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It was indeed a marvel that I bore no scars, a fact I did not like to call attention to, for it was something that had bewildered the lord chamberlain.

More than once he had accused me of being a witch—specifically a blood witch, notorious for their flame-red hair, possessing the darkest and most powerful magic. He had warned the king and queen that I had been planted in their midst to bring forth ruin.

Fortunately, thankfully, they’d never given the lord chamberlain’s charge any real consideration. In my parents’ eyes, my resilience was proof that I was destined to be their whipping girl. If they had been convinced otherwise, a burning pyre would have been my fate. I would have been tossed into the flames, fed to the fire—destroyed. As all magic was.

When the Threshing ended, attention had turned to witchkind, and the war on witches had commenced. Witches, like dragons, had to be hunted to the ground. They were outlawed. Bounties placed on their heads. Blood witch, shadow witch, wood witch, bone witch—all. There was no distinction. They were different. And different was always feared. They were creatures of magic, and that was somethingmorethan feared. It was reviled. It was not merely dragons or witches who were hunted... it was magic.

Magic was the enemy.

The witches who managed to escape fled to the far corners of the kingdom rather than face the same fate as the dragons. Those who did not escape suppressed their magic, buried it deep below the surface, and did their best to blend in with the human population. They became wives, mothers. They were the village seamstress. The local midwife. The cook’s assistant. They killed theirmagic, crushed it to dust within them lest they end up dust themselves, ashes lost to the wind.

I knew I wasn’t supposed to root for them. They were wicked creatures. They used their magic for ill. I’d heard the stories. How they corrupted and twisted minds, stole away babies, seduced good men and women away from their spouses, robbed innocent people of their wealth with a simple spell. Except...

Except I had heard other stories, too.

I’d heard they allied with humankind in the war against the dragons. So why had we liked them one moment and not the next? Why had we turned on them?

When I had asked the governess for clarification, she told me to stop asking stupid questions and to let her finish the lesson. So I quit asking. But that did not stop me from thinking about witches and wondering. Envisioning them out there running, hiding, surviving. And, wrong or right, I was glad for them. Glad for them to be alive, however few of them remained.

Over the years, the lord chamberlain took my so-called resilience as a challenge and got carried away on numerous occasions, meting out my punishment with ferocity, determined to permanently score my flesh. I’d gone to bed on those nights bent over in pain, my back throbbing, the skin broken and bruised, lined with bloody and oozing welts, only to wake in the morning healed and recovered—something I did my best to hide lest others begin to believe the lord chamberlain’s wild allegations against me. It was a constant battle. Hiding what my body could miraculously do.

With a swift shake of my head, I shoved those thoughts away. At least I no longer had to live with that fear. My days as the whipping girl were over.

You know that, do you?

Stig’s words from last night haunted me, echoing in my ears.

My stomach bottomed out, and I closed my eyes, awash with dread. What did I know of Lord Dryhten except that he was a warlord whose currency was violence and bloodshed? Stig was right. He could very well beat me every day.

“Such soft, lovely skin,” Lady Frida murmured as she rinsed the soap from my back. “That barbarian of yours is in for a treat. He has likely never seen the likes in the Borderlands. They’re a rough, unrefined people.”

The others murmured in assent, and I could not suppress a shudder as I swallowed back the protest that he was not mine. Not yet. Likely not ever. Not even after we were married.

“You’re brave,” another lady said as she began rinsing my hair of soap. “So very brave.”

I knew the words were meant to be complimentary, even encouraging, but I felt the overwhelming urge to cry—or to smack her. The more I was treated like I was headed to my execution, the more it felt like I was, and that wasnotbeneficial.

I was helped to stand, everyone concerned that I did not slip in the tub.

I had never been pampered like this a day in my life. Oh, I was treated well—periodic whippings aside. I had been educated, well dressed, well fed, provided with my own chamber in the same quarters as the royal family. And yet no one had ever indulged and pampered me like this.

The queen entered the chamber, a pair of maids trailing behind her bearing my bridal gown, an ornate kirtle of silk-woven brocade in shades of cream, gold, and yellow. It was a glorious sight. I had never worn anything so fine. I did not think the princesses had ever worn anything so fine either.

Lady Frida exclaimed at the sight of it, clapping her hands. “It shall look stunning with your hair.”

The queen cut her a glance. “Her hair will not be visible,” she reminded her.

“Ah. Of course, yes, yes.” She nodded deferentially.

I gulped nervously at that. My final act of hiding. Hopefully, Lord Dryhten would not react too badly when all was revealed.

WhenIwas revealed.

The only mother I had ever known eyed my naked body from top to bottom, appraising me. I tried not to fidget, resisting theimpulse to cover my breasts. I wasn’t particularly modest, but I’d never been unclothed and on display before dozens of eyes.

She nodded, the glowing gemstones set within the circlet nestled in her gold hair catching the light. “I think your husband will be... pleased.” She uttered this with such clear hope. Not precisely a ringing endorsement.

I swallowed against the thickness in my throat and forced a smile. “Thank you.”