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He didn’t have time to finish that thought before Fey grabbed him by the back of the head and slammed his face against the edge of the bar. He screamed, his hands muffling the sound as blood slipped from his mouth and through his fingers.

But Fey was already gone, slipping out the bar door and into the streets. She had all the information Dameon would need to label Lord Cyanean a traitor to the Crown.

And the next time Lord Cyanean’s name would be delivered to her in a black envelope, she knew it would be written in red.

Chapter 4

She was in a dream.

Fey knew and recognized this simple fact, but it didn’t change anything. She could do nothing but watch the events as they unfolded around her. Do nothing as she found herself lost in a memory, her body going through the steps just as it had all those years ago.

She was ten, and this was her Awakening.

The steps to the temple seemed to stretch forever as she made her way up them. Step by step, inching closer to her destiny. Around her, other Witches were gathered—her peers, all of them girls, all of them coming here on their tenth birthday to be tested.

The village where she’d been raised in the sixth octant had been large enough to have its own White Temple, but just barely. If it hadn’t, Fey and her mother may have had to travel to another octant, or even to the Eternal City itself, where the lines would have been longer, the crowd of waiting girls larger.

Distantly, Fey knew the other Witches were here for the same thing, but in the way of dreams, she also knew she didn’t need to wait for any of them. She climbed the steps, making her way past all of them, their faces blurred and shapeless as they turned and watched her ascent.

She was shaking from the effort by the time she made it to the top, and all at once, the scene changed. She was inside the temple now, standing before the Priestess. And Fey was afraid.

She’d spent so much of her childhood in fear. Fear of her father, and his drunken anger. Fear for her mother, for the caged indifference in which she lived her life. Standing here under the scrutinizing glare of the ancient, wrinkled Priestess, she felt that fear again.

The White Priestesses were members of no single coven, serving instead as representatives of all four covens equally. They existed to guide Witches through the Awakening of their powers, to read the clues left by the Goddess herself to judge what elemental gift each Witch received.

Fey had knelt before the White Priestess, like she’d been taught to do, her eyes on the wood grain of the floor.

Then, just like now, the Priestess took Fey’s chin in her hand, wrenching her face up and staring into her eyes for a long, terrifying moment before releasing her. She took Fey’s hand, tracing the lines of her palms and clicking her tongue.

Her grip had been hard, and Fey fought the urge to rub away the memory of the old woman’s touch from her skin.

The Priestess wasn’t done. She retreated further into the temple, grabbing a handful of beads and stones and something that looked suspiciously like bones. She chanted softly to herself, casting them upon the altar, and watching where they fell. Suspicious. Displeased.

Fey didn’t like the Priestess, didn’t like her angry stares, didn’t like the way her eyes darkened with each test she performed. The woman was old and wrinkled, like an apple left to rot in the sun, and Fey didn’t like that either. She hadn’t liked being touched by this ungentle woman, who clicked her tongue in disapproval but didn’t speak. She had wanted to leave.

But Fey did all that had been expected of her. She wanted to be good. So when the old woman had poured water in her hair, she hadn’t flinched. When she had waved the incense smoke in Fey’s face, Fey hadn’t coughed. The Priestess spoke only to herself, under her breath, taking her time as she brought Fey through each of the tests and rituals until she said just one word.

“Drink,” the Priestess said to her now, just as she had back then, thrusting a cup of gray liquid into Fey’s hands.

And Fey drank, though the elixir tasted of rot and soil, and made her choke. She drank, and when the woman refilled the cup, she drank again.

But when the woman filled the cup a third time, something sparked in Fey’s mind.

No, a voice far away from her said in the dream. Her own voice, years older, somewhere different. Safe in a bed, miles and years away from this moment.

No, the voice said, this isn’t how it happened.

She couldn’t finish the third cup. It tasted of rot and earth still, but also ash, and it was thick in her throat. She gagged on the taste of it but, determined, she drank, and drank, and drank.

This cup was endless, and Fey drank that awful concoction for what felt like hours, gagging and choking, as the old Priestess watched her, clicking her tongue, antipathy etched in every line of her face.

No, the voice in her head repeated. This isn’t right. This isn’t how it happened.

Finally, the old woman took the cup from her, though some still remained at the bottom, a testament to her failure. The front of Fey’s ceremonial white robe, the robe of those not yet Awakened, was covered in elixir, and Fey’s saliva and tears.

The Priestess shoved her toward an altar, and the dream returned to the past, as Fey recognized the items there.

A bowl of oil.