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The Council of witches are scared and fear that the other kingdoms are growing jealous of our powers.

They have never been before. I think there is someone behind this, someone who is whispering evil words to those in power and angering them, turning the hatred towards the kingdom that possesses the magic.

However, if they succeed, I do not know what that will mean for us witches.

We are strong, but we are only one kingdom against another seven.

And if it comes to such an outcome, the gods will turn their backs on us, and laugh.

This is what they wanted from the very beginning.

We broke the order of things, so now they wish to see us pay.

I will not allow it.

Tabitha Wysteria

Lightning split the heavens, white-hot veins cracking the darkness as the wyverns roared across the storm-lashed sky.

They were more than mere beasts—they were the restless titans of the night, forged by the God of the Dead himself.

Their wings carved through the wind with raw power, their teeth like ivory daggers capable of rending flesh from bone, and their tails dripped with venom potent enough to bring the mightiest of warriors to ruin.

They were untamed, unyielding, eternal. Yet, the kings and queens of the Kingdom of Darkness had always found ways to coax their loyalty, to bind them through a love so fierce it became a weapon in itself.

For lifetimes, war had been nothing but a specter on the horizon, and the wyverns had grown restless in their idleness.

But if the Seer’s whispers wove truth into fate, then the skies would soon darken with battle once more.

Soon, they would ride, their wings eclipsing the heavens, their claws thirsting for war.

Mal urged Nyx to stretch her wings wider, catching the tempest's wrath beneath them.

The bond between rider and beast was no ordinary thing—Nyx had been hers since she was ten, a creature of smoke and shadow that answered to no command but her own.

Among the wyverns, she was not the largest nor the most monstrous, but she was the fastest, and above all, she was hers.

Lightning flashed again, a violent crackle across the blackened sky.

The others were hunting.

Mal knew what that meant—her sister was near.

Rather than returning to the castle’s ever-watchful gaze, she veered Nyx sharply to the right, towards the highest precipice of the mountain, a throne of stone from which she could watch the great beasts soar.

No sooner had Nyx’s talons scraped against the craggy surface than a low, guttural growl rumbled from the shadows.

The future queen of the Kingdom of Darkness was beautiful.

Deadly beautiful.

Haven moved like liquid dusk, her long legs carrying her with an elegance that was at once effortless and lethal. Her wyvern, a beast as fearsome as she, settled behind her with the silent reverence of a lesser god.

‘I cannot keep pretending you are in your room when they ask for you, Mal,’ Haven said, dismounting with the grace of a predator descending upon its prey.

Her black eyes flickered over the landscape, pausing just beyond the cliffs—towards the Forest of Silent Cries.

She did not speak of it, but Mal saw the way her gaze deepened, coals burning hotter at some unspoken thought.

‘I am allowed to leave the castle grounds,’ Mal mumbled, though the words were hollow.

Haven sighed, a sound that should not have been lovely, and yet, from her lips, it was.

‘Something is shifting in the air.’

‘What do you mean?’ Mal feigned ignorance, though she already knew.

Haven’s gaze sharpened like a blade drawn in the dark.

‘You tell me . The walls whisper to those willing to listen.’

‘I have heard no such thing.’

Haven tilted her head, her expression unreadable. ‘And yet, when you lie, dear sister, your horns seem to grow taller.’ She reached for Mal’s horns, her fingers curling playfully—but Mal was quicker. She leapt back, laughing as her sister’s claws grasped nothing but air.

They were alike in so many ways, and yet, when Mal looked upon Haven, she saw all the things that reminded the world of how she did not belong .

Haven’s horns were thicker, longer—carved for the weight of a crown. She would be queen one day, and the horns of rulers always grew grander than the rest. Mal had accepted this long ago. And yet, there was something else, something deeper, that gnawed at the edges of her soul.

A quiet, lingering knowledge.

That no matter the blood they shared, she was not truly one of them.

The world below was painted in carnage .

The wyverns feasted, their razor-sharp fangs sinking into the soft flesh of a herd of sheep, rending and tearing, bones cracking like brittle twigs beneath their monstrous jaws.

The air thrummed with the dying cries of the helpless creatures, a melody of despair that echoed into the abyss of the Forest of Silent Cries.

Mal turned away, a cold unease coiling through her ribs like a serpent. The scent of iron, thick and pungent, filled her lungs, and she swallowed against the nausea creeping up her throat.

‘It’s the cycle of life,’ Haven said beside her, voice as steady as the mountain beneath their feet. ‘They are doing nothing wrong.’

‘I know.’ Mal shrugged, though the tension in her shoulders betrayed her. ‘I still don’t like it.’

Haven regarded her with something dangerously close to fondness before pulling her into a tight embrace. ‘I’d worry if you did enjoy such a thing. You’ve always been the sweetest of us all.’

If only you knew the truth , Mal thought bitterly.

She stepped away, unwilling to let her sister feel the storm of emotions surging within her, unwilling to let Haven’s warmth unravel the tangled thoughts that clawed at the edges of her mind.

Instead, she peered over the ledge once more, watching the wyverns rip and tear, watching blood soak the earth in dark rivers.

She despised the thought of harming those too weak to fight back. The sight of helpless creatures, screaming, powerless against their end, churned her stomach.

And yet…

There was another part of her. A hidden, twisted part that wanted to hurt.

Not the defenseless .

No.

She craved the destruction of those who preyed upon the weak.

She longed to feel the weight of her sword slicing through flesh, to see crimson bloom across her fingers, to hear the gasping chokes of those who deserved it.

She could picture it so clearly—her blade carving through the throats of enemies, the warmth of their blood seeping between her knuckles.

Something was wrong with her.

It made sense.

Mal Blackburn should have never existed.

She was a mistake—an anomaly in the carefully woven legacy of her people. For centuries, the rulers of the Kingdom of Darkness bore only three children. Always three.

The heir, trained from birth to wield power with wisdom and unwavering command.

The warrior, sculpted into a living weapon, a blade sharpened for the kingdom’s enemies.

The truthbearer, the watchful eye, the voice of reason, the one who saw beyond veils of deception.

And yet, Queen Senka had fallen pregnant a fourth time.

A curse, some had whispered.

Perhaps they were right. Perhaps Mal was cursed. It would explain why her eyes—those cursed, unnatural eyes—were not black like the rest of her kin.

The moment her eyes had opened at birth, the echo of the world’s gasp at the intensity of those purple eyes could still be heard through the cracks in the walls.

Her family had never treated her differently. But that did not matter. She felt it. The distance. The weight of her own existence pressing down on her like an iron chain.

She had no place here. No purpose.

As a child, she had whispered her prayers to the gods, pleading for answers. For purpose. For truth. She had begged them to tell her why she had been born like this.

The gods had never whispered back.

‘We ought to return,’ Haven said, her dark gaze flickering to Mal’s arm. ‘You shouldn’t keep visiting the Seer.’

Mal did not bother to hide the fresh wound—the cut from where the Seer had spilt her blood, staining the ground with secrets.

‘I needed to know if the rumours are true.’

Haven’s expression did not shift. ‘Which ones?’

Mal’s chest tightened.

The rumours about your eyes, or the whispers of war?

That was the unspoken question lingering between them.

‘They say the witches are preparing for war,’ Mal muttered. ‘That they are coming for us.’

Haven did not flinch. ‘The witches have been plotting for decades, Mal. And yet, they never leave that wasteland of theirs. Their kingdom was destroyed long ago, burnt to nothing but ash. They will never forgive us for such a massacre. But they are weak, shriveled carcasses left behind to be forgotten by the world.’

‘It’s no wonder they hate us so much.’

Haven’s dark eyes sharpened, flint striking steel. ‘Careful, Mal. The witches were not innocent in their undoing.’

‘But—’

‘It is time to go, sister.’ Haven’s hands found Mal’s shoulders, steady, firm. ‘Stop worrying. Nothing bad will happen to you. I promise.’

Mal’s throat tightened.

‘You cannot promise such a thing. If the witches come… my eyes…’

‘Your eyes are just eyes, Mal.’

But she knew better. She knew what her eyes meant. She knew what she was capable of because of them.

‘Haven, only witches have purple eyes.’

Haven sighed.

They had had this conversation too many times to count.

Since childhood, Mal had been feared, a specter within the castle walls, hidden away as a secret everyone knew existed.

She had wandered the fortress like a ghost, hidden away where no one could gawk, where no one could fear what those purple orbs might mean.

She had spent years in the Temple, whispering prayers to gods that refused to answer her, begging them to tell her the truth.

Haven could not give her the answer she sought.

But her reply never changed.

‘No matter what the gods’ reasons are, Mal Blackburn,’ Haven said, her voice soft, her smile unwavering. ‘You are not a witch, my dearest sister. You are a wyverian .’