Page 37 of A Cursed Bite (Bound to the Enduar #1)

VANN

T he cavern is dark, lit only by the faint glow of bioluminescent fungi clinging to the walls like ghostly veins. The scent of damp earth and burning herbs filters through the air. Basil. Rosemary. It is strong enough to choke me.

“Hello?” I call out. “Good evening. Forgive me. I only ? —”

“Enter,” a voice says in heavily accented enduar.

I walk through the stone passage and a room opens up. The witch with no name stands behind a rough, basalt table scattered with plants from the surface. She is draped in layers of black and wears a smooth, bone mask over her cheekbones and eyes. All that is left visible is the curve of her painted lips.

I do not falter as I set down the pouch of gold. It’s heavy—weighted with the sum of my most recent promotion, enough to buy Adra a hundred gifts—enough to secure a better home.

Instead, I will use it for this.

Adra does not know I have come. She would kill me if she did, but she had been so unsure lately, so insistent that she felt our time was drawing to a close.

She called me foolish. Stubborn.

She has no idea how far I will go to sacrifice for her .

The witch plucks up the pouch with delicate fingers, testing the weight. She hums.

“This is a great sum of money, troll”

I meet her gaze, my voice steady. “The service I require is not cheap.”

Another low hum vibrates from her throat, thoughtful.

She looks at me, and a light shines from her eyes through the mask. Then, as quickly as it had sparked, it dims and reveals dark, hazel eyes.

“You are not the first to come to me seeking to change what Endu or Grutabela have written.” She bounces the pouch filled with gold once more. “Most who stand before me wish to find their mate. Some, after too many failed journeys, come begging for their fates to be forced. Others seek to undo a bond that has already begun.”

She tilts her head, considering. “But you… you are different.”

I clench my fists at my sides. “I am.”

“You wish for no bond at all.”

I nod once. “I have found a woman. She will always be my choice.”

The witch sighs, almost as if she pities me. “And what if she finds her other half? Better yet, you look quite young—What if you do? What if one day, you wake and realize fate had planned otherwise?”

I scoff. She knew nothing of me, and less of Adra.

“This is the right choice. And I will have no reason to fear the fates,” I growl. “Not if you do what I ask.”

“ What I ask, ” she mocks. “ If you wish such a brutal procedure, you must say the words.”

I take a breath and say, “I require the removal of my heart.”

She exhales slowly, then extends her hand toward me, fingers curling. The air in the cavern presses against my skin.

“You do understand this is a wound that will not heal with time, yes?” she murmurs. “A loss you will suffer in every emotion that trickles through your veins for as long as you remain heartless.”

I do not waver. “Will you do it?”

My heart hammers, as if it knows what is about to occur.

“You trolls have been given many gifts. Your home. Your magic. Those gems in your chest. You have it all, and still you want more.”

I grit my teeth. “I don’t need a lecture. I’ve brought good money. If you will not, I will find ? — ”

Something cuts off my ability to speak.

She tilts her head, and for a long moment, there is silence.

“You are sure?”

The hold on my head loosens just enough for me to nod.

“Then I will take your gold.” She whispers something—a word that slithers like ink into the air and curls around me.

And then the pain crashes into me. I am filled with agony unlike anything I have ever known.

A gasp tears from my lips as my chest seizes, a terrible wrenching that makes my bones feel as though they are being shattered from the inside. I stagger, my knees nearly giving way as something inside me rips.

I hear it before I feel it—an awful, wet sound, like flesh being torn apart. My hands fly to my chest, expecting to find a gaping wound, but there is nothing. No blood. No torn muscle. Just—emptiness.

She has taken it.

Floating between her palms, pulsing with a weak, flickering light, is a small, formless sliver of blue. A piece of me. My heart.

Or whatever had once been my heart.

The witch’s fingers curl, and the light vanishes.

Gone.

The pain does not stop. It settles, deep and unyielding, inside my ribs, a cold void where warmth had once been. I gasp for breath, but air no longer satisfies my discomfort like it once had.

“You will live,” the witch says, watching me. “But your heart—” she gestures toward my hollowed chest—“will need to be kept far away to ensure the survival of the spell.”

The dream fades, but the ache in my chest does not. It is heightened by a haze that flows through my mind. I am suspended, and bound in my own head, every action punctuated by light measures of pain.

I feel my heartbeat in my stomach. My skull.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

My… heart. It pumps.

Two witches wake me in the late afternoon, bringing water and food. Their eyes linger on me as I sit up.

I have been placed in a dimly lit hut. A simple cot is beneath me, and a thatched roof with wooden crossbeams is above. The walls are rough, made from stone and clay, and a faint draft slips through the cracks.

Rosemary and basil.

My mind swirls with the dream.

The first one, a woman with milky eyes, stares at me. I cannot see the pupils within the orbs, but she tracks each of my movements with ease.

“Our leader, Maelira, has instructed us to care for you and answer your questions.” She says.

“Where is the woman I came with? The flame-haired one?” I demand, my voice raw.

“She is being prepared for the ritual,” the other, with bone-white skin replies.

I stand, fists clenched. “Have you done something to her?”

“You will not see her until the ritual is complete.”

“I’m not waiting,” I growl, stepping toward them. “I’m meant to protect her.”

“You have no claim until the ritual ends,” the first witch says, her gaze unwavering.

My fingers twitch at my sides. None of these answers are truly answers .

“What kind of ritual?”

The second witch speaks, cold. “She must be cleansed from the darkness.”

I step closer. “Will you tell me where the dragon we came here with has been placed?”

“She is in the field near the ritual grounds. We will take you to see the creature when we are told it is safe for you to leave.”

I inhale sharply, frustration flooding me. “And what is so dangerous that I cannot move freely through your village?”

The pale one smiles. “The magic on this island is more alive than you will ever know. Find yourself in the wrong place, and the it will rend you in two—tear your soul from your body.”

I feel a chill creep up my spine as her words settle in. Their magic had always been powerful. Immensely so. Arlet shouldn’t be alone right now.

But they are doing us a favor. If they have her, I cannot risk my actions ruining things for her, despite how I wish to charge out of this room and hunt her down.

I stay silent, frustration bubbling beneath the surface, and eventually, the quiet doesn’t feel so tense.

They let me go to another room to wash, and the dream from earlier creeps back into my mind.

When I remember that my heartbeat was felt in my body, I press my hand to my chest.

I feel nothing.

This is, technically, good news. It was what I had wanted, and the lack of heart made up for the lie I had given Arlet. But another part of me sinks low.

I think it is the smell of rosemary that creeps in through the window. The woman who had attended to me long before had been so insistent that one day, I would regret my choice.

Six decades ago, and she had been right.

Once dressed, I return to the room, and sort through our packs. My weapon is placed on the ground in front of them, almost in warning.

I do not push to take it.

Time passes. The sun sets, and the witches remain in the shadows, their eyes never leaving me. The dream lingers, sharp and unsettling.

Finally, the witch speaks again. “It is time.”

I stand immediately.

The witch gestures for me to follow. I move quickly, my heart pounding. The ritual is beginning, and I don’t want to stand by any longer.

Last night, the assumption had been that we landed on the incorrect island. Clearly, I had been wrong. It was a kindness, and a part of me wonders if the gust of wind, the one that took us down was not Endu.

His tap on my shoulder from before was a rare moment. I followed it willingly.

Once we cross the threshold of the hut, I am surrounded by magic, wood and heat.

The Witch’s Isle houses what they had called a village, but it seems more like another Enclave. It is a fortress made of the surrounding jungle. What a thing to discover a place few knew existed.

Hundreds of women move through the space, their inked faces flickering in the glow of floating spell flames. Their homes are woven onto the trees—huts of palm fronds and reeds perched among towering trees. Rope bridges connect them, swaying gently with each footstep.

Beyond the huts, the cliff sides are hollowed out into cavernous dwellings, their entrances covered with vines. Below, winding tunnels pulse with veins of bioluminescent fungi. Water drips from the stone, feeding underground pools that shimmer with an almost celestial light.

And at the heart of it all, open cenotes spread like glassy portals to the sky, deep and endless. The witches gather at their edges, their voices rising in whispered chants. Some of their bodies slip into the dark water below. The surface ripples, lilies shifting, their pale blossoms opening as if in offering.

I think of the warning I’d been given earlier—realizing just how powerful the energy of this place is.

The witches continue ahead, guiding me through the winding paths away from the cenotes. I breathe in deeply, letting the humid air settle against my skin.

A clearing comes into view, as does Seraph. Her golden scales gleam in the rising moonlight, the glow of the fire reflecting off her massive body. She watches me with sharp eyes. I can almost feel her disappointment that I am not Arlet.

When I approach her side, to be sure that she is being treated well, she exhales. It is a low rumble vibrating through her, accompanied by the restless twitch of her wings.

“Are you satisfied that she is well?” Pale-Eyes asks.

I walk around Seraph, making a show of checking for any less obvious ailments.

Once I return to my original spot, I nod.

“Come. The ritual is starting soon,” Pale-Eyes continues.

We retrace our steps, and I try to memorize every turn, keeping track of where everything is, in case we need to make a quick escape.

A rhythmic beat of drums grows louder as we approach the ritual grounds. The witches’ pace quickens, urging me to follow them toward the edge of the clearing. The flickering firelight casts long shadows, and the women gathered in formation sway in time with the drums. The intensity of the music builds, a pulse that resonates deep in my bones.

“You’ll stay here,” one witch says, her voice sharp. “Do not move forward, as you may ruin the magic our sisters weave.”

I don’t answer. My gaze is fixed on Arlet, who steps forward, bathed in the firelight. My heart clenches in my chest. I want to be closer, to be with her, but the witches block my way, forcing me to remain at the outskirts.

One of them speaks again, her voice colder now. “You are not to join. If you do, we will kill you. Remain here, or die. Do not test us.”

I don’t notice their formations and rite objects, my eyes land directly on Arlet as she steps forward.

Everyone is bathed in dark hues, but Arlet… she is radiant in the steaming air, a new green and pink dress clinging to her frame like water silk. The fabric gathers at her breasts, tapers at her waist, and flows down to the ground, the slit up one side revealing long, pale skin streaked with fire lit gold.

She moves like something untamed—wild and laughing, her hands slick with the berry-stained dye the witches have painted on her. The color is striking, strange against the deep red I’ve seen on her hands before.

Blood-red. War-red. The red of something taken, something stolen .

But this is different. This is hers. Given freely.

A smile spreads across her face, and my chest clenches with an ache I don’t know how to name.

She’s a wild, free thing.

One of the witches speaks, her voice rising above the drums, and the tempo quickens as the ritual shifts.

One steps forward with purpose. I assume it is the leader called Maelira. She carries a ceremonial dagger, its blade carved from dark obsidian, its handle wrapped in woven silver thread. The other witches slow their movements, circling around Arlet as Maelira approaches—the drumming changes, steady, low. It’s a heartbeat against the night.

Arlet stills, chest rising and falling with exertion, her cheeks flushed from the dance. She meets Maelira’s gaze as the witch takes her hand, turning her palm upward beneath the glow of the full moon.

“This is our covenant,” Maelira murmurs, voice powerful. “Blood, given freely, under the eyes of those who came before us.”

She presses the blade against Arlet’s palm, and a thin line of crimson blooms. Arlet flinches but does not pull away.

Maelira lifts her own hand and slices a matching cut across her palm. Then, she presses their wounds together. A shiver runs through the air, a pulse of something unseen.

Arlet breathes out slowly.

The gathered witches murmur in unison, their voices weaving together, pulling at the air, at the night itself. Maelira tilts her head back, letting the blood drip from their joined hands into a small stone bowl. The liquid glows as it touches the surface, swirling with threads of gold and deep violet, magic laced within.

The earth hums beneath my feet.

Maelira releases Arlet’s hand, lifting the bowl toward the moon. The light catches in the liquid, sending shimmering reflections across the gathered women.

“The first step is done,” she declares, her voice carrying over the clearing. “In the morning, let Ashra show us the way to unmake it! ”

Melodic grunts are chanted faster and faster as the blood moves up toward the moon, vanishing in the air.

The women break apart, their steps shifting into something more frenzied, something primal.

Their arms are thrown wide, hips swaying, feet pounding against the earth in rhythm with the song rising to the sky.

At first, Arlet hesitates, caught between watching and joining, but the hesitation doesn’t last long. One of the humans grabs her hand and pulls her in, and instead of resisting, she laughs.

Gods, the sound of it.

Unbidden, I remember how she looked under me as I’d made her come. Red hair splayed over our shared bed, sweat trailing down the column of her throat and beading on her forehead. The pale cream of her skin had given way to a vibrant red flush.

A living flame.

I swallow hard, and she moves with them, untamed, her copper hair spilling over her shoulders, her bare arms lifting as she spins, feet kicking, and her voice rising to chant with the others as they call out to their goddess.

She twirls, her head tipped back. She looks like something otherworldly, a creature born of moonlight and fire.

And then, somehow, impossibly, she looks up and finds me in the shadows.