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Some claim that the gods were bored one day and challenged each other.

I do not know if I believe such a version.

What I do believe is that the Goddess Hecate created the witches first. She observed them from above as their powers grew and adored the witches as if they were her own children.

The other gods grew envious and began their own creations, each trying to make something more vicious, more dangerous or more beautiful.

However, none ever managed to reciprocate what the Goddess Hecate had done with the witches and magic.

The others over time grew resentful—their desire to destroy us their only objective.

I really do believe we were condemned from the start.

Tabitha Wysteria

Mal was led to her chambers in silence, her footsteps echoing through the grand corridors of the drakonian castle.

As she passed, heads turned, eyes lingering on the foreign princess who had arrived at their gates.

She kept her chin high, her expression unreadable, though curiosity stirred within her.

This world was unfamiliar, vast, and waiting to be explored.

Everything was red and gold—opulent, polished, gleaming.

The sheer brightness of it all made her wince.

Behind her, a trail of dirt darkened the pristine floors, remnants of her journey clinging to her boots. When she offered to clean it up, the maids gasped in horror, as if the very thought of a princess tending to such a task was beyond comprehension.

Upon entering the grand space that would serve as her room until the wedding, she was met by a young woman who quickly curtsied. An older maid introduced her as Mal’s personal attendant.

‘I do not need a maid,’ Mal announced swiftly, standing stiffly before the assembled group of servants, their eyes darting between one another in barely concealed unease.

The head maid, a woman of impeccable posture and thinly veiled horror, took a tentative step forward. ‘But, your highness, who will dress you?’

Mal frowned. ‘I dress myself.’

A murmur of dismay rippled through the servants. The head maid inhaled sharply, composing herself. ‘And your hair?’ Her voice wavered as her gaze landed on Mal’s unruly mane, still tangled from the long ride, wild as the wind that had carried her to this foreign land.

Mal lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug. ‘I brush my own hair.’

The head maid’s lips pressed into a thin, horrified line. ‘Surely you will require someone to draw your baths, your highness.’

Frustration prickled beneath Mal’s skin.

Were the women of the Kingdom of Fire entirely useless?

It seemed so. In her homeland, she had been raised to fend for herself—to dress without assistance, to build a fire, and to fight as well as, if not better than, her brothers.

She was tempted to voice her irritation but stopped short when she caught sight of Haven standing in the doorway.

‘I was just about to explain that I require no additional services,’ Mal replied, her voice as firm as steel.

Before the head maid could voice further protest, Haven stepped forward, offering the servants a practiced, saccharine smile. ‘The princess is weary from travel. She will gladly accept the assistance of a personal maid.’

Mal turned sharply, her mouth parting to object, but she caught the way the young maid assigned to her exhaled in quiet relief, her fingers loosening where they had been clenched into the folds of her apron.

‘I don’t need—’

Haven leaned in, her voice a whisper laced with warning. ‘These are their customs, Mal. If they cannot serve, they will be discarded. Tossed away like broken toys.’

The weight of her words settled deep in Mal’s chest, heavier than the golden chains they had draped around her throat upon arrival. She swallowed, glancing once more at the maid who now stood before her, waiting—hoping.

The head maid swiftly ushered the servants out, leaving only the young woman behind. Haven cast Mal a pointed look before turning on her heel and disappearing towards her own chambers.

Mal exhaled sharply, blowing stray strands of hair from her face—a terrible habit, one that surfaced when nerves crept beneath her skin.

‘I shall draw you a bath, your highness,’ the maid said, her voice quiet, careful.

Mal parted her lips, instinctively prepared to refuse, but then her sister’s warning echoed through her mind, a whisper of duty and consequence.

She swallowed her protest and instead nodded, forcing the words past her pride.

‘Thank you.’ The maid blinked, startled, as though she had not expected gratitude.

Mal tilted her head, intrigued. ‘What is your name?’

The girl hesitated, her hands momentarily still in the process of gathering the towels. As if the question itself was foreign, unexpected. Mal found the notion irksome—had no one in this gilded, fire-touched palace ever thought to ask? The realisation coiled inside her, unwelcome and distasteful.

‘My name is Vera, your highness.’

Mal exhaled through her nose, shaking her head slightly. ‘You don’t need to say your highness every time you speak to me, Vera.’

The maid’s posture stiffened, her fingers tightening around the linens she held. Her voice, when it came, was quiet but resolute. ‘But it is the way I must address you, your highness.’

Mal sighed but gave a reluctant nod. Picking a fight with her sister over making a maid cry was not something she wanted to add to her list of grievances.

She watched the maid prepare the bath, an enormous tub decorated with gilded drawn dragons in an area that had been separated from the rest of the space with curtains of a material Mal had never seen before.

‘It is silk, your highness,’ Vera said, running delicate fingers over the fabric as though it were a whisper made tangible.

Mal traced her own hand over the smooth material, marveling at its softness.

‘It feels like water,’ she admitted, the sensation foreign beneath her calloused fingertips.

Yet, her thoughts were elsewhere, caught on the way Vera kept stealing glances at her—small, fleeting flickers of curiosity, always darting back to her face. To her eyes.

None had gasped, none had recoiled. Not yet. Which meant they had already heard of her—the princess with the unnatural gaze, the wyverian girl cursed with witch’s eyes.

Vera’s hands were gentle as she helped Mal slip out of her travel-worn dress and boots.

When the maid guided her into the bath, warm water lapping at her skin, an unfamiliar tension settled into Mal’s shoulders.

It was a strange sensation to be tended to like this, to surrender even the simple act of washing to another’s hands.

‘You are tense, your highness,’ Vera observed, working fragrant soap through Mal’s dark locks, fingers pressing into her scalp with careful reverence.

Mal shut her eyes, exhaling. ‘I’ve never had someone wash me before.’

A startled gasp. ‘Never?’ Vera’s hands stilled for half a breath. ‘That is extraordinary, your highness. I have never heard of a princess bathing herself.’

Mal tilted her head, studying the girl through half-lidded eyes, trying to place what was just slightly off about her. ‘Where are you from, Vera?’ A silence stretched, thin as a blade. ‘You are not drakonian.’

Vera’s fingers trembled—just for a breath, a heartbeat—but Mal did not miss it.

‘What do you mean, your highness?’

Mal’s gaze lingered on the girl’s dragon horns, curiosity sparking.

There was something about them—something that felt off—but she couldn’t quite place what it was.

They looked no different from the others she had seen.

Her bright orange hair, like flickering flames, was another drakonian trait, similar to the golden locks most of their kind possessed.

‘Nothing, Vera,’ Mal said. ‘I’m just tired.’

After her bath, Mal was led to an enormous wooden wardrobe, its doors opening to reveal an array of dresses. Every single one was red or gold—colours that made her stomach twist with distaste.

Turning away, she strode towards her own trunk, which had been brought to her room while she bathed. Digging through its contents, she pulled out her favorite black gown, smiling as she slipped it over her head without assistance .

‘Wouldn’t you prefer to try on one of the dresses the queen selected for you?’ Vera asked.

‘I’m not one of them yet.’ When she caught sight of Vera’s troubled expression, Mal hesitated.

With a quiet sigh, she picked up her hairbrush and handed it to the maid.

If she was to learn their ways, she would have to start somewhere—if only to avoid unintentionally offending those assigned to serve her.

‘I can never reach the back. Would you mind?’

Vera’s smile brightened the room immediately.

…

‘We were attacked,’ Mal said, her voice edged with steel. ‘By witches.’

She fixed her brother with a glare sharp enough to cut, yet Kai merely smirked, choosing to ignore her entirely.

They had attempted to discuss the matter in Haven’s chambers, but too many watchful eyes loomed in the shadows, leaving them no choice but to slip into the corridor, where Kai had excused himself to inspect the training yards.

‘I never said there were no witches left,’ he grumbled, his tone almost lazy.

Mal’s jaw clenched. ‘Yes, you did! For years, you’ve dismissed my worries, told me I was being paranoid, that I was chasing ghosts. And now—now you act as if you’ve known all along?’

Kai pulled a face, feigning innocence. ‘You make it sound worse than it is, sister. Of course there are witches in the wastelands. But they are not a threat. They’re an inconvenience at best, making it difficult to cross into their cursed lands, but seeing as we never do, it hardly matters.’

Mal stopped mid-step, her body coiled with mistrust. ‘You lied to me, Kai.’

He arched a brow, arms crossed over his chest. ‘You lied to me , Mal.’

‘When have I ever—’