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“Good people,” he called out. Flattering words but I could see the sneer beneath it, like a croca gliding under the still surface of swamp water. “I know how difficult it must be to part with your loved ones. I, too, must part with my son each time he turns into his beastly form. Cursed though he is, I love him dearly.”

There was not a word that fell from his lips that I believed.

“But he is larger than when you last saw him. He was a babe then but is quickly becoming a man. Stronger. More…violent.” The king’s voice turned sharp and low. “If no one volunteers to break his curse, he could become rampant. I dare say he could tear through this entire village.”

He waited for us to absorb this before continuing, a carefully placed pause.

“Do not forget I keep him locked in Mossgarde Castle for your safety. If he should get loose…well, it does not bear thinking about.”

I shudder at the memory. The cool, strategic way the king took back control of Mossgarde. Like a hand around our neck, allowing us an inch to breathe only to remind us that he could close his fist at any time. I walk briskly away from the village square. Away from the chopping block. Despite knowing my father is at home, I suddenly do not want to be outside alone.

I cross another bridge and then another, steeling myself for home.

Chapter 3

Our house is built around the trunk of a towering willow tree, along with three other homes. The platform is surrounded by a curtain of delicate leaves and thin, waxy branches drooping over the connecting bridges. It should feel like we are afforded more privacy than most, but I cannot help but view it as a cage. I push my way through the branches and stride over to my front door.

Inside, the candles have been extinguished, apart from one. It burns low, casting the room in deep shadow. In one corner sits our rudimentary kitchen—a single large cauldron atop a wood burner and a bucket of cold water for dishes. The other two corners are taken up by my father and I’s sleep sacks, each bundled with thin blankets. The humidity of Mossgarde means we are rarely cold, except in the very deep of winter when the village receives a week of frost.

A fine mesh stretches across our windows, like all the buildings here, except Aunt Meena’s home. She told me once of a time when all the homes and shops and stalls were enchanted—to keep the insects away, to keep from sinking into the swamp, to keep the wood from rotting away. Now, the platforms creak and moan underfoot, and the water rises slowly every year. Some enchantments remain, but it has been a long time since Mossgarde was truly a home for witches.

I close the front door softly behind me and strain my eyes to search the shadows. My father’s corner is deep in gloom. The blanket is piled too vaguely for me to know if he is there or not. I hold my breath and creep towards my own corner.

“You punched my friend.”

My father’s voice rattles through the darkness, coarse with drink. I release my breath in a sigh and continue on, not looking at him.

“No,” I say, sinking to the floor and tugging my blanket over me. “I hit him with a book.”

“Is that an improvement?”

“Well, I did not hurt my fist, so yes, I would say so.”

He only grunts in response. As my eyes adjust to the dark, I throw a glance at his corner. I make out the outline of his form slumped against the wall. The air is thick with the stench of ale and unwashed clothes. I tuck myself tightagainst my corner, fighting to put as much space between us as possible. My books, stacked high against the wall, encase me in a protective semi-circle as I pull my blanket up high on my body.

“I can get the fee back,” my father says suddenly.

I freeze. Our usual routine after an argument is to pretend as if nothing happened. We do not acknowledge nor apologise, especially not him, lest the argument spark anew. I say nothing and wait.

“I just…I need some time.”

I make a noncommittal noise.

“The guards are cheats.” He scoffs and I shoot up so quickly, my spine clicks. “They rig the dice—”

“You have lost my money to theguards?” I screech. “You owe money to the crown?”

“Not the crown, only his guards.”

“Thatisthe crown. Where do you think their coin goes? Who, pray tell, do you think they bring our taxes to every morn, along with what little food we have?” My ophid thrums, taut and tense. My hands clench into fists.

“I did not think—”

“No, you did not think at all, you loathsome sack of croca shit.”

The floor rattles as my father thumps his fist off the wooden boards.

“You do not speak to me that way!” he thunders.