primary map littered with the Aetherwitched figurines. She gripped the edge, hoping to slide it sideways—

“There has been some good news from our spies in the north.”

Safi’s snapped her gaze toward her uncle. He wasn’t turning around—thank the Twelve. “Oh?” she half squeaked. “And what is that?”

“Baedyeds are leaving the Raider King’s banner, now that Habim has agreed to their demands in Marstok.”

“So they will get back their Sand Sea?” Safi tugged again at the map. Figurines wavered on the top, and she recalled a street performer she’d once seen. The woman had snapped a cloth off a table without disrupting a single dish or saucer.

Safi, meanwhile, was disrupting everything. Three of the Red Sails figurines fell. One of the Baedyeds too. “But what of the people who live in the Sand Sea now? What will happen to them? They will be displaced just as the Baedyeds were a century ago. Have Habim and Mathew made accommodations for them and their families?”

Eron shifted as if to turn.

And Safi gave up on stealth. She yanked like the street performer had, but without the grace. Six more figurines toppled. Then the map was in her grasp. She instantly dropped it to the floor.

“Crap!” she barked, right as Eron finished his aching turn. “I, uh . . . knocked over your toy soldiers.” She pasted on a face of contrition.

Eron, meanwhile, didn’t respond. He simply sighed, all antagonism sliding off his face. He was once more a tired man doing his best to run an empire. “Safi, please: Will you at least consider traveling to Praga? Discuss it with your Threadsister. I’m sure she understands how much it will help our cause.”

Safi rubbed at her forehead. Now that she had what she’d come for, a headache was coming on. One of the monstrous ones that never let her sleep. “I promise to make a decision,” she murmured. Lie, her magic frizzed. Because her decision had already been made.

“Thank you.” Eron opened his hands. They trembled. “Your consideration is all I ask for.”

Safi didn’t respond. Instead, she dug her fingers into her temples. The pain was building fast behind her left eyeball. Soon it would leap across to the right. “I need to lie down, please.”

A flash of understanding—possibly even sympathy—crossed her uncle’s face. Though Safi had never directly told him of her headaches, they all must have noticed how often she vanished into her room. And the servants certainly saw the blindfold she’d fashioned out of velvet. It had become her nightly routine to tie it as tightly as she could around her head, until the pressure on the outside of her eyeballs felt as if it matched the pressure within.

“We’ll continue this conversation tomorrow,” Eron said. “Over breakfast.”

“Yes,” Safi agreed, even as her magic skittered and clawed: There won’t be a tomorrow! There won’t be a breakfast! She swooped down, and after sliding the map into a loose sleeve, she gathered up the fallen figurines. “Sorry,” she said as she dropped them onto the map.

And once more, Erin sighed.

For a brief moment, as Safi departed and the door clicked shut behind her, she considered if perhaps she should offer her uncle a good-bye. A proper ending after so many years as antagonists. After all, this might be the last time she ever saw him again.

Love and dread, Safi thought. That was the fon Hasstrel motto, and never had it felt more perfect for this family that was not really a family at all. But Safi couldn’t make her feet turn. She couldn’t make her muscles swivel back. She simply walked away toward the main stairwell. And although her magic shrieked at her for all the lies she was telling herself—I don’t need Eron, I won’t miss him—she pretended not to notice. She pretended not to care.

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On the floor above the dining room, elegant bedrooms overlooked the forest. One such room, small but finely appointed, had been repurposed to house Henrick fon Cartorra. Iron bars were now fastened over his windows; a bewitched lock had been bolted to his door, and four Hell-Bards stood watch at every hour of the day.

“I will not be long,” Safi told them as they slid aside so she could reach the door. She and Eron were the only ones who knew the lock spell’s rhythms and words. Six beats and five pauses, then the silently mouthed Goat tits in a piss storm.

Safi had chosen the password, of course, and she’d chosen it with relish knowing how much her uncle would hate it. Even now, a smile cut through the headache gripping her left eyeball.

The door’s locks clicked apart. Safi pushed into the bedroom of evergreen upholstery and wood paneling. At a lone armchair beside a fireplace—one that Henrick had to tend himself—sat the former Emperor. He wore chains around his wrists and ankles, yet on his lap was an open book.

It was the one freedom Safi allowed him: he could choose books from the lodge’s library to keep himself busy. Otherwise, he had to remain here for all the rest of his days. Or at least for all the days it took Safi to figure out what else to do with him.

Eron wanted his head on a pike. A logical desire, since Henrick had killed Eron’s sister and brother-in-law—Safi’s parents—and he had ruined Eron’s life along with countless others while cruelly controlling the Hell-Bards.

Safi knew she was supposed to feel the same hatred, the same fury. And certainly her disgust for the man ran deep. Henrick fon Cartorra was the reason she was an orphan; he was the reason she’d been forced into the noose; he was the reason she had lived most of her life on the run as a Truthwitch.

Yet even the most hated men could offer use somewhere.

Iseult had been impressed when Safi had told her this; Safi had been, quite frankly, impressed with herself too.

It helps, she thought as she stared down at Henrick’s face—at the cleverness he no longer veiled behind his dark eyes, that we aren’t married and he is powerless. The man had settled into a complacency that bordered on obsequiousness—all of it genuine according to Safi’s magic. This was a man who had accepted his fate and his lack of any future. His mistress and bastard children were taken care of, since Safi wasn’t heartless, and so what was there for him to fight for?

“I have only one question for you tonight.”

“Hmm?” Henrick grunted, and he shifted in his chair. The wood creaked; it did not sound comfortable.

“There is a negotiation we have with Lusque. They have the better end of the deal, and I want to know why you agreed to it.”

“Ah.” He nodded and closed the book upon his lap. The title read, The Great Mystery of “Eridysi’s Lament.”“You mean the grain agreement?”

“Yes. They get the grain at such a deep discount. Why would you approve that?” This was a genuine question on Safi’s part. One that was not even the slightest bit pressing considering her plans for later tonight . . .

But a question that had gnawed at her for days—and would keep gnawing at her, even on the roads to the east of here. Because for all Henrick’s attempts to trick the world, he was not actually a fool. And he did nothing without adequate reason.

A fact which was proven yet again when he answered: “There was another deal for shipbuilders. It was old—before I came to the throne, and before my mother too—but it hinged upon intimidation. Build us these ships or we will invade was essentially how it read. The grain agreement was my attempt to smooth the waters. Literally.”

“Ah.” For a brief second, the pain behind Safi’s eyeball receded. There was not only logic in this contract, but diplomacy. “And where is the shipbuilding treaty? I haven’t seen it.”

Henrick lifted his hands. “That, Your Imperial Majesty, could be anywhere. There are so many places I kept such things.”

Safi sighed, and just like that, the headache punched back in. “Could you be a little bit more specific?”

Another shrug, this time with a wince that was neither genuine in its apology nor totally false.

And Safi heard her teeth grinding, a scritching sound to fill her skull. It was moments like these when Henrick revealed a bit of his old ways, although she didn’t think he was intentionally difficult. It was more like the pain in Safi’s foot that never quite went away after Empress Vaness had smashed all the bones with iron. Mostly the injury was healed, mostly Safi had adapted to a slight change in her gait to avoid irritating the old pains . . .

But sometimes she forgot. Sometimes she landed badly or twisted too fast because the muscles still remembered how they used to be.

That was how Henrick felt: he had been emperor so long, he could not fall into total complacency overnight, even if he wanted to.

Head on a pike! Eron would have barked were he sitting here. Safi only dropped her hand and said: “I’m leaving tonight, Henrick. In secret.”

He bowed his head, as if this were only to be expected. “You go to the Well?”

“Yes.” How strange that she could be honest with this man, but no one else in the lodge or her empire. “I’ll leave orders that you should remain as you are, but . . . well, accidents happen.”

“Accidents happen,” he acknowledged. “Thank you for the warning.” He bowed his head, a truthful gesture. “And I wish you luck on your journey. May I offer a word of advice?”

Safi twirled a hand. “Clearly you’re itching to do so.”

“Do not underestimate the Raider King. He amassed incredible power in a short amount of time because I let my attention get distracted.”

“You mean I distracted you.” Safi lifted an eyebrow.

“Yes.” A bounce of Henrick’s shoulder. “Whoever leaked the secret of your Truthwitchery so that it would reach my ear . . .” He opened his hands. “It helped the Raider King these past months.”

Indeed. Safi’s nostrils flared. She was certain the leaker had been Leopold. Why he’d done such a thing, however—that question still plagued her. Polly had worn the face of a friend for over a decade, carefully dancing around her magic . . .

Then he’d let his masks fall and his treachery land.

Just thinking of him made Safi’s head hurt twice as much as before. She cracked her neck. Worked her jaw. Then said with an air of nonchalance that wasn’t at all true: “Good-bye, Henrick. Do try to remember where that shipbuilding agreement is.”

“May I have another book?” he asked hastily, as if this was the greatest potential tragedy in his near future. “I will likely finish this latest stack tomorrow—”

“Don’t push your luck.” Safi glared. “And if you really need something to do, then try considering all the lives you’ve ruined. Then ponder how very lucky you are to have survived this long when almost every person in this lodge wants to remove your head from its shoulders.”

“Ah,” he replied.

“Ah,” she agreed, and now, pleased she’d said enough, Safi walked away. The locks magically bolted shut behind her. The Hell-Bards resumed their perfect square around the door.

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Enter the Giveaway

Now, onto the main event! It’s been a while since I shared new Early Access chapters, so I’ve got three chapters for you today—which marks THE END OF PART ONE. 👀

So enjoy!

Chapter Ten

As Vivia read the letter from the Empress of Cartorra, she forgot entirely that she stood in a magically lit stairwell in the middle of a crumbling, ice-filled mountain.

For Queen Vivia Nihar: I write to you to offer my assistance in reclaiming your throne from your father.

In return, I ask only that you send your current forces east to aid me. You will see a map below with the best route north via sea and river to Poznin, and your recently acquired Dalmotti cannons would be of great assistance against the Raider King.

The rest of the letter was a detailed description of how the Cartorran Empress would use Vivia’s Foxes in direct battle, followed by how Safiya would in turn help Vivia reclaim her throne.

It was absolutely mind-boggling, and it took all of Vivia’s mental power to simply remain upright with the letter held toward the light. The Empress seemed to fare no better.

“By the waters of the Fire Well,” Vaness swore several paces away. Then, with an almost breathy laugh, she told Vivia, “According to this letter, Safiya already has an agreement with General Fashayid to return my throne to me. No fighting or armies are necessary.”

How? Vivia wanted to ask. How is that even possible?

And suddenly, it was all too much. Vivia was inside a blighted mountain having run into two lost Hell-Bards after sleeping ice nearly ate her and a quake opened up a direct path to them. And on top of that, these Hell-Bards had been actively seeking Vivia and Vaness.

There are no coincidences.

Except when there are.

It felt as if the stairs had flipped and the cavern was opening wide beneath her. Vivia dropped the letter and sank to her knees, trying to breathe. Now was not the time for an attack. Now was not the time to let the oppressive weight of an entire mountain haul her down. Be a bear, Little Fox. Be a bear.

“Majesty,” Cam murmured, sitting beside her with worried speed. “Majesty, are you all right? Let me take the pack. I’ll get you water. Food.”

“I’m fine,” she tried to say. “I just . . . need . . .” To breathe. Her chest felt like storm clouds. Her mind felt like hurricanes.

A second person sat on her other side. The Empress’s scent of citrus and iron tickled against her. “Breathe,” Vaness said in Marstoki. “Breathe, Vivia.” Her fingers laced into Vivia’s. She held fast.

And Vivia breathed. One, two, three. Then she pulled on her mask and became a bear. “You . . . have a map.” She dragged herself to her feet. Her fingers were still woven into Vaness’s, and the Empress rose with her. “Give it to us.”

The woman, Lev, immediately obeyed, pulling a thick vellum scroll from a tube on her belt. But rather than accept it, Vivia glanced at Cam: “Take it. You know this mountain better than anyone else here. See if you can find a way out of this place.”

“Hye, Majesty.” A sharp salute. Then he snatched the map and scurried toward the nearest Firewitch sconce.

The Hell-Bard Lev’s lips pursed, like she was biting back a laugh. And some of Vivia’s mask became real; some of her protective bear instincts flared hotter. “The boy,” she said in Cartorran, “might be young, but he is one of our best.”

“Oh, I believe it,” Lev replied. “Because he reminds me of this guy”—she cocked her head at Zander—“when he was first starting out.”

The giant only smiled. Of everyone in the stairs, he seemed the most serene. The least worried or unsettled by the total darkness and endless stone surrounding them. Air spiraled down from the hole in the ceiling, exhaling frost every few minutes with a low, almost imperceptible sigh.

Vivia turned away from him and joined Cam beside the sconce. It was an ancient lamp, the glass warped and bubbled. The wick within requiring no fuel to feed it. And around the flames were more of those triangular shapes Vivia had first seen carved on the magic door into the mountain.

“Majesty,” Cam whispered in Nubrevnan as she joined him. “I don’t like this.”

That makes at least two of us.

“It just feels too easy,” he went on. “The hole opening up, us finding the Hell-Bards—and even this map.” He tapped at part labeled the Way Below. “This isn’t what it looked like before, when I was here with Ryber. And not just because the mountain’s changing right now—I mean, it’s all different.”

“How so?” Vivia frowned, first at the map. Then at Cam’s puckered face.

“Look. See all these doors drawn here in Paladins’ Hall? There are nine doors in that cavern. But these seven here—they’re the magic portals that lead across the Witchlands. This one is the portal we took, and it even says Nubrevna.” He tapped at one on the right edge of the map. “We were supposed to go through this one labeled Lovats,but we got sidetracked over here.”

“Hye,” Vivia said, eying the room labeled The Past. “And I assume this spot labeled The Future is the tunnel you spoke of? With the ice inside and frozen Sightwitches?”

“Exactly. And look, right here, in the middle of the Future.” The urgency in his voice suggested Vivia was missing something obvious.

“It looks like more doorways.”

“Hye, magic doorways. They’re drawn the same way as the ones over here, and they’re labeled too. This one says Windswept Plains and this one says Contested Lands.”

“All right,” Vivia answered slowly. “And those magic doorways are not supposed to be there?”

“No, they’re not. I went in that tunnel with Ryber, remember? And there were no portal doors. Not to mention, I know where the original seven go. They’ve never led to the Plains or to the Contested Lands.”

“I still don’t understand, Cam.” Vivia lifted a helpless shoulder. “What does it mean if there are two new doorways? You said yourself, the mountain is changing right now.”

“Yeah, but not like this. The mountain can’t just make new doors. The first portals were built a thousand years ago by Paladins!” His voice had risen. He hastily yanked it back down to a whisper. “That’s what Ryber told me. She said only a powerful witch can do the necessary magic. It also requires big stones and Threads and . . . and complicated stuff.”

“I see,” Vivia said on a sigh—and she did. “You think someone is building new portals.”

“Exactly, Majesty. And then they’re putting those portals on a map.”

“Could it be Ryber?”

“Maybe,” Cam acknowledged, but the slant to his brow suggested otherwise. “But I just . . . I feel it in my gut that it ain’t. I know I’ve led us wrong once today—”

“Please stop blaming yourself, Cam.”

“—and I don’t want to do that again. But really . . . I’ve got a bad feeling about this map. And,” he dropped his voice to mere exhale, “I’ve got a bad feeling about those Hell-Bards.”

Hye, Vivia agreed. Me too. Aloud she said, “Thank you, Cam. I appreciate your insights. Now if you could pick a direction to get us off these stairs, then we can get moving before all this standing still leads me to madness.”

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Chapter Eleven

For several miles, through evergreens and snowdrifts, Aeduan let himself sink into the hunt. He was a collection of thoughts. Of actions. He was not his mind, he was not his body. He was nothing more than the coastal storm and weeping father of two blood scents he wanted to catch up to.

The course ran downhill. Then uphill. Then zagged around thickets and past holly bushes pocked with red. Always, it trended westward. Higher into the Ohrins, and always it followed the easiest course through forest and stone.

The scents grew faint though, weakening by the second.

Until they ran out entirely. Six miles, Aeduan calculated, and almost to the edge of the lands that belonged to Eron fon Hasstrel.

Aeduan sniffed. Flexed his fingers at his sides. If the trail ran cold here, then that meant this was the way the Hell-Bards had come from. Not gone to. It was useful information to have, which was why he’d followed it this far. But it was not his targets nor their end destination. So he spun on a heel, kicking up snow, and returned, faster now, to the Well. Surefoot’s ears swiveled as he raced past. She opened groggy, long-lashed eyes. Recognized him. Snorted. And sank once more into slumber.

This time, the trail moved eastward, and the scents grew stronger with each claimed footstep. So strong, in fact, that Aeduan expected he might come across the Hell-Bards at any moment. If he was lucky, they too would have made camp for the night.

Aeduan was not lucky. Instead Lady Fate abandoned him a mere mile later, as sharply as if she had dropped the knife herself. All blood scents broke off and Aeduan found himself in a clearing filled with snow. At the heart was a granite slab several feet taller than Aeduan and three times as wide. Thick drifts hugged it; ice had gathered in its cracks, creating lines like the Cleaved.

Aeduan hurried behind the rock, hoping the blood scents would continue. But they didn’t, and Aeduan could guess why.

This must be the secret doorway into the mountain. The doorway Iseult and Safi—and their Hell-Bard companions, including Zander and Lev—had used to reach Cartorra many weeks ago. There were several such doors scattered across the Witchlands, each portal leading into a mountain filled with stars.

When Iseult had described it to Aeduan, he had struggled to imagine it—until flickering memories from Nadje had surfaced to show him the scale. The spirit swifts flying inside a crevasse with no end. The glowing blue that marked the seven portals carved inside the mountain.

Now Aeduan was faced with such a doorway, except it was shut. There was no magic to radiate off the granite, no bright hole through which he might crawl. The Hell-Bards must have done so, but the door had somehow sealed up behind them.

Aeduan and his hunt were finished already.

He lifted his chin to study the stone from the bottoms of his eyes. His orders were to continue westward, for there were two more pesky doms resisting their new Empress’s rule. But those orders had come from Eron fon Hasstrel and Monk Evrane. And although Safiya might have agreed that Aeduan’s skills were useful for a task of the violently persuasive nature . . .

He was certain she would much rather know that her missing Hell-Bards had been here. Recently, too, and alive.

Iseult is also east, Aeduan thought, and once more, he cast out his Bloodwitchery, reaching for a scent like fireflies stained on a silver taler. It wasn’t there, no matter how much he might wish it to be.

Aeduan’s nostrils flared. He tapped at the knives strung across his chest. He could easily use a Voicewitch to send this news of the Hell-Bards; as much as he might wish for it, there was no reason for him to return to the Solfatarra and deliver the information in person.

He lowered his chin, decision made—even if it was one he did not look forward to. However, as he twisted to return to the Well and to Surefoot, a third blood scent trickled into his nose. Skated across his magic. Likely it had always been there, but only by reaching for Iseult had Aeduan caught a whiff of it. Clear lake waters and frozen winters.

Leopold fon Cartorra. The Rook King. That Paladin of Aether who had cursed Aeduan with a soul not his own—he had also been here. Either just before the Hell-Bards, or more likely alongside them.

It was unsurprising, for if Aeduan were the broken bear from Saldonica, then Leopold was the cruel Herdwitch who always made him dance.

Because Leopold made everyone dance. It was his nature. It was the truth of his Trickster self.

Aeduan sniffed again, just to confirm there was no deeper scent here nor the possibility of tracing the former prince’s path. But there was nothing, and already this one sliver of Leopold’s blood was fading into the night.

Within seconds, Aeduan lost hold of it entirely. And within seconds, he was charging back toward the Well—now with a new urgency. A new excitement. For as furious as he was to discover Leopold lurking and scheming and forcing more bears to dance, this was not news that could be sent via Voicewitch. This was a message and a story Aeduan would have to deliver in person.

“Sorry, girl,” he said once he reached Surefoot’s side again. “I lied. We are traveling tonight. But at least, on the bright side, it will be almost entirely downhill.”

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Chapter Twelve

Cam chose up as their destination because up was away from the tunnel filled with ice—and the new doors—and up would eventually lead to the Sightwitch Sister Convent and freedom from this mountain.

Vivia insisted the Hell-Bards lead their ascent, and they were amenable. If they sensed Vivia or Cam didn’t trust them, they gave no sign of it. And when Vivia probed them about who had made their map, they only ever had one answer: It came with the letters.

And who gave you the letters?

Safiya fon Cartorra, of course.

There was a missing piece there—Vivia felt it. As did Cam’s gut, since the first time Zander answered this question, Cam hung back to whisper: “There’s somethin’ wrong about that reply.”

“Any idea what?”

“No, Majesty.” A grimace on his shadowed face. “But I’ll let you know if I think of anything.”

The boy thought of nothing before they left the stairs. Nor did Vivia. In fact, soon all her focus was on simply not passing out. The stairs weren’t steep, but there were hundreds upon hundreds of htem, always cast in sputtering firelight and darkness. Vivia’s thighs shrieked at her. Her spine too, under the weight of her pack.

Eventually the stairs gave way to a snaking tunnel lit with foxfire. It was roughly hewn, almost a circle in the earth like a giant worm had once come this way.

After taking a brief pause to drink from Vivia’s single canteen and the Hell-Bards’ two water bags—almost empty now—Cam spotted Vivia frowning. “Don’t worry,” he told her. “There’s water in the workshop. We can refill there.”

This was a relief, and Vivia quickly translated Cam’s words for the others. Which prompted Lev to moan her joy before draining off the rest of her water. Zander, however, only nodded soberly. And also only sipped once, before returning the bag to his hip.

He caught Vivia watching him as he did so, and she took the chance to say something she’d wanted to from the start: “You are Hell-Bards no longer. We heard the magic that bound you was destroyed. That you’re all witches once more.”

“Yes,” he agreed a bow of his head.

Vaness stiffened nearby. “You can control plants once more, Zander? And Lev, you can heal?”

“Sort of.” Lev grimaced as she buckled her water bag to her hip. “It comes in spurts. We aren’t comfortable with it yet, are we, Zan?” She glanced at her partner, and it hadn’t escaped Vivia’s notice that Lev was the chattier half of their pair—yet when Zander did speak, everyone homed in to listen.

Just as they did right now. Even Cam, who couldn’t speak Cartorran, slanted toward the giant.

“I miss being outside,” Zander said. The foxfire throbbed around him. “But being here, without grass and trees and leaves, is still so much better than it ever was without any magic at all.”

Vivia’s shoulders tensed toward her ears at those words. She’d spent weeks fighting the temptation of her tides. It had not been easy, and she’d wished so desperately that this deluge might cease so she once more could savor her tides and rivers and rains.

Even that, though—that pained resistance that she chose—was infinitely better than having no connection to her magic at all. Right now, she could feel the water in Zander’s bag. Just a few mouthfuls that sang to her, as did the water in her own pack. But what would it feel like if those songs were gone?

Without her Tidewitchery, she was nothing. Not a little fox, and certainly not a bear.

She rubbed at her Witchmark—as did the Empress a few steps away—before murmuring that Zander and Lev could keep walking. Vivia wanted out of this mountain. No more breaks, if she could avoid it.

It was another half hour before they reached the room labeled Workshop. Cam’s guidance had led them true. With multiple floors and stairwells, with shelves and tables and books in countless shapes and sizes, the space was everything Vivia could imagine might fill an experimental laboratory. Papers, glass bottles, metal contraptions. All of it perfectly immobile, perfectly untouched by time.

And all of it lit by foxfire. Hundreds of fungal fans climbed over the space, on the walls and ceilings and shelves. The glow was so bright, Vivia had to squint at first to even see as she stalked inside. Her hands came to her eyes.

A child giggled.

Vivia snapped her hands down. Her breaths turned scattershot as she glanced around, searching the shadows. But there was no one there. Only Cam and Vaness hurrying in behind her. Then the Hell-Bards too.

“Water!” Lev cried as she launched through the workshop to a series of pumps on the walls. “It looks just like the prince’s lab, doesn’t it, Zan? Maybe we can find a flying machine in here too. Although, I guess that wouldn’t be too useful if we can’t get out of the mountain.”

Zander didn’t respond, and rather than follow Lev to the pumps, he turned to stare at Vivia. His eyes, which had seemed auburn in the stairwell’s firelight, now looked green. His beard too, and his faintly freckled skin.

She had the sudden suspicion he might have heard the child’s laughter as she had.

“There’s a spell on the room,” Cam said in Nubrevnan, nudging in closer to Vivia. He hugged his arms over his chest. “A preservation spell. That’s what Ryber told me, and it’s why there’s no dust, no spiders, no nothing. It’s all exactly like Eridysi left it.”

“Eridysi,” Vaness repeated, and now she huddled to Vivia’s other side. “How is that even possible? How is anyof this possible?”

Vivia wondered the same, but where such questions struck awe in the Empress, Vivia felt only horror. Eridysi was a woman who’d written a sad song a thousand years ago; she was a Sightwitch no one really remembered; she was as relegated to legend as Lady Baile or the Fury.

Which meant she was not supposed to be real, and her Lament wasn’t supposed to be real either.

Vivia shook herself. “I don’t want to stay here. Let’s keep moving.”

“Hye,” Cam agreed. “The door’s straight ahead. Through that hallway across the room. I’ll show you.” He scampered ahead. Vivia trailed behind. Zander too.

The sheer size of him made Vivia want to cower—which wasn’t his fault. And nothing about him cued aggression. Yet Vivia found her strides lengthening to get away from him. The foxfire fans wavered as she passed. The air seemed too thin.

She was ten steps into the hall when she heard a barking cry. Cam, she thought, and now she fully ran while Zander galloped behind. They rounded a curve. They saw the boy.

He was fine. Or at least, he wasn’t suddenly dead or eaten by ice. Instead he leaned his against a massive wooden door, his head hanging in his hands. “We can’t get through,” he mumbled as Vivia skidded to a stop beside him. The boy didn’t look at her. “We can’t get through, Majesty. This”—he punched a single fist against the planks—“needs a special key that only Sightwitches have. Unless we can find one of those keys in the workshop, we can’t get through.”

Vivia stared at the door, trying to process Cam’s words. There was no knob to turn, and only a single hole where a key was clearly meant to slot.

“It doesn’t open?” Zander asked, joining them. He spoke in his rounded Cartorran.

Vivia nodded. “Locked,” she said numbly.

“May I . . . try something?” He gestured to a spot between Vivia and Cam.

And Vivia simply shrugged. “Sure.” She gripped Cam by the sleeve and towed him out of the giant’s way. But where she thought the Hell-Bard would fling his enormous body against the door, he instead placed both hands upon the wood. His fingers splayed. His eyes closed.

The foxfire brightened toward blinding. So much so that Cam recoiled and Vivia had to shade her eyes. Yet she heard . . . then felt as the wood responded to Zander’s magic. She hadn’t known such a thing was possible—any Plantwitches she’d ever met in Nubrevna had only ever worked with living plants. But long-dead wood? Long-carvedand -nailed and -hidden wood inside an ancient mountain?

This Hell-Bard must have incredible power.

A groan filled the hall, like metal bending against stone. It was impossible to see in all the light, but Vivia thought the door might be opening. Splitting down the middle as wood fought against hinges.

Then it was done. The light receded, and now Zander was the one to groan. His knees gave out beneath him. Vivia and Cam darted forward, but he was so big. So limp. He crashed down, knocking wood and splinters on the way.

“Zan!” Lev shouted, trampling into the hall. “No, no, no, you stupid man!” She dropped to his side, and Vivia dropped with her. Together, they hauled Zander onto his back. He was bleeding from his nose. Gushing, actually.

“Vaness!” Vivia bellowed toward the workshop. “Get the healer kit from my pack! Now!” She knew what to do here. This was the same curse that struck the Empress if she used too much power. They had tools to help . . .

But the tools never reached Vivia or Zander or Lev. Instead, the ice did. Black-veined and hungry, it screeched in through the broken door at a speed no human could ever match. Vivia tried. Her arms shot high, her legs sprang her upright to flee. But such instincts were useless against an enemy that wasn’t alive and never had been.

The ice covered Zander, entombing him in a single heartbeat.

Then it claimed Lev. And it claimed Vivia too, embracing her, caressing her like a mother coaxing her into sleep. Come, come, the ice will hold you.

The last thing Vivia sensed before she lost all sight and sound was the presence of two little girls. They giggled and clapped and watched as the ice did its work.

“The queen of hounds, the queen of hawks, and the king of bats,” the taller one said in a language that was familiar enough to understand, but too foreign to identify. “That sounds like it should start a joke, doesn’t it?”

“Not a very funny one,” the smaller girl replied.

“It will be funny, though. Once all the six are together, everyone will have to laugh.” As the last slivers of ice shrouded over Vivia’s eyes, the taller girl smiled—at Cam, Vivia thought, although she couldn’t turn to see. “Oh, hello,” she said. “You must be the Nine of Hounds. Do not be frightened. Nine is sacred inside this mountain, for only with nine can one ever think beyond.”

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I wanted to make sure everyone has access to the extra content we’ve shared so far, so scroll down to see it!

And of course, here are the extras that I’ve already shared, in case you missed them:

Pre-order + Early Access

Before I share the goodies, don’t forget to pre-order Witchlight ! I’ve said it before, but many of you are new here—so I’ll say it again: pre-orders are so important for an author. The more pre-orders we get and the sooner were get them, the more promo our publishers will put into a book.

This is the last book in the Witchlands' core, Cahr Awen series, and I really, really want it to have a shot at success.

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ALSO, if you’re impatient and ready to read now, don’t forget the Early Access chapters! I’ll be adding more soon.

Witchlight Early Access

Now onto the art!

Baeseult amidst the Fireflies

There are actually two versions of this art by Melie Scribble: the GIF version (which I couldn’t get to upload here) and the three panel version. This was a giveaway item when I toured for Bloodwitch, and it’s meant to be the final scene of the book—titled Fireflies.

Character Art

This art was included on cards in the Bloodwitch Hangover Kit from Faecrate. (I don’t have the artist’s name, and their Instagram is no longer available. Otherwise I would share!)

I love that Esme looks so nice. No, her smiles says. I won’t kill you. Lol. Now come a little closer…

Witchlands Poster

This poster was made from the cover art for Truthwitch, Windwitch, and Bloodwitch, as created by Cliff Nielsen. It was only available in the hardcover boxed set—which was only available in limited quantities.

On the back of this poster was a full map of the Witchlands—but with the addition of military forces! Ships, armies, battles. You could see where everyone is in the Witchlands, and where war is about expand…

Baeseult Kisses

I shared this art only recently, by the awesome Patricia Vázquez (and I’d love to make a postcard of it or small print for the Witchlight tour).

It’s from a scene at the end of Witchshadow, and I love how surprised Aeduan looks. Wait, what…? Is this really happening? OMG. Be cool, man. Be cool.

Swear Like Safi!

Here’s a fun extra that hasn’t yet been shared on the Discord yet: it’s a guide to swearing like Safiya fon Hasstrel, who has a…well, colorful way of speaking. I made this with Tor Teen way back in 2016 for Truthwitch, and it’s still fun to use today. 😌

Enjoy!

(And here’s a PDF version for easier viewing.)

That is all I have (FOR NOW). Although don’t forget about the massive sweepstakes still happening! I’ll pick a winner to get all of this swag on June 2.

And as always, thank you so much for reading and supporting.

May the Moon Mother light your path, and may Trickster never find you.

💚 - Sooz

For anyone who was going to meet me and wanted a signed book, shoot me an email (susan at susandennard . com) or hit REPLY. Let me know how many you want + your mailing address! 😘

Second off: MORE WITCHLIGHT! We finished the Readalong on the Discord (but don’t worry! I know many of you are still reading and chatting—totally allowed and welcomed!), so I’ll share the latest extra content from that next week.

In the meantime, enjoy! We’re almost to the point in the story where Iseult and Safi finally weave in…

Witchlight Early Access

Chapter 8

The only light in the mountain room came from the hungry ice. It glowed its vicious blue, radiating in threatening waves—but not entering the room where Vivia, Cam, and Vaness had fled.

How long this room ran, Vivia couldn’t sense. Shadows laid claim so quickly beyond the door. She could see the room was tall, like the Battle Room in the Lovats palace . . . yet also oppressive. Claustrophobic. Closing in like a tomb.

She yanked her pack in front of her, and in seconds, she had their lone torch withdrawn. “Ignite,” she whispered.

Flames whooshed before her. So bright, so warm. And so revealing. On her left was Vaness, austere and silent. She looked different without her shackles—not weak, but certainly exposed. As for Cam, he was spinning. Muttering. Stalking two steps forward, then three steps back.

“I’m sorry.” He met Vivia’s gaze through the flames. “I’m so sorry. Empress Vaness was right: we should’ve never come here, but I’ll get us out. I promise.”

Vivia lifted a trembling hand to silence him. Her lungs hurt. Her face too, where ice had clawed. “You were not the one who made the decision to come here, Cam. And there is no use in regrets. All we can do is keep moving.”

“To where?” Vaness asked, her tone hissing and fanged. “I see no doors.”

“No, there is one,” Cam inserted quickly. “I remember this room—Ryber and I came right through it. It’s called the Past, and there was a broken blade and a . . . a broken mirror on an altar.” He pointed to the room’s center.

Vivia and Vaness both squinted—but if there was an altar there, Vivia couldn’t see it with only this one torch for light. By the Hagfishes, why did she bring only one torch? What other vital items did her foolish self leave behind?

She rubbed at her forehead. Stop. Breathe. Now was not the time for storm clouds to fill her chest.

“If we go past the altar . . .” Cam hurried forward three steps. “We’ll reach a door into a long tunnel that’ll eventually hit some stairs, and then . . . well, it’s a long walk, but it does get to the Convent.”

“And how,” the Empress pushed, “does the Convent help us, Cam? It’s in the middle of the Sirmayan Mountains, is it not?”

“Enough,” Vivia bit out. Her voice was weaker than she wanted, because her lungs were weaker. This wasn’t Cam’s fault—none of this was Cam’s fault and she would not let the Empress take such a tone with him. She, Vivia, had chosen to come here, so it was she, Vivia, who should be the target of Vaness’s rage.

“No regrets,” she repeated. “We keep moving. Lead the way, please, Cam.” Vivia lifted one leg to shuffle onward.

Until Vaness lashed her words directly at Vivia: “I refuse to move.”

“What?”

Vivia rounded the torch at her. Flames cast crude shapes on the Empress. On Cam. And on the walls, where carvings looked as if they scuttled and seethed.

“I refuse to move,” Vaness repeated, “unless I know that forward is the safest way out of here.”

“Well, we can’t go backward.” Vivia flung a hand at the ice. “It’s sealed off and certainly not safe.”

“We have supplies. We can wait for the ice to move again.”

“Unless it never does. Then what? Do you expect us to wait here for the rest of time? Be reasonable, Empress.”

“I was reasonable.” Her nostrils flared. “And you did not listen. Now here we are, in a dark, cursed room in a dark, cursed mountain with only one path forward that will probably lead to more ice for all we know.”

“Majesties,” Cam mumbled. Neither woman heard him.

“Is this because you lost your iron?” Vivia demanded. “Is that why you’re upset? Noden’s breath, here. Take my cutlass.” She unsheathed her blade.

“That is steel,” Vaness clipped out. “Not iron. It takes time for me to separate the iron from the charcoal and manipulate what I need. You know that I only do that for the most important—”

“Majesties,” Cam repeated.

“Take the cutlass anyway.” Vivia shoved it toward Vaness. “Then at least you’re armed. Or would you rather carry the torch? What would make you move from this room toward the other doorway—”

“Majesties!” Cam butted between them, his arms rising. Torchlight flashed on his dark eyes. “I forgot: the tunnel out of here has sleeping ice in it too. Although . . . maybe it’s not the hungry kind? There are all these shapes inside—which Ryber told me are the Sightwitches. So maybe, since the ice has already . . . been fed . . .” He trailed off, grimacing as both rulers gaped at him.

And there was the panic again, a thunderstorm in each of Vivia’s lungs. Always so stupid. Why did you come here, Little Fox? She wanted to scream at those words. Or maybe she wanted to hide. Vaness had warned her, but she hadn’t listened.

“Perhaps,” she squeezed out carefully, “the best course is to find out if this other ice is indeed hungry. Once we have an answer, we can make new plans.”

“And if it does try to eat us?” Vaness asked.

Vivia didn’t respond. Instead, she sheathed her sword—since Vaness wasn’t taking it—and met Cam’s wary gaze head on. “Lead the way, please, Cam.”

He gulped. Glanced once at Vaness. Then nodded and obeyed his queen. “I’m sorry,” he whispered as they strode side by side, leaving the Empress in blue-dappled shadows. “I’m so sorry, Majesty.”

“Hush” was all Vivia replied. Now that her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, she could see the altar—although it was really nothing more than a simple table hewn from stone. Boring, empty, and with no sign that anything had ever been there.

“They’re gone.” Cam hurried toward it. “The blade and glass that used to be here—they’re missing.”

“Is that bad?”

“I don’t know.” He grimaced. “This is where we found Stix, though. She was staring at the blade like it was precious. Or more than that—like it was the answer to everything she’d ever needed. But Ryber told her not to touch it. That it would kill her in a way nothing else could. So Stix dropped it and we left.”

Vivia had heard this story before—weeks ago, when Cam had first appeared in Pin’s Keep babbling about raiders and Stix and danger in the under-city. But like everything Cam had shared, it had all been impossible to imagine. So much so that Vivia had even assumed most of it wasn’t true. Not because Cam wanted to lie, but because memories often got distorted by pressure, by fear, by chaos.

Plus, Stix had never come back. Two months later, and Vivia still had no idea where her longest friend and closest companion had gone.

Vivia clenched her jaw. Adjusted her sleeves. Thinking of Stix was not what she needed right now. Much like with the waves always shouting at Vivia, yhe little fox couldn’t go that way. The little fox had to resist if she didn’t want to drown.

The room’s end came into view, a black square in the center that must mark the door into the tunnel. But that was when a vibration ripped through the room. A rattle, a rumble, a surge side to side. Vivia fell; Cam too; and far behind them, Vaness screamed.

In seconds, Vivia was scrabbling around. Trying to reclaim her legs in a room that was now moving. And not just the room. The ice was moving too. A distant glowing shiver that oozeed into the room like blood from a scab.

Vaness ran this way. Her own stride was as wobbling and wild as Vivia’s. They fell into each other beside the altar. The ground shuddered. The ice throbbed closer.

“It’s moving.” The Empress clung to Vivia for balance. “The ice is coming into the room.”

“Not quickly,” Vivia said—which was at least true, if little comfort. Assuming they couldn’t leave through the ice tunnel, then they really were trapped here.

“Majesties!” Cam screeched. “Majesties, look! There’s a hole in the wall! It just opened up in the quake—I’ll go through! See where it takes us.”

Oh no, Vivia thought. She met Vaness’s eyes, huge and shining in the torchlight. Then as one, they leaped from the altar and chased after Cam’s figure, already vanishing into a sharp slash newly hewn thirty paces away.

When they reached that hole, having shouted after Cam as they ran—having bellowed at him to come back—Vivia pushed Vaness into the new tunnel ahead of her. Cam wasn’t answering them; they were going to have trust that was a good thing.

For the ice was lumbering this way, and with it came sounds. Ones that sang directly into Vivia’s brain, Come, come, daughter, let me hold you.

And there were other sounds too. Real ones that somehow felt more impossible than anything Vivia had encountered in this mountain yet: laughter. One voice, high-pitched like a child’s, followed by a second that echoed in strange angles around the room. There are no coincidences, the voices trilled. Except when there are.

“Stop,” Cam whispered. “I hear people.” This was the first thing anyone had said in ten minutes. Maybe twenty. Or maybe an hour, for all Vivia could tell. The “path” Cam had found was more like a fissure in the stone, following the grain. It slanted, it dipped, it shrank and expanded in a way that might have made sense to the mountain, but held no guiding principle Vivia could follow.

At least there was no quaking now.

And no ice.

Vivia took up the rear, her torch wavering in angles that often left Cam blind and calling out, “Can you shine it this way?” But the last stretch had been smooth. Not a true tunnel, but at least a straight line with only the occasional upthrust of stone to get in the way.

Now here they were, a hole in the floor visible thirty feet ahead—and voices most definitely coming through along with more orange firelight. Not children’s either, like Vivia had heard earlier, but adults’.

“They sound Cartorran,” the Empress whispered, her head cocked and fingers scrubbing at her Witchmark.

Vivia agreed, but said nothing. Her pulse was gaining speed, a stochastic drumbeat fueled by excitement and fear. If there were people ahead, that might mean there was an exit from this mountain.

But of course, people also meant potential enemies. Potential danger.

“I’ll move to the front,” she inserted after several moments of careful listening. She snuffed out her torch. “You take up the rear, Cam, and have your blade ready.”

“Hye, Majesty,” Cam agreed, squeezing himself against the frosted stone so Vivia could pass. Vaness did the same, her eyes holding Vivia’s. She was cast almost fully in shadow. It softened her.

Vivia handed Vaness the unlit torch.

“Be careful,” the Empress murmured, her fingers sliding around the grip.

“I always am,” Vivia replied.

Which earned her a quiet scoff that was unexpectedly bright in all the darkness. It made Vivia think of all she and Vaness had faced and fought together. And it gave her heart iron when she needed it most.

Ahead, the hole in the floor was just as jagged as the “path” they’d taken through the mountain. It too must have opened in the quake. Vivia crept closer; the voices pitched louder. Two people. A man, a woman, and speaking with an urgency that suggested panic.

“No,” the man said, his voice a warm, rounded thing. “I swear that’s the way we came. It just looks different after the quake.”

“Naw, naw,” the woman replied, her voice harsher. Less polished. “You’ve gotten twisted around. That rock hit you hard—”

“Not that hard.”

“—and if we head down the steps, we’ll hit the big cavern again. See, look. There’s a tunnel on this map.”

A map. Vivia’s excitement tripped higher. She hurried to the hole’s lip, craning her neck—inch by careful inch—until she could see the edge of a boot. Then a black-clad leg. Then a sheathed weapon and buckler with a double-headed eagle stamped upon it. Which meant these were Cartorran soldiers.

She yanked out of sight. The Cartorrans were in the midst of upheaval. And while Vaness swore the new leader, Safiya fon Hasstrel, would help the Marstoki cause and Vivia’s too, Vivia had yet to receive any actual confirmation of this.

“I wish the commander were here for this mission.”

“He’s a captain now, Lev, remember?”

“He’ll always be a commander to me.”

“Don’t let him hear that.” A snort. “And also don’t be so hard on yourself. I think you’re doing well for your first command.”

“Yeah, yeah. The prince wouldn’t have appointed me if he didn’t think I could do it. You keep tellin’ me that.”

“Because you keep doubting it.”

Noise rustled behind Vivia, the faintest shift of fabric and scrape of shoe. Then suddenly it was not Cam behind Vivia, but the Empress again. Her eyes were even bigger now. “I know those voices,” she whispered. “They’re Hell-Bards.”

Vivia scrabbled farther from the hole. “And that’s good because?” She was so quiet, she more mouthed these words than uttered them.

“Because these are the Hell-Bards who were with the Truthwitch when we were imprisoned in Saldonica. I could not have escaped without them—nor escaped Azmir during the coup, either.”

“But why would they be here?” Cam now thrust in, his voice as hushed as Vivia’s. “That seems like a real coincidence.”

There are no such things as coincidences, Vivia thought. Except when there are. She cleared her throat. The hairs on her neck pricked tall.

“I will go first,” Vaness said.

“No, wait.” Vivia grasped at her shoulder. “We should be cautious.”

“Of course. But we also have no reason to hold back. Especially since”—here she smiled and her eyes turned murderous—“they have iron on their bucklers and armor. So if I do not like what they say, I need not listen.”

She tugged free from Vivia, and with her usual grace, she dropped through the hole. Her feet landed a half heartbeat later. “Hello, Hell-Bards.”

Vivia didn’t hear what came next. She had reached the hole and was climbing through. Her pack scraped on stone. Her landing was decidedly ungraceful, and jolted through her ankles, her knees, all the way up to her teeth. By the time she’d wobbled to standing, Cam had plopped down beside her.

The Hell-Bards meanwhile ogled the new arrivals. The walls and ceiling were sharply square; the stairs worn but well carved. Firewitched lanterns guttered in sconces nearby, but twenty paces up and twenty paces down were shrouded in total darkness.

“Empress . . . Vaness?” the Hell-Bard woman asked, her green eyes so wide they pulled at scars fanning across her cheek to her ear. She was young with a heart-shaped, pale face. “Is this real? Is that really her, Zan, or am I seeing those nightmares the prince warned us about?”

“I . . . think it’s her, Lev.” The man’s eyes scrunched. He was a giant, his neck so wide it gave him the illusion of having no neck at all. Meanwhile, his short hair was the same color as his browned skin, while a new beard sprouting across his face gleamed fiery red.

“It is me,” the Empress said in Cartorran, lifting her hands appeasingly. “I am no nightmare. And these are two friends of mine. Cam.” She waved to the boy. “And . . . Livia.”

Well, Vivia supposed it was wisest to avoid revealing her true identity. However, as far as aliases went, Livia was blighted bad. And the woman Lev clearly agreed. Her eyebrows crooked high. “Livia, huh? And a Nubrevnan admiral too, who looks a lot like how the rightful queen is described.”

Vivia sighed. She was glad to hear the word rightful—and frankly glad she wouldn’t have to pretend to be someone she wasn’t. Her brain couldn’t handle any more tumult right now. “Yes, you’re right: I am Vivia Nihar, rightful queen of Nubrevna. Cam here, though . . .” She laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “He really is Cam, but he doesn’t speak Cartorran, so if you might be so kind as to explain why you’re here in the middle of this mountain, then I will translate the situation to him.”

“It’s simple,” Lev answered, shrugging at Zander. “We were supposed to use the magic doorways in the mountain to travel, but. Well, the ruttin’ mountain changed on us—twice. We’ve been wandering around ever since. It’s almost . . . what, two days now? Kind of impossible to tell, honestly.”

“Travel to where?” Vaness asked as Vivia translated softly. The boy, his mouth agape, just listened and wagged his head.

“Nubrevna, of course.” Lev said this in a way that suggested both Vivia and Vaness should have known. “Because we have letters. For you.” She looked at Vaness as she said this. Then twisted toward Vivia. “And for you.”

Vivia stopped her translation. “A letter? From whom?”

It was Zander who replied, his voice somber and practiced: “From Her Imperial Majesty Safiya fon Cartorra. She requests your aid immediately in Poznin, and in return, she will give you all the soldiers you need to reclaim your rightful thrones.”

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Chapter 9

By the time Merik finished his pitiful but blessedly warm stew, he and Aurora had company.

The boy clung to the safety of the stairs, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. But there was also an air of awe around him as he took in the sight of Aurora, tail wagging and drool hanging like ribbons from her mouth.

“She won’t hurt you,” Merik assured, still using Marstoki. “Her name is Aurora. It means dawn. What’s your name?”

The boy didn’t answer—nor did he flee. So Merik shifted back to his cycling of languages, just in case he had judged the boy’s clothing wrong. Cartorran. Dalmotti. Arithuanian. Marstoki. It was in Merik’s third attempt at Marstoki that the boy finally reacted.

“Revan,” he said, his voice surprisingly strong. “My name is Revan. What . . . is she?”

“She’s a storm hound. Just a puppy though. I found her much like I found you. She needed someone to feed and help her, so I did.”

Aurora’s tail wagged faster. The boy risked a smile, though it died almost as soon as it arrived when a shiver rattled through him. He was better dressed than Merik for these elements, but he was still just a child. “Where are we?”

Merik inhaled at that question. A drawn-out, audible breath to steel him against what he was about to say: “Poznin. It’s very far from where I assume you must have come from. Which is where, exactly?”

“Tirla.”

Very far indeed. And the boy must be son to one of the powerful merchant families there; it would explain the fine clothes and rings. “Do you remember anything?” Merik asked. Aurora meanwhile rolled onto her back.

It made the boy smile again. And in turn, Merik’s own attempt at a smile widened. “Have you ever had a dog?”

Revan shook his head.

“Then come. I think she’d like her belly rubbed, but it’ll take two sets of hands.”

Revan didn’t move. Merik’s smile wanted to falter, but he kept it pasted on. “Like this.” He demonstrated, and the scratching sound of his palms on Aurora’s belly—as well as her contented grunts—filled the tower.

Revan still did not come in. “There used to be a lady here, didn’t there?”

Merik nodded. Scratch, scratch, scratch.

“She was bad. She brought me here. And my mother too. But I don’t see my mother out there. Just all those . . .” He hesitated. Then uttered a word Merik had never heard before: Kyrestiri.

“Kyrestiri?” Merik repeated, letting his ministrations to Aurora pause.

“Ahtset,” the boy replied, his eyes drifting to Merik for half a moment. Then to the open window behind him. “The Kyrestiri. The ones that the mountain spits out. It is what we call them in Tirla. Sometimes, the mountain shakes and people change. So is my mother like that? Is that what happened to me?”

Merik was careful to keep his brow smooth. He knew he was prone to frowning, to letting dark thoughts play across his face. “I don’t know if your mother is Kyrestiri, Revan, but yes. You were. And I was too.”

“And . . . Rora.” Revan pointed at the storm hound, who had flopped back over to her side. She stretched one of her wings behind her and nudged it against Merik’s knee. “Rora was Kyrestiri too?”

“Yes,” Merik answered, even though this wasn’t true. Aurora had never been cleaved . . . yet she had been spit out by the mountain, just as Merik had.

“Would you like to come closer? I have stew—albeit not a very good one. But it’s warmer here by the stove, and then you can tell me everything you remember. Maybe we can find your mother.”

Revan inhaled, a furrow sinking across his forehead. Then, with a nod more for himself than for Merik, he finally stepped into the tower. “You never did tell me your name. Sir.” He added the title almost as a reflex.

Definitely the son of wealthy merchants. Tirla was certainly full of them.

“Merik.”

“Oh.” The boy’s eyebrows shot high. “Like the prince who died in Nubrevna?”

A soft laugh escaped Merik’s throat. It was a bitter sound that made his chest ache more than it had any right to. “Yes, just like the prince who died in Nubrevna. Luckily for both of us, though, I’m still alive.”

It was clear from Revan’s wincing that despite the hunger that must cramp inside his gut, he was accustomed to better fare than salted meat boiled in water.

“I’m sorry.” Merik offered a wince of his own as they sat before the hearth. He and Revan were alone now. Aurora had lumbered out of the tower once Merik had served the stew, and he’d felt her take flight in a combination of winds and wings.

He kept checking the window though. Looking for her in the gray skies. Would she be foolish enough to fly toward the raider encampments? Would she be foolish enough to go back toward the mountain and the hungry ice?

While Merik and Revan slurped the hot, salty water and gnawed at the slightly softened meats, Merik managed to pry more information from the boy. His family were wealthy merchants, and he actually spoke all of the languages Merik had tried on him.

“Why do you know so many?” the boy asked. He was pulling another face as he tipped back more “stew.” Or maybe the face was a commentary on Merik’s person, for the next thing he said was: “You don’t look like you’d know so many.”

Fair. Merik set down his empty bowl. “My clothes have seen better days. I was . . . what was the word? Kyrestiri? I was Kyrestiri for a very long time.”

This made Revan’s face fall. His shoulders slumped too, and he finished eating in silence. Merik left him that way while he moved around the tower and prepared sleeping mats for them both. He would need to get proper food—perhaps from the river to the east, where no raiders camped.

Or, he thought, as a memory struck, at one of the Nomatsi shrines. As soon as he thought the word Nomatsi,though, he could hear Esme snarling, No’Amatsi. Their shrines were all across the Windswept Plains, built for the ancient gods they still worshipped. And at two of those shrines, Merik had found food. It had been a different season then, the tail end of autumn, but maybe he could get lucky a third time.

He would go tomorrow night when he could fly without risk of being seen by the raiders. They must have lookouts; perhaps even this fire in the hearth was a risk . . .

A gunshot cracked through the city.

Merik lunged for the tower window to search outside. In the distance, a shadow trailed across the sky. It was Aurora, except her movements were ungainly.

“You have to help her,” Revan cried, coming to the window next to Merik. “That’s Rora!”

“Yes, but you—”

“I can hide if anyone comes, sir.”

Merik swallowed. There was no denying the white-hot fury sparking inside him. It made his winds come easily; it made him feel righteous and strong. But he’d spent too many years letting that temper be his guide. He was not that man anymore.

A second gunshot pierced the night. The shadow that was Aurora lurched downward.

“I’ll be back,” Merik said, and just like that, the decision was made. He took flight from the window in an eruption of magic and winds.

Revan barked surprise, and Merik had half a moment for regret to furrow in. He should have warned the child of his magic. Should have made a point to show him the faded Witchmark on his hand.

Too late now, though, and Merik’s regret was quickly swamped by anger. His winds had always been fueled by that temper, and now was no exception. Someone wished to harm Aurora. It was Merik’s job to stop them.

He flew higher and faster. A third gunshot ripped out. It missed Aurora, but only because Merik had already blasted her with his own winds, cocooning her as Kullen used to do with him. His magic mixed with hers. It was like a spark to gunpowder. A charge ignited; lightning crackled. She rocketed out of sight.

And now Merik was directly over the people who’d shot at her. Three dark shadows in the night-shrouded city. He dropped straight for them, his fury gathering more power for these raiders who would dare prey on a city filled with Cleaved innocents.

They spied Merik. The two with guns tried to reload, but their weapons were not Firewitched. It was a slow process—and Merik’s winds were so much faster. He swatted the weapons from their hands. He saw no reason to be cautious. No reason to quell his temper. There was nothing between him and the violence he wanted to unleash against these raiders.

But then three faces came into focus. Young faces almost as haggard and hollowed as the Cleaved—and not much older than Revan.

Noden curse me. Merik yanked in his winds. It was like wrenching the lead on a large dog, and it required sheer force and full-body power to pull, pull, pull these winds that wanted to attack.

The three people gaped at him in horror. Their guns had flung too far to grab, and other than a small knife in the hand of a scrawny young woman, they had nothing else to fight with.

She was just a kid, and like the other two with her, she wore Purist gray. They’re not even raiders, Merik realized, and the last of his winds deflated in an unquenched sigh that sent air roiling off his body.

Dead leaves rattled. Gray homespun flapped on the three teens’ hungry frames.

“You need food,” Merik said. He tried Cartorran, since most Purists seemed to be from that empire—and his guess was a good one.

“Witch,” the boy spat while the girl with the knife simply squeezed her hilt tighter.

The third teen, meanwhile, eyed Merik with a thoughtful look that reminded him very much of the way Ryber would gaze out at the world. With a wisdom that came from having seen too much.

“You got any food?” she asked, and at once, the other teens looked to her. A subtle movement that showed right away she was their leader.

“No,” Merik admitted to her. “But I can get you some. You have to put down that knife first, though.” He addressed this to the other girl. Then to the boy: “And no more shooting at my storm hound.”

“Your storm hound?” the leader asked. She seemed impressed by this, instead of horrified, and it occurred to Merik that although she dressed like a Purist, she didn’t seem to possess the prejudices of one.

“Well, Aurora is my storm hound in so much as any storm hound can belong to someone.” He dipped his head toward the other girl. “Now about that knife . . .”

The leader nodded at her, and the girl finally lowered her blade.

“Sheathe it, please.” Merik motioned to the leather case at her belt.

Her lips wrinkled back to reveal a chipped tooth. “No.”

“You can’t expect us to totally trust you,” the leader said. She shrugged with her hands, a smooth movement from a girl who seemed used to getting her way. And in that moment, Merik felt the slightest tug inside his chest. A little nudge that said, Oh, she’s reasonable. Do as she says.

Merik did not do as she said. Instead, he felt himself smile. She was a Wordwitch, and he’d wager she had no idea. Or maybe she did know and it was why she was not so viciously spiteful toward Merik as her companions were. After all, a Purist with a witchery was a Purist with a death wish.

“Knife gets sheathed,” Merik countered, “or you don’t come with me for food.”

“Come on,” the boy urged. “Just do it, Ulga.” He was practically salivating.

“I don’t listen to you, Birdy.” Ulga glared. Then turned to the leader. “Sky? What do you think?”

The leader, Sky, laughed, and it was a surprisingly buoyant sound. One that said, Ah, he won’t fall for my tricks then, will he? “It’s fine,” Sky delared. “Sheathe the knife, Ulga, and let’s see where this fellow might lead.”

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SKY!!

I’m so excited you’ve just met Skyvenjetsa Drakora. She might be my most favorite new side character in a while…😌

💚 - Sooz

We’ve been sharing quiz results over on the Discord, but I thought I’d open the discussion more widely here as well!

Which Witch Are You?

Thank you to Sanya for uploading this Witchlands-themed quiz ages ago. She used a quiz I made/shared for #ClanChat—I think a #ClanChat from all the way back in 2015, if you can believe it! Almost a full decade ago!

But take the quiz at the link above, then let us all know what elemental magic you have in the comments!

Leave a comment

And for the true fans, are there anymore specific witcheries you’d want? E.g. Tidewitch, Windwitch, Truthwitch, Threadwitch, etc…?

According to the quiz, I’m a Waterwitch (this fits as a former marine ecologist + Pisces). But I think I’d like to be a Tidewitch, like Vivia. 🌊

What about you?

There’s more to come, but I couldn’t fit it all in one newsletter. Not since I ALSO have a whopping two chapters of Witchlight for you today. What a lucky Monday, eh? 😉

So stay tuned for more goodies, or pop onto the Discord and see what else we’ve shared.

And don’t forget, of course, to pre-order Witchlight!

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Aeduan Poster & Pocket Baeduan

For the lead up to Bloodwitch, I commissioned art from Melie Scribbles, who works in game design. I wanted something that looked like gaming concept art, and BOY did she deliver!

I love this art so much, and I think it really meshes my own vibe as a gamer with the book’s vibe—not to mention Aeduan’s overall vibe. I mean, that blushing face! Priceless. 😂

This design also became Aeduan’s “official” outfit, and it was what Cliff Nielsen used to develop the Bloodwitch cover, as well as Nipuni in her official Witchlands art!

And for fun, here’s a PRINTABLE POCKET BAEDUAN!

Sightwitch First Draft Mockup

As I said on the Discord, I had such a clear vision of what I wanted Sightwitch to look like, but I was really struggling to explain it to my then-editor Whitney. So I made a 50-page mockup that I printed out and drew on by hand, then I literally put those pages in a three-ring binder and delivered it to Whitney by hand when I was in New York for BookCon.

The production team then used that to help guide the artist, Rhys Davies! And if you compare final draft to my mock-up, it’s actually pretty close!! (Good job, production team!)

In fact, check out the map below and the map that I made on p.5 in the mockup for comparison. 😉

SEE THE MOCKUP HERE.

Sightwitch Map Poster

One of the swag items I gave away on the Sightwitch tour was a poster of the map. On the poster’s other side was the cover, and it was nice to have something to give away—we’d had some issues with production being delayed and the book getting bumped a month. Which really stressed me (and the team) out.

So I appreciated that they pulled this together so we could give it to fans as an apology for the delay.

Now on to Witchlight, and like I said—stay tuned for more goodies soon!

💚 - Sooz

Chapter Six

The boy followed Merik, skittering and scurrying from shadow to shadow. Merik was careful to never move so fast the boy couldn’t keep up. It was hard to stay slow, though. The wind had burrowed deep into his bones. Hunger was so pressing, he felt his stomach eating into his esophagus.

What Merik did not feel were signs of the Puppeteer. She was as inescapable as the tides. Her power seeped into every stone, every branch, every inch of plague-ridden soil. But there was nothing here now beyond wind and cold and these bodies that should be dead.

Bodies like his own. And like the boy still following him.

It was that thought more than any that propelled Merik onward until, at last, he and Aurora reached an intersection he knew too well. This was the way to the Puppeteer’s tower, and if he lifted a numb hand to block the wind, he could see it right there: part crumbling relic, part testament to a history long forgotten.

Ancient things made new again. He’d thought that of the tower, where Esme had trapped him, tortured him, terrified him.

But she also had had a stove in there. Blankets too. And maybe, by some miracle, there would be food.

Years later, Merik would look back at this moment as one when the fissures in the ice had finally led him exactly where he needed to be—for there really were no coincidences. But in that moment, all he’d really known was that an unexpected peace settled over him. And it radiated stronger, stronger as he stumbled ever closer to the tower.

When he finally reached the gaping, open door, he paused long enough to look back. The boy was still there, although he’d stopped now. Which was fine; Merik knew eventually the boy would follow. Aurora certainly did, shoving past Merik to be the first into the tower.

She nosed at an old pile of kindling beside stone steps, startling several mice. She snapped them into her jaws; Merik winced at the sound. But then decided he’d rather she eat mice than people.

With a fresh surge of strength, Merik hurried upstairs to the top floor. The floor where Esme had made her home.

There was no one there now. There was only her desk, her books, her many slouching candles that hadn’t seen flames since her passing. And of course, there was the corner where Merik had existed, bound by the Puppeteer’s collar and her capricious, yet calculating whim.

The rags that had been his only warmth were still there. The collar that had blocked his magic was not. For several moments, a tightness gripped Merik’s chest. As if his ribs had become a fist, as if they squeezed inward, trying to stop his lungs and heart from working.

Aurora whined. The moment passed. And Merik inhaled, laying a hand on the storm hound’s warm head. “We should start a fire,” he murmured, though he suspected she might understand his desires even without words. “And then we should look for food, and try to make a bed for that boy outside.”

Aurora snuffed. Merik scratched. Ancient things made new again.

Hours later, Merik had found wood and coaxed a fire to life in the stove. He’d found salted meat that had frozen inside a barrel and a loaf of frozen bread that the mice had never reached. So, after melting snow, he made a sad attempt at stew.

Then Merik hugged a rough blanket around his shoulders and with Aurora behind him, he climbed the final steps to the top of the tower. The boy had not yet braved the doorway, but he was still out there. Merik heard him shuffling every hour or so.

He would come eventually.

Or at least, Merik hoped he would. Night had fallen; the cold would soon be deadly.

The wind beat stronger atop the tower, and the winter sky was crystalline in a way it never looked on the Jadansi, as if the cold sharpened each star and darkened all the spaces between. There was a full moon tonight, which meant months might have passed since Merik had fled a dying Puppeteer and been swallowed by the ice . . . or it might have only been two weeks. Two weeks seemed unlikely though, given the dramatic change in temperature and snow.

And given the dramatic change in what waited beyond the walls of Poznin.

When Merik had been here as a prisoner, there’d been nothing to the east but swollen river and marshes for miles. Wet forests of beech trees, and plains rolling toward Cartorra. That was unchanged; the very earth there was still a sponge.

But the north and west held a landscape unlike anything he could have imagined. The plains that stretched endlessly to the north, all the way to the Sleeping Lands, were now a clotted patchwork of fires and tents and figures moving through the night. Black smoke drifted upward across the otherwise unmarred night sky. One plume in particular swept across the Sleeping Giant, diffusing its three bright stars into hazy smears of shadow-light.

Merik surveyed the various encampments. Although dark, the stars and the fires were bright enough—and near enough—to see red banners that marked Red Sail tents. Yellow banners that marked Baedyeds. And then loose, shapeless tents that seemed beholden to no one.

“Purists?” he wondered aloud. They had loved the southernmost stretches of Nihar, where poison and fire had drained the land of magic. And they had loved to tell Merik he was cursed for the magic he bore.

Merik strained to see some central spoke to the encampments. Some clear organization that would suggest where, in all those campfires and tents, he might find the Raider King—and this must be the forces of the Raider King. It was the only thing that made sense. But Merik could find no coherence, no structure.

The only consistent detail Merik did notice was that all the tents stopped at a very sharp, very specific distance from the northern wall of Poznin. It suggested the raiders and Purists were forbidden from setting camp any closer than that . . .

Or perhaps were too afraid to.

Aurora wagged her tail twice. A heavy thump on icy stones that prompted Merik to absently pat her head. He’d look more closely at this view tomorrow—see if this Raider King was out there . . . and then decide what his next moves should be. Perhaps he should do as the two girls had suggested and simply approach the man directly. Why are these Cleaved still here? Can we do anything to help them?

It was a foolish thought that disappeared almost as quickly as it formed. Of course Merik would not approach the Raider King. He had already come too close to death; he had no desire to tempt Noden’s Hagfishes again.

Merik also would not stay in this place stricken by plague and shadows. These Cleaved weren’t alive—there was nothing he could do for them. The boy, though, he could help. He would get the child out of here, and together, they would aim south. Because Nubrevna was home, and Nubrevna was where Merik needed to be.

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Chapter Seven

Heat roars. Wood cracks and embers fly.

“Run.” Blood drips from his mother’s mouth as she speaks.

It splatters his face.

With arms stained to red, she pushes herself up. She wants him to crawl out from beneath her. She wants him to escape. “Run, my child, run.”

He does not run. He does not move. He waits, as he always does, for the flames to overtake him and the world to burn alive.

The wounds on his chest scream.

Aeduan thrashed awake. Thirty paces away, the Earth Well burbled, steam rising off its moving waters. Tendrils that lifted into the night, circling past beech trees with summer plumage despite the winter nearby. No snow touched here; grass grew; and the air was warmer than it had any right to be. Which had made it a logical place for camping.

Overhead, the bright column of stars that Cartorrans called the Sleeping Giant sparkled down, almost bright enough to outshine the moon. It felt bigger this high in the mountains, and there was a sharpness to it from the cold, as if the moon’s yellow edges were chipped out of stone.

Aeduan’s horse nickered. Then pawed at the first stones edging around the Well. Surefoot was a squat gray beast with a constellation of white spots across her rump and a comfort with mountains unmatched by any man.

Aeduan trusted her with his life. She’d carried him without wavering for almost a month now, one mission after another, always in the name of the Cahr Awen.

“I hear you, girl,” he murmured as he hauled himself to his feet. “You’re hungry again. You need to pace yourself, though. These fresh offerings from the Hasstrels won’t last forever.”

As despairing as the main estate had been, the stables had been clean, warm, and fully stocked. The fon Grieg brothers cared about their horses—a reminder that even the worst humans usually had a good side. (And the best humans almost always had a bad.)

After offering Surefoot fresh apples to go with the grass she’d already cleared, Aeduan turned his attention to the Well. He had never been here before, although he knew of it. Iseult had come here; she had healed these waters with Safiya; and what had once been dormant for centuries now thrived again—all because they really were the Cahr Awen.

Without thinking, Aeduan reached out with his Bloodwitchery. It was a habit. An instinct. A need. Think of Iseult. Reach for the silver taler. But she wasn’t within the range of his magic, and Aeduan already knew that. She was a hundred leagues away, at a hunting lodge near the Solfatarra.

Aeduan ran his tongue over his teeth. One heartbeat passed. Two. Then he strode all the way to the Well’s edge and stared into the waters. Despite never having been here, never having seen this Well or watched its waters roil, there was a familiarity that seeped through the night.

And the waters, he was quite certain, stared back at him. Because long ago these waters had been alive.

A thousand years ago, they had been Exalted Ones—not that Aeduan had known that when suddenly one of their souls had been shoved inside of him. All he’d known was that one moment, he was himself. The next, he was drowning and a Paladin named Nadje had controlled his body.

Once, as a young boy living near Saldonica, Aeduan had seen a bear forced to dance by a Herdwitch. All life had been sapped from the poor beast’s eyes. There had been nothing left but broken resignation.

That was how Aeduan had felt when the Paladin had been trapped inside him. Nadje had been a Paladin of Aether before death had claimed him a thousand years ago. Now, fragments of Nadje still lingered inside Aeduan—not the man’s ghost so much as memories, hazy and illogical. Like a song from childhood in which the words are gone, but the tune still remains.

And that tune from Nadje had been one of pain. One of hatred and anger and, inexplicably, relief for when the end had finally come for him. What end that was, though, Aeduan couldn’t remember.

Nor did he want to remember. He wanted that cruel Paladin out of his mind, his bones, his blood. He wanted no memories or songs or fury to ever linger there. Iseult had told Aeduan that over time, these remnants of Nadje would likely fade. That these Threads, now unbound to him, would eventually drift away into the embrace of the Moon Mother.

But it hadn’t happened yet, and it wasn’t happening fast enough.

Aeduan sank to one knee at the Well’s edge. Nearby, Surefoot stopped her chewing and snuffed. Aeduan ignored her either way, dipping his hand down. Gently, warily.

The water lapped on a sudden wave. It splashed against his fingertips, warm and welcoming. No sentience or hunger or hints of a soul from a thousand years ago.

Now Aeduan was the one to snuff, in a harsh, almost hateful laugh. Because he was being a coward. Of course this Well could not possess him. Assuming any ghost still endured as Nadje’s had within the Aether Well, there was no Leopold the Fourth here to force such a being into Aeduan’s body.

He is Trickster, Iseult had explained weeks ago, from our legends. He can return souls to bodies just like the tale of the girl and her hedgehog.

Aeduan had been too embarrassed to admit he scarcely remembered the Nomatsi gods, much less the fables and stories his father had once told him. The only one he recalled with any clarity was the monster and the honey—and he hated that story. Collect the six pots of honey, little monster, and you can become a man. In the end, the monster didn’t become a man; because in the end, the Moon Mother broke her promise to him.

Aeduan swallowed. Wet his lips. Then, with an almost frantic speed, he stripped out of his clothes. Cloak, baldric, breeches, shirt, undergarments. Night air—winter laced with enticing heat—stroked his skin and raised chill bumps across him.

He dove into the Well. Water lashed into him, subsuming him with its wild churn. And with a sparkle that he had felt before, inside the Aether Well. One not of ghosts but of a healing embrace.

Within moments, Aeduan surfaced and let his legs float. He drifted on his back, the waters bubbling beneath him, sending him on a lazy course across the Well as he stared at the sky. At the Sleeping Giant, always pointed north.

A sky singing with snow, his magic murmured inside his chest. Meadows drenched in moonlight. Sun and sand and auburn leaves falling. It was not a scent Aeduan recognized, nor one he remembered ever having smelled before.

And it also was not a scent that was here. Instead, this was a memory plucked into being from the Old One, Nadje.

Inexplicably, the scent made Aeduan’s chest hurt. His heart hollowed out in one sharp twist as if he’d lost a piece of himself—the only piece of himself that really mattered.

Monster. Demon. I can smell it on you: you’re bound to the Void.

Run, my child, run.

Aeduan flipped onto his side. In four swift kicks, he reached the Well’s lip. He pulled himself free, water sluicing off him. Then he sat on the stony edge, legs still in the water, and crooked over to study his chest.

The six old wounds had reopened. For years, they had bled and haunted. Then they had seemed to heal—or at least stop their recurrent bleeding after Iseult had saved Aeduan’s life in the Aether Well.

But a week ago, the nightmares had returned and the wounds had begun their weeping again. They hurt too, as if the arrows from Aeduan’s childhood once more flamed through his mother’s body and into his own. He’d spent most of his life with that pain, just as he’d spent most of his nights with the nightmare of her corpse burning atop him.

Somehow, though, the intensity and cruelty of it all seemed far worse now after two months of freedom.

Fresh waves lapped against Aeduan’s calves, at odds with the cooling water that dripped down his chest and mixed with fresh blood. Dark rivulets gathered in the grooves of his abdomen and poured downward onto his thighs. Onto the stones.

Aeduan waited. And he waited. The wounds did not close up, but the echoes of his mother’s voice did fade, bit by bit. And the bleeding did slow. Then stanch entirely, while the pain eased into a softer heat.

Good. That was good.

After a quick scrub to clean away the blood, Aeduan stood. Winter air kissed and nipped against him as he strode to his discarded clothes. As he dressed, piece by piece, with Surefoot chewing audibly and watching him with drowsiness in her eyes.

“You can sleep, girl. I promise we’re safe here, and we won’t leave until first light—” Aeduan broke off. His bare toes had snagged on something unexpected. Something cold and slinking when there should be only stone.

A Hell-Bard’s noose, he realized as he hastily scooped a golden chain off the ground—and not one noose, but two. Both were split apart, no longer necklaces but simply strands of gold to glint across his hands.

Aeduan frowned, lifting the nooses and expecting his witchery to latch on to the fon Grieg brothers’ foul bloods. But no. These were different smells entirely, one of coastal storms and freshly turned soil. One of smokeless heat and a father weeping. Yet both scents also carried hints of the noose and cold iron.

Which matched the bloods of the two missing Hell-Bards: Zander and Lev.

For weeks, Safiya and Caden fitz Grieg—a bastard brother to Shitpants and Red—had been searching for these Hell-Bards. Aeduan himself had entered the Solfatarra three times to search for their bodies, since everyone had assumed they must be dead. They’d fallen from a flying machine; they could not have survived the acid lake waiting below.

But there had never been any corpses in the Solfatarra for Aeduan to find, and the mystery of Zander’s and Lev’s disappearance had stopped being his problem. He’d been sent away on errands. New coins, new causes, new Griegs with things the Empress needed.

Aeduan thrust both chains into a pocket on his breeches, and with hasty efficiency, he finished dressing. Already, his magic was peaking, searching, tracking. The Earth Well had left its mark inside his witchery; he would have no trouble tracing which way these bloods had gone.

After checking Surefoot possessed what she needed—a warm spot to sleep and a bucket of water—he gave her a scratch at the ears. Pressed his forehead to hers. “I’ll be back soon,” he promised. Then Aeduan set off, tracking the smells like the Bloodwitch he was, no matter what element he might be bound to.

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Chapter 5

They left when the full moon was at its peak. It was when the legends said Noden was at His strongest. Certainly Vivia’s magic was. The Jadansi practically screamed at her as she, Vaness, and Cam carefully trekked to the magic door. Little Fox, do not leave us! Use us! Take us! Carry us with you into the mountain!

Vivia exhaled against it. No, she thought, while aloud she said: “Draw your weapons.” The jungle around them thrummed with salted heat and cicadas. So loud, she didn’t hear the sound of steel ringing when she unsheathed her cutlass.

She exhaled again, this time more forcefully as she shifted the weight of a pack on her shoulders. Food, healing supplies, water—three days’ worth was within. Hopefully it would be enough for whatever waited ahead.

Because they were doing this. The water couldn’t stop Vivia; nor could fear. Weeks of being trapped in Noden’s Gift, and now she could finally move, flow into a new riverbank, return to the plateau she’d always called home.

The magic door shimmered before them. No guards because Shanna had summoned them away for a shift change. The new group of twelve would arrive soon.

The noises of animal life shifted almost imperceptibly. The ferns thickened. The doorway glowed like the Jadansi under moonlight, silvery blue and wavering. “It’s bigger,” Cam said quietly.

“We can still turn back,” was Vaness’s reply, left hand kneading at the Witchmark on her right.

“No.” Vivia’s grip tightened on the cutlass, and with her free hand, she checked her collar. Her buttons. But all were in order. There was no reason to stand here simply staring. “I’m going in.”

“No!” Cam barked at the same time Vaness hissed: “That is not what we agreed upon.”

And it wasn’t, but Vivia also had never actually planned to let Cam go through first. The boy had no magic and his comfort with a blade was nonexistent. So before he or the Empress could actually stop her, Vivia leaped through.

The magic took hold, sudden and staggering. Like diving into a frozen lake, all the breath punched from Vivia’s lungs. All thoughts punched out of her mind. Even her soul seemed to depart momentarily as she was torn apart . . .

Then assembled again.

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She almost toppled to her knees. She definitely dropped her cutlass. It clanged on stone as cold air wept against her, damp and ancient. She rubbed at her eyes, blinking.

It was a cavern—which she’d expected based on Cam’s descriptions. But hearing versus seeing . . . Well, it had sounded like something out of a child’s tale, and now that child’s tale was real.

The cavern before her could have held the entirety of Queen’s Hill inside it. Twice. And all of it was filled with fibrous strands of ice that looked like veins across a dying body. Some of the ice was a pure, almost glowing blue.

And some of it was black, as if cleaving.

Yet this was not the explosive cleaving Vivia knew, so much as the gradual, unabating kind that her spies said swept across the lands northwest of here.

Sheer dread rolled through Vivia. A feeling she recalled from the first time she’d seen the Sentries of Noden. How can such things exist? she’d asked her mother. What magic can make something like this possible?

Noden’s magic, her mother had replied. Anything is possible with a god on your side.

At the time, Vivia had thought her mother meant that Nubrevna was divinely chosen. Now, though, she had seen too much of the world to believe such things. And she had met the enemy and befriended her.

It was hard to see Nubrevna as holy if that in turn made Vaness un-holy.

You’re thinking in circles, she thought. Get up. Keep moving.

A flash. A frizz. Cam stumbled through the doorway. “We”—gasp—“made it.” He doubled over. His sword clattered to the granite next to Vivia’s.

A heartbeat later, Vaness arrived too. Her flail swung. Her eyes bulged with incredulity, and like both Cam and Vivia, she gulped in air as if she were drowning. She, however, didn’t lose her weapon.

Cam was the first to recover from the journey. He leaped up and whooped. A boyish bound, an effusive sound. One that the Empress immediately cut off. She lurched at Cam, grabbing his arm. “Hush,” she snarled. “This is a place of silence.”

Vivia absolutely agreed. Cam’s cry hadn’t echoed, so much as pinged and plowed, skittering off their platform and vanishing into the abyss beyond—where she was almost certain the ice was now responding. It cracked. It groaned. It oozed frozen air this way with tendrils of white fog to drift toward them.

Vaness dipped closer to Vivia. “This is not how it looked when I was here,” she whispered. “There was a storm raging—an actual storm, with lightning. And there were winds and rain. And rocks fell while the ground shook.”

“It looks like I remember it,” Cam inserted, his voice now a whisper too. “But the ice—that’s new. It wasn’t there before. Not like this, anyway. It was confined to the Sightwitches’ tombs.”

Cam had described those tombs. A place where Sightwitches went instead of death, so their goddess could take back the magic she needed.

Vivia retrieved her cutlass. She sheathed it, and noted that while Cam did the same, the Empress did not. Her flail remained a flail.

Vivia tiptoed to the edge of the platform surrounding their magic door. It was twenty paces long, and beyond was nothing. Only darkness and black-veined ice. “That’s where the spirit swifts live,” Cam whispered, joining her. “Or at least, where they used to be.”

She nodded but didn’t answer. Cold coiled off the strands of ice. Threatening. Hungry. Certainly no starry bird creatures flew there now. No magical beings made of pure Aether.

Vivia was almost glad not to see them. This place was already too disquieting and uncanny.

“Which way do we go?” She looked at Cam. Then motioned to the two paths that carved from their platform. One ascended sharply with rough-hewn stairs. The other hugged the cavern wall and remained blessedly flat.

“Give me a second, Majesty. It’s . . . well, the cavern’s the same but different.” The boy started muttering to himself, striding toward the flat path. “Me and Ry came in over there . . . which means that’s the way to the Convent. Then Ry took us . . .” He screwed his eyes shut.

And Vaness, who still stood beside the door where magic could radiate around her, frowned at Vivia. Her nostrils flared in a way that said: Should we not have figured this out before we stepped inside?

Vivia frowned right back. It wasn’t Cam’s fault the space had filled with ice since he’d come here two months ago.

“That way!” Cam flung up a hand, eyes springing wide. “The door to the Convent is that big shadow over there, and we went left outside of it. So the under-city must be between here and that shadow.”

“Except there is nothing between here and that ‘big shadow over there,’ Cam.” Vaness sounded fully furious now.

“No, no. There is! I swear it, Imperial Majesty. It’s just blocked by that column of ice.”

“And how,” Vivia inserted before Vaness could fume any more, “do we remove the ice, Cam?”

“I . . . don’t know.”

“Fine.” Vivia kept her eyes on the Empress, warning. “We will determine that when we reach it. Let’s move.” She checked her pack. Checked her cutlass in its sheath. Then set off without checking if the others followed. Because of course they did, Cam with a noisy bounce in his stride and Vaness with lethal silence.

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No one spoke as they moved onto the narrow path overlooking the abyss. The outcropping of granite was only as wide as Vivia’s left arm was long, so she kept herself pressed as closely to the cavern wall as she could. She didn’t look down; she looked only straight ahead. And Noden’s breath, it was cold. Her fingers were soon numb from clutching at the wall.

For thirty paces she moved this way, until she reached a column of ice she would have sworn hadn’t been there a few minutes before. She slung to a stop, staring at the cold curling off it. At the fathomless blue of it striated with black. Vivia could fit around in theory, but it would be tight.

And it was a long way down.

Infinitely long, if Cam’s stories were to be believed.

Vivia wished suddenly she’d thought to include a rope in her sack of supplies. Such an obvious thing to bring, yet she’d been so fixated on after the mountain—on Lovats and her father . . .

What a stupid, foolish oversight for a woman who wanted to be queen.

“Let me go first,” Cam whispered, carving through her thoughts. Without waiting for approval, he wiggled past his queen and shot ahead. He reached the ice. He skirted easily around, graceful and lithe—if still too noisy. Then he reached the other side and offered a hand back. “I can help from the front, and maybe Her Imperial Majesty can help from behind.”

Vivia swallowed. Shame spun through her. Stupid, Little Fox. She made herself nod. Made herself give Cam her right hand and offer Vaness her left.

Cam pulled. Vaness pushed. Vivia scraped ahead, and the ice blazed ineffably cold against her.

The abyss looked somehow too close and also too unreachably far. Maybe she did see stars down there. Maybe she did see spirit swifts.

She stepped again. Her foot planted on the granite just past the ice. One more step and she’d be on the other side.

The ice attacked. An explosion outward of tendrils and shards. It surged over Vivia’s outstretched arms, over her legs and her face. Come, come, the ice will hold you. Come, my daughter, and sleep. It thrust into her ears, her mouth, her eyes.

Vivia screamed. Or maybe that was Cam, maybe it was Vaness. There was no telling what was what. The ice claimed everything. Cam tried to wrench Vivia to him, but she was frozen down. She was trapped.

“RUN!” she heard Vaness shriek, and abruptly, iron sheered upward. It cut the ice. It released Vivia’s limbs and Vivia’s brain. “RUN!” Vaness shrieked again, and now she was shoving at Vivia from behind.

They both toppled onto the other side of the column.

Already, the iron was buckling. Already the ice was clambering around its edges and reaching for Vivia and Vaness. It ignored Cam entirely. Not that Vivia noticed that in the moment. All she had mental space for as she staggered after her young first mate was the ice. The stone. The quaking that built beneath her feet. Come, my daughter, come. Come, come, and find release.

They reached a door. It was not a magic door, but rather an archway into darkness. The big shadow, she thought distantly as Cam towed her straight into the shadows, that goes to the Convent.

But Vivia didn’t want to go to the Convent. She wanted the magic doorway to the under-city. She tried to swivel back. To see if the ice still hunted or if maybe she could carve a way through the ice and to the under-city door.

But she ran into Vaness, who gripped her tight and shoved her back into shadows. Ice lurched behind the Empress, a glowing blue tidal wave that sang of sleep and hunger. That filled the doorway Vivia had wanted to rush back through.

It crunched, it built, and finally it sealed them in completely.

“Your iron,” Vivia gasped. “Can you use it?”

The Empress shook her head, lifting her wrists to reveal no iron shackles. No iron flail or shield. “Gone,” she answered. “We are trapped here in this darkness.”

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Thank you for reading! 😘 If you haven’t yet seen the TE3 giveaways, be sure to go enter those (it costs you nothing!). And stay tuned for more of The Executioners Three later this week on Wattpad…

Safe harbors!

💚 - Sooz

1. I’ll be attending YALLWest in Santa Monica this May! So come see me! I haven’t been in a few years, so I am super pumped to go.

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Now on to the main event. 😉

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Chapter 4

Poznin had changed.

This was the first thing Merik thought when the magic of the mountain released him. Gone was the pond filled with dead bodies—although not the bodies. They were still here, but now frozen and slumped across the pond’s empty basin.

It was winter now too, the world gray and white.

Aurora whimpered and Merik dragged himself toward her. Her golden fur was stained with red from where the ice had pierced her. Merik was bleeding too. A gash on his chest; a puncture on the back of his calf. They were lucky the ice had not killed them.

“Aurora,” he murmured in a voice that felt too loud here, where cleaved bodies had frozen into bloated flanks of meat. “You’re safe now.” He laid a hand onto Aurora’s back. Her spine protruded; her ribs too. “We’re out of the ice now. You’re safe.”

Merik didn’t actually know if this was true. So far, no Cleaved were approaching—and no Puppeteer laughed or cackled in his brain. She’d been mortally wounded when Merik had last seen her, but she might have survived. He had no way of knowing.

Carefully, he continued to stroke down the storm hound’s back, feeling each knob in her spine, each ripple of young, malnourished muscle. Then Merik drew in cold air. It sparkled in his lungs, alive with his Windwitchery.Maybe I can fly us out of here, he thought. Maybe I can summon enough winds to carry myself and Aurora far from here, across the Witchlands, all the way to Nubrevna, where I can . . .

He didn’t know. He’d spent so long trying to escape Esme, then trying to save Kullen . . . and then asleep in the ice. How long had he been frozen? How much had changed in the Witchlands since he’d left it behind?

Slowly, slowly, as Merik continued to stroke Aurora’s back, she unfurled. Her body relaxed. Her whimpers ceased. She lifted her canine head and found Merik’s eyes with her own of silvery blue. There was trust in those eyes, and strangely, inexplicably, Merik felt his heart break.

He’d only ever hurt those who’d trusted him. He’d only ever abandoned and betrayed them. His crew on the Jana. Kullen. Cam. Ryber. Safiya. And even Vivia. He’d tried to help, tried to be what he’d thought people needed from him . . . but he’d only ever been a disappointment. Just as his father had always said.

Aurora snuffed, her silver eyes blinking.

And Merik shook his head. “Dark thoughts,” he told her, scrubbing a hand over her downy snout. “But as my father always used to say: Sitting still is a quick path to madness. Come on, little one. Let’s move.”

Aurora obeyed, stiffly rising. The wound on her wing was ugly, but it wasn’t life-threatening. And Merik thought again of what the strange girls with their archaic speech had commanded him to do. There’s one thing you have to do once you’re free: you have to find our father. He calls himself the Raider King.

That, Merik had already decided, was most certainly not what he was going to do. “This way,” he said with more confidence than he felt. “I’ll try to lead you around the bodies.”

Aurora snuffed again. Her feet were clumsy, her body clumsy like the puppies Master Huntsman Yoris used to raise in Nihar. But unlike those pups, Aurora had no interest in these corpses. There was no desire to nose around and root through the interesting smells. She seemed to recognize these bodies were not for her; that there was something inherently wrong with them.

Then they were out of the pond, out of the collapsed building, and emerging into the full cold of the day. Merik hadn’t conceptualized how much the crumbling walls blocked out a winter wind. It crushed against him now, calling to his magic—and freezing him to his bones. Aurora seemed not to feel it. In fact, she visibly strengthened before Merik’s eyes, and visibly brightened too. As if the power of the wind fed the Airwitched heart of her.

Merik knew so little about the magic creatures of the world. They were so rare, more often relegated to legend than ever seen. But he did know that creatures like storm hounds and sea foxes and shadow wyrms were creatures of pure elemental power.

Her snout wiggled in the air. The wind rippled and towed through her fur, turning the blood streaks into fluttering lines. Her wings stretched wide, and for several seconds, she looked like a cormorant drying out in the sun. Then her injured wing began healing right before Merik’s eyes—as if she was absorbing strength directly from the wind into her blood.

In a lurch of horror, Merik realized he should stop the storm hound. What if the Puppeteer sensed Aurora’s magic? She might jump out at them at any moment and snap wooden collars around both their necks—

But then Aurora folded her wings back in. No longer injured. She blinked slowly at Merik as if to say, We can go now.

Merik swallowed. Food. Shelter. That was all he had to find—and without the Puppeteer sensing them. But which way should he lead Aurora? To the left, he could see the top of Esme’s tower. He would not go that way.

The river? he wondered. The forest to the east?

East, he decided, would be safest, and he was surprised how easily he remembered Poznin and its streets. His imprisonment here had been so brief; his mind, his body, his magic so subjugated. Plus, winter had since sapped all color from the city, leaving snow to gather in steep banks along various corridors.

But Merik knew it, all the same.

Aurora kept her wings folded against her spine, lending her a hunchbacked look as she prowled forward. Her nose shoved into occasional snowdrifts. Twice, she pulled up a human body part: a finger. A foot. Like before, she didn’t eat them. If anything, she seemed disappointed they weren’t proper food.

When they reached a wider avenue through town, the Cleaved stood sentry. These were also as Merik remembered, untouched by time. People of all ages, all sizes, all genders and colors and castes. One tall man with a long, pointed beard reminded Merik of the Northman who’d stabbed Esme.

Merik hoped that man was safe. He hoped that man was headed toward his family now . . . or perhaps already there.

Merik was about to continue onward, when a sound hit his ears. A mere whisper beneath the wind’s howl, and instinctively his gaze snapped to Aurora—as if she really were one of the hunting dogs he’d grown up with. Her ears swiveled forward; she heard the sound too.

Someone nearby was crying.

For several blinking heartbeats, Merik found himself not in Poznin but in a tiny room where he and Vivia used to play.

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Merik is seven, Vivia is ten. He has just walked into Vivia’s “fox’s den,” as she calls it—the secret room where they keep their toys. He likes to pretend Vivia’s dolls are the Paladins from the old stories everyone says aren’t true. But where Merik expects to find the den empty, he instead finds Vivia curled up beside the dollhouse.

She cries, with her hands over the top of her head and her face buried in her knees. The dollhouse is sodden, and a pitcher of water now stands empty on a table by the door.

“Vee?” Merik asks. He is afraid because Vivia never cries. And he is afraid because if she is crying, then he is not sure how he is ever supposed to keep himself from doing the same. Their father has already made it clear that Merik cries too much; he needs to be more like Vivia. “Vee?” Merik tries again, and he drops to the floor beside her.

She shrinks more tightly into a ball. Her tears fall harder. They are not the shattered sobs of a girl who has lost her mother, nor the carefully controlled tears she let fall while they threw autumn leaves off the water-bridges at Mother’s funeral. They are a whimpering hiccup with the occasional sniff every few seconds.

Merik lays a hand on her arm. She stiffens. Then relaxes and raises her head slightly. Her dark eyes are almost swollen shut. She must have been crying for some time before Merik found her. “Don’t tell Father,” she says. Her voice is hoarse and tired. “Don’t tell him, Merry.”

“Tell him what?” Merik asks, and it’s an honest question. Is he supposed to keep it quiet that she is crying? Or that she has clearly, once again, lost control of her magic? Or is the secret that she was in here at all and playing with the dolls their father told her to leave behind a year ago?

“Don’t tell him what you saw.”

Merik recoils slightly, and a hot sensation wrings through him—a feeling he doesn’t recognize and one he doesn’t like. “What . . . did I see?”

She blinks at him. Then she swipes tears from her eyes. “Exactly.” She pushes to her feet, nodding as if she is pleased by Merik’s answer. Pleased by his understanding of something he most certainly doesn’t understand at all.

But he likes it when she does what she does next: when she pats his head and even smiles a crooked smile that looks so very much like Mother’s. It’s a smile that says, You’re all right, Merry, and I’m glad you’re here beside me.So Merik bites back his questions.

“I’m sorry about the dolls.” She motions to the house, still dripping with water. “It was an accident, and I’ll go fetch a towel to wipe it up.”

“I’ll come with you,” Merik says, and to his deep delight, Vivia’s smile widens and she offers him a hand. He takes it. Her palm is hot and clammy.

They leave their playroom like that. And Merik leaves his questions behind too, until the memory of that afternoon fades from his mind. Until he forgets he ever saw something he wasn’t meant to see.

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It was like a beam of sunshine punching through a storm. And as soon as the memory hit Merik, it was gone again—but the full weight and warmth of the moment remained. He remembered that day in Vivia’s den. He did not remember what it was he’d supposedly seen and was meant to keep secret from his father.

It didn’t matter now. What mattered was this sound of crying that was so like Vivia on that day many years ago. It pulled at Merik’s heart, as if a Thread was already bound to him from the unseen person.

Merik spun toward the whimpers. It was coming from within the rows of Cleaved—and by Noden, whoever they were, they must be terrified out of their skull. Too fast, Prince, he thought as he crept toward them, and your prey will sense you long before you reach ’em.

Hye, Master Yoris, you’re right.

Merik slung his gaze left and right, searching for any movement in the Puppeteer’s unmoving army. Dead grass and lifeless vines rattled and scraped beneath his bare soles. Aurora carefully kept pace beside him.

Until Merik spotted a noticeable gap in one of the rows—a hole where snow did not reach, as if someone had just left it there. As if one of the Cleaved had, as could happen, suddenly become fully human again.

The crying broke off, and Merik ground to a halt. “Hello?” He spoke Arithuanian. “Hello? I won’t hurt you. I’m like you—I am a former Cleaved and lost.”

Aurora stopped beside Merik, and it occurred to Merik that perhaps having a storm hound was not the best way to prove his trustworthiness.

“She won’t hurt you. She’s just a puppy who’s lost too. Hello?”

He glanced around, searching shadows for where the child might be. But he couldn’t see anything other than the usual bodies, the usual broken streets and drooping buildings of a city that used to be as prosperous and fine as the greatest capitals in the Witchlands.

Aurora snorted, sinking into a pointer pose, exactly like the hounds used to do with Master Yoris. Her whole body became a perfect line from snout to tail with a front paw crooked upward. Even her wings pressed back along her body to make her a white-furred arrow.

An arrow that pointed straight ahead toward a barren hedge tangling upward along a limestone building. Merik squinted toward it, and hye. There was a slightly darker shape tucked inside.

He lifted both hands toward it and started walking. “I won’t hurt you,” he tried in Cartorran this time. “I’m like you. I was a Cleaved. I promise I won’t hurt you.” When the hedge didn’t move and the darkness tucked within didn’t either, Merik continued his careful inching forward. And he kept on repeating the same phrases, over and over again, each time in a new language.

After Cartorran, he tried Dalmotti. Then Marstoki. Then broken Svodish and even more-broken Lusquan before he circled back to Arithuanian. When he was ten paces away, he could finally see the distinct shape of a child, dressed in velvet with gold rings upon his fingers. His brown skin blended more easily into the shadows, but the day’s tepid sunlight occasionally winked on those rings.

The boy’s knobby knees were pulled up just like Vivia’s had been in her fox’s den, and he must be about the same age she had been on that day Merik had almost forgotten.

With his hands still raised, Merik dropped slowly to one knee. His muscles shook; he lacked any of his former grace. “Can I sit?” he asked, shifting now to Marstoki. The boy’s style of dress suggested he might be from the east. “I will tell you a story, if you like. It’s about two fish who swam into Queen Crab’s lair. Maybe you have a story like it wherever you’re from.”

Aurora, having eased out of her pointer pose, now circled twice. Then huffed down to the ground next to Merik—a welcome body heat. Tell the story, she seemed to say.

So Merik did, describing Fool Brother Filip and Blind Brother Daret. Then he told a story about a hungry Hagfish. And another that Evrane had once told him about a little monster who wanted to become a man. Cold burrowed into his bones. Hunger curled through his gullet. And the boy never unfolded. Only the wind broke the stillness as it kicked at the winter-stripped hedges and towed at the coattails and dress hems of an army that never moved.

After what must have been at least an hour of such stories, when Merik’s throat was too dry to continue and his body too cold, he pushed to his feet. The world wavered. Blood boomed in his ears. Then he called out, “I am going to search for food and shelter. You can follow if you like. Your choice.”

Merik turned away. Aurora went with him.

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Thank you all—as always—for reading! And stay tuned for more of The Executioners Three later this week on Wattpad…

Safe harbors!

💚 - Sooz

Since I absolutely do not expect readers to be on the DenNerds Discord unless they want to be…

But since I also want to make sure people aren’t missing out if they aren’t over there, I thought I’d share some of the content we’ve been including with the Witchlands Readalong!

(Also, you can still join in the Readalong! We’re in the midst of Windwitch right now. Or you can read at your own pace and just join in discussion whenever you want!)

Original Witchlands Map

This was the map in the original editions of Truthwitch, Windwitch, and the hardcover of Sightwitch. Maxime Plasse created it based on my rough sketch.

Fun fact: Ontigua was where the series originally began! Which is why it’s on the map. The girls started out older and they were graduating from the University of Ontigua in the opening scenes! But because the book shifted to YA, I aged the girls down and eliminated the graduation.

Now the girls start in Veñaza City right off the bat.

(But you’ll still see the University of Ontigua referenced throughout the series!)

Truthwitch “Movie” Poster

This AMAZING art was the brain child of artist and author Alexis Castellanos, who I’d reached out to for a possible commission (after she brought beautiful fan art of Iseult to the Truthwitch launch party in NYC). I’m 99% sure she was the one who suggested an 80s style poster, and I mean YEAH!!! What an awesomely fun idea, right?

The finished product turned out even more amazing than I’d imagined, too. 🥹

Illumicrate Character Art

Long before I joined up with Daphne at Daphne Press to publish the Luminaries trilogy and The Executioners Three, Illumicrate was a huge supporter of the Witchlands.

In fact, Threadsister bookmarks were in one of the very first Illumicrate boxes!

This art by Merwild was featured years later, and it remains so evocative.

I think Merik or Iseult are my favorites…🤔 WHAT ABOUT YOU? Do you have a favorite character art from the lineup here?

You’re now all caught up on the extras from my hard drive shared on Discord. 😉

BUT there are also tons of things being shared by readers. There’s fun new fan art, photos of signed copies, conversations about what events people attended, and even an analysis of my signature’s evolution over the last thirteen years. 😂

So join us on Discord if you want (you can lurk without interacting, if you want! We have literal hundreds of members who do precisely that) or you can just join me here, where I promise to share more extras soon!

And, I must do my due author diligence and nudge you to pre-order. 😘

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💚 - Sooz

Before I dive in to our next Witchlight sneak peek, there’s just ONE DAY LEFT to grab The Executioners Three with a 25%-off coupon.

Use the code PREORDER25 and find the book right here.

Witchlight Early Access

One more thing before I get to the next sneak peek of Witchlight: I’ve put together a special place for EARLY ACCESS. This is where I’ll put links for each new sneak peek, and I’ve got them in order.

So if you’re new to the sneak peeks, you can just head there and find it all exactly like it will be in the book!

Witchlight Early Access Page

You’ll notice, of course, that some sneak peeks aren’t listed yet. That’s because we’re not to them chronologically…

But WE WILL GET THERE! Because I’m going to share a ton of this book in “early access” with you before November.

😘

Now finally, onto the next chapter from our gal Vivia!

Chapter Three

Vivia Nihar stared at the doorway before her, a sliver of blue light carved into limestone. Lush ferns hugged it close, brushing their fingers against the edges. A snag of grapevines too, with their leaves fluttering on a salted breeze. Cicadas clicked in the thick foliage. A gull cried overhead.

And magic shivered against Vivia, rolling in waves that matched the nearby sea. Each caress made her hairs stand more on end and her teeth grind inside her ears. She knew of these doorways, but seeing one was different from hearing about them. And having one simply appear overnight near Noden’s Gift was downright alarming.

“See?” Cam said, motioning with his floppy limbs to the light. “That’s it. That’s a door that’ll take you into the mountain. I don’t know where it will take us, exactly, but I’m pretty sure once we’re inside, I can find the under-city in Lovats.”

“Pretty sure?” Vivia’s eyebrows lifted.

“Very sure,” Cam amended. The boy had come sprinting into the captain’s cabin in Noden’s Gift half an hour ago, hollering about magic doors and secret tunnels and sneaking into Lovats, then Azmir with soldiers. Then he’d half dragged Vivia and Vaness all the way to the seashore, just below the Origin Well perched atop its fox-shaped peak.

“It is…small.” This came from the Empress of Marstok, who stood on Cam’s other side. She had lately taken to wearing a Nubrevnan style blouse tucked into sailor’s breeches. It suited her. Softened her imperial lines—as did the sea and tides nearby, always tugging her hair from her bun. The only reminder at all of who she was were the iron bracelets she was never without.

Right now, they swiveled like snakes around her wrists. “I do not see how we can fit soldiers through there, much less the forces needed to claim back Lovats or Marstok.”

“Right.” Cam nodded as if he hadn’t just proposed they do precisely that. “Well, we could go single file. Then…you know: hope the doors don’t close up behind us.”

“Right,” Vaness said, mimicking him. “The doors closing up behind—a minor detail. Not worth fretting over.” She fixed her gaze onto Vivia, eyes hooded. The heat of midday daubed color onto her cheeks. “As you know, I have traveled these doorways, your Majesty. So while I certainly appreciate and understand their utility, I also understand their dangers. For one, if we can use them, then so can the enemy—which, you may recall, they did do when the Raider King tried to invade Lovats.”

Of course Vivia recalled. And with stark clarity she’d prefer didn’t haunt her sleep most nights. Ragnor’s troops and his seafire had gotten much too close to destroying the entire capital. Her capital.

“For two,” the empress went on, “as Cam has already pointed out, these doors do have a tendency to open and shut without warning. You and I have walked by this spot every evening for a month, and only now is there a magic doorway appearing.

“And for three,” Vaness finished, her voice regal and commanding, “when I was in the mountain with Safiya fon Hasstrel and her Hell-Bards, the cavern was in a state of total collapse. Stones falling everywhere. Ice crawling and eating all in its path. It is not a space I would take anyone through, whom I wanted to keep safe. So not an army, and certainly not…you.”

Vivia felt her face warm. Her chest too, and she had to force a breath through her nose. A big inhale that expanded her uniform and made old buttons wink in the sun. It was hot at this hour of midday, but there were appearances to maintain. Vivia was queen, even if her father had fortified himself in Lovats and refused to give up the throne.

Vivia inched closer to the door. Magic scraped and tugged against her. With cautious fingers, she brushed aside a fern. Carvings appeared on the stone. Triangular shapes worn down by weather and time. Familiar, although Vivia had no idea why.

Think beyond, came a voice that sounded like her mother’s.

“Are you listening?” Vaness demanded.

“Hye, hye,” Vivia mumbled, although truth be told, while she’d heard what Vaness had uttered, she’d also immediately discarded it. Because this was the first change in fortune she’d had in a month. Serafin had lifted the siege chain, sealing off all of Lovats in a magical dome through which no enemy could pass, and for weeks, Vivia, Vaness, Cam, and Shanna, the lead captain from Vivia’s Foxes, had tried to devise a ways into the capital.

They could wage war directly at the Sentries of Noden, where the siege chain connected. Or they could send stealth units in through the Cisterns. Or they could turn their attention to Azmir and hope to reclaim Vaness’s throne first instead.

But none of it had seemed viable, so instead, they’d done nothing. And the sitting still was proving a very, very quick path to madness.

Serafin was holed up in a city with only limited provisions and tens of thousands of refugees from across Nubrevna. The citizens would starve if Vivia didn’t do something. Soon.

A snarl of wind flew across her. Sand scraped her cheeks, and salt burned her nose. The ferns she held whipped and waved.

“How do we know,” she asked carefully, “that this goes where you think it does, Cam? Maybe it doesn’t lead inside your mountain at all.”

He winced. “S’not my mountain, Majesty. It’s the Sightwitch’s. And…well…” He shrugged. “I don’t know where it goes. But I could go through. Right now. See what’s on the other side.”

“And what if it you step into a trap?” Vaness snapped. “What if this was all designed by the Raider King? Or by the usurpers of Marstok and Nubrevna? What if you find yourself a prisoner—or worse, dead? Then, what, First Mate?”

Cam gulped.

“Or,” Vaness continued, the flush on her cheeks reaching her neck. Her ears. “What if this magic is simply fickle, as you yourself suggested, and the door seals up behind you? Then you will be stuck inside the mountain for all of time.”

Cam blanched, setting off the pale spots on his face. He looked sick. He looked frightened. “You’re…right. Of course you’re right, your Imperial Majesty. I’m sorry I even suggested such an idea. I wasn’t thinking.”

Vaness’s iron faltered. “Well…” Her gaze flicked to Vivia’s.

And Vivia pursed her lips in a way that said: We discussed this, Vaness. You’re supposed to be nicer to everyone.

“You…should…not be sorry, Cam.” Vaness tried to smile. It was terrifying. “It was a good idea. In theory. Just one that I fear is too risky. But, I do appreciate you thinking in new ways.”

Think beyond, Vivia thought again, and she frowned once more at the door. At its bewitching glow. At the carvings she could almost—although only almost—swear she had seen somewhere before. Probably in the under-city or the Cisterns. Lovats had so many secret corners and ancient passages.

Including the underground lake surrounded by foxfire that only she knew about.

“We’ll station guards here,” Vivia said, finally withdrawing from the door. “I’ll let Shanna choose who—unless you’ve an opinion on the matter, your Imperial Majesty?”

Vaness rolled her eyes. “Of course not, your Royal Majesty. I trust your Fox Captain to choose wisely.”

Vivia smiled and opted not to point out the thirty-seven times (and counting) that Vaness had very openly not trusted Shanna’s wisdom. “Thank you, Cam,” she told the boy as she released the ferns and backed away from the limestone. The magic’s charge receded. “As our esteemed Marstoki empress here just said—”

Vaness sniffed primly.

“—it’s good for us to be thinking in new ways. So keep the ideas coming, please.”

“Hye, Majesty.” Cam saluted, fist over heart. “I’ll try.”

“I know, Cam. You always do.”

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It had become their nightly routine, to sit beside the Origin Well and watch the sun set over the Jadansi—while a contingent of guards waited at the bottom of the stairs up to the Well and patrolled the beach. There were various advisors too, some from the Foxes, some from vizerial holdings across Nubrevna. And then there were the supplicants, the sycophants, the people that always seemed to want something now that Vivia and Vaness had proven their dominance against Dalmotti.

So this time beside the Well was sacred. No one, not even Cam, was allowed to interrupt.

The Empress of Marstok always sat on a stool on the left; Vivia always sat on a stool the right; and together, they watched the day end in the west and the night awaken in the east. The Water Well burbled behind them. The sea’s breeze gusted ceaselessly, and the river that the Well fed into churned and chopped.

So much water.

And all of it calling to Vivia. Listen to us, little fox. Use us and control us.

Vivia wished she could. Every hour, every second, the hunger ached inside her. A craving that could never be sated. A love that must remain unrequited. Come, little fox. Be one with us, like you used to be.

Vivia knew if she relented, it wouldn’t be she who was in control. Because that had already happened against the Dalmotti navy. It had been too much. Vivia and Vaness had barely come back from that deluge of water and iron taking over their minds.

So ever since, Vivia had avoided the the salty, enticing currents in the Jadansi forever shouting her name. She’d avoided the nearby river and the Well just behind. She could be beside, but she could never go in.

How Vaness kept iron always upon her, Vivia couldn’t comprehend.

Then again, Vaness was the Destroyer of Kendura Pass. Her power had manifested young, and perhaps the thought of being without the iron frightened her more than the thought of iron claiming her soul. It hadn’t escaped Vivia’s notice how often Vaness rubbed at her Witchmark. A square tattoo for Earth and a single vertical line for iron.

And whenever Vaness rubbed, Vivia automatically did the same. Like right now, her thumb massaged the upside-down triangle with a wave inside.

She dropped both hands to her sides. “I want to go through the door,” she declared, lifting her voice over the breeze.

Vaness didn’t look away from the flaming sky. Her hand didn’t stop pressing at her Witchmark. “No.”

“Ahtset,” Vivia countered, angling toward the empress. They spoke in Marstoki, as they always did on these nights. Silly as it might seem, Vivia felt she owed to the empress. In all ways, Vaness had made a true effort to adapt to Nubrevna: she wore the clothes, she braided her hair, and she spoke Nubrevnan all day long.

So a few words in Marstoki? It was the least Vivia could do. Besides, it was good practice for a queen.

“Don’t dismiss the idea, Vaness, simply because you’re worried it’s a trap. What if it’s not a trap? What if the door just opened up because the magic is fickle—and what if it stays? Then imagine the strategy we could have on our hands.”

“I am imagining,” Vaness said flatly, “and all I see is violent death.” Her left bracelet slithered up her arm to form a band near her shoulder.

“Because you’re assuming the mountain is the same as when you went through it. But what if it’s like when Cam went through? What if it’s not collapsing, and he could navigate us to Lovats? It’s a brilliant idea—you have to admit that. Just as it was brilliant of the Raider King.”

“I do not have to admit anything.”

Vivia sighed at the empress. With curt movements, she removed her coat, folded it—buttons gleaming—and set it carefully beside her stool. Then she unbuttoned the top of her uniform shirt.

The freedom and the breeze felt divine.

She might not be able to touch the sea, but she could at least taste it.

“If I could sneak into Lovats,” Vivia continued, “I could disable my father without any bloodshed. He would surrender the instant he saw me. It’s why he lifted the siege chain: he is terrified to face me.”

Vaness’s right bracelet now slithered up like the first. Two armbands twining around her. But Vivia couldn’t help but notice there was a stuttering rhythm—and she recognized that stutter because she felt it too, whenever she reached for the tides.

Vaness stopped her iron. For several breaths, the wind batted loose tendrils across her face. Then she finally swiveled a cool expression Vivia’s way. . “Let us assume, for argument’s sake, that your plan actually works. You face Serafin, you claim the crown. Then what? You cannot believe the navy and Soil-Bound will simply fall in line. The people of Lovats might have loved you once, but your father has painted you a traitor.”

This was unfortunately true. “All the more reason,” Vivia countered, “to avoid bloodshed. I can remove my father from the throne, then confront the vizers. At least a few are loyal to me—especially now that three of their daughters have joined us in Noden’s Gift. Then I will lower the siege chain and the magic barrier bound to it, so the Foxes and all our Dalmotti ships can finally sail in with food and goods and…” She shrugged.

And Vaness’s face softened with something almost pitying.

Vivia hated it.

“Vivia.” The empress scooted her stool closer. She was always so careful to use Vivia’s title when they were in Noden’s Gift. But here, on their nightly talks beside the Well, she always used Vivia’s name.

And Vivia always used hers. “Vaness,” she replied.

“I think you overestimate how easily your father will back down.”

“Maybe,” Vivia admitted, although she didn’t want to. It was bad enough having her own father turn against her. A man she’d loved. Revered. But he’d allied with the Dalmotti navy just to keep Vivia from claiming the throne that was her birthright.

And in all truth, if she actually believed he were the better person to lead Nubrevna, she would leave him on that throne. But good leaders didn’t cling to a crown. They didn’t send an enemy navy simply to keep their own daughter out of a city. And they didn’t lift a siege chain, effectively cutting off that city from food, medicine, fuel, or anything else they would need to survive.

Nubrevnans would die if Serafin didn’t lift that siege chain. And Serafin didn’t care at all.

The empress leaned closer, reaching for Vivia’s hands. Vivia let her take them. Let the empress’s warm fingers weave into her own. And she let Vaness dip all the way to her. Until their foreheads touched.

“If we are going to do this,” Vaness whispered, “then I think we should do so in secret. We can tell Captain Quintay what we intend, but we must leave her in Noden’s Gift—and make it seem we are still here. The element of surprise against your father will not last long.”

Vivia swallowed. Her grip tightened on the empress.

“Cam will have to come, of course, as our guide. For although I was in the mountain, I was running for my life and remember almost nothing. But no one else can join us—and no one can know what we intend.”

“But…” Vivia’s voice broke slightly. “What if you’re right? What if it is a trap?”

“Then we will use our magic.” The two armbands coiled down. Down. Then slid across onto Vivia’s wrists. For several long seconds, the two women were shackled together. “I know we both struggle to control and contain our magics lately, but we are still witches. And powerful ones.”

“Ahtset.” Vivia agreed, staring at the iron that bound them. A month ago, she would have been petrified by this nearness. Her heart would have lodged somewhere in her throat. Her mouth would have dried out. Her brain would have ceased all function.

But now she was…if not comfortable, at least accustomed. Something wound between her and Vaness. Vivia knew what she hoped it was, but it was not something she could act upon right now. Responsibility and crowns were a siege chain in their way.

Or at least, that was what Vivia told herself. That was why she never leaned in a few more inches—and why the empress never did either.

“Just promise me…” Vaness wet her lips. They were so red at this burning hour. “If we cannot get through the mountian—if it seems too dangerous for either of us or for Cam—then we will return. Immediately.”

“I promise,” Vivia agreed.

And the empress of Marstok smiled. A sad, almost resigned thing. Her iron returned to her wrists. Her spine returned to steel. Together, both women angled their attention anew on the wildfire sky.

“Tonight?” Vivia asked after several minutes. There was so much she should wrap up before she left, but also so much that would fall into place if she could just get into Lovats again.

“Ahtset,” the empress agreed quitely. “Tonight.”

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Thanks for reading! Stay tuned for more soon!

💚 - Sooz