Page 58

She hurried along a narrow corridor just beyond the kitchens, the scent of roasted meats and fresh bread thick in the air.

From within, she heard the clamour of pots clashing against iron stoves, the shouting of cooks demanding urgency.

The chaos of it all concealed her retreat as she reached for a wooden door nestled against the stone wall.

It creaked open, revealing a small, unkempt garden, overgrown and forgotten. Beyond it stretched dry, cracked earth, barren and untraveled, a patch of terrain so unused that most had forgotten it even existed.

It was the very same path she had once used to smuggle witches into the castle.

And now it would serve as her escape.

Klara stepped into the open air, the scent of dust and scorched grass rising in the heat. The door shut behind her with a quiet click . She exhaled, allowed herself the smallest moment of relief.

A growl shattered the silence.

Her body locked in place, every muscle frozen as she turned.

Two wolves.

Teeth bared, eyes like liquid silver, bodies coiled, ready to strike.

Klara lifted her hands, fingers twitching as she summoned the only magic she ever allowed herself to use. Green smoke curled around her fingertips, dark and curling like serpents in the dry morning air.

The first wolf lunged.

Klara twisted her fingers, sending a blast of magic straight into the beast’s chest. The force sent it flying, skidding across the dirt before it rolled to a halt. The second wolf snarled, hackles raised, the ground beneath its paws trembling from its barely restrained fury.

It lunged next, and Klara did not hesitate. Another tendril of green light shot forth, freezing its paws to the earth in thick, glistening ice.

She barely had time to turn before the first wolf was already back on its feet, charging again. She prepared another strike—her power flaring, ready to release. But the frozen wolf shattered its binds with a powerful wrench, breaking free from the ice.

Both wolves leapt as one.

Klara barely had time to scream before their weight crushed her to the earth. She fought, her magic searing through the air, rising in a furious crescendo .

A whistle cut through it all.

The wolves stopped.

They withdrew immediately, backing away from her, though their eyes remained sharp, their bodies tense, waiting for another command.

A hand gripped the front of her dress, yanking her upright into a sitting position. The dust around her settled. Wren Wynter and Mal Blackburn stood over her, framed by the rising sun.

Klara cursed under her breath. She had been so close.

For a fleeting second, she had forgotten that she was still disguised as Klara.

Perhaps— perhaps —she could still spin this into something useful.

Had they seen her use magic? She had been hidden in the gardens when the wolves attacked.

Had they only seen the aftermath? Had the gods been merciful for once?

‘I think ya have some explaining to do, Klara.’ Wren grinned down at her, arms crossed.

Klara forced herself to tremble, widening her eyes in feigned terror, hoping her breathless state might work to her advantage.

‘Stop pretending,’ Mal said. ‘We have a few questions.’

Klara let her lips part, her brows knitting together in perfect confusion. ‘I don’t understand. I was going into the city to find some—’

Something hard landed on her stomach with a soft thump .

She looked down.

The black notebook.

Her stomach twisted.

Outwardly, she gasped, eyes darting between them in well-practiced innocence. Inwardly, she cursed herself. If they figured out how to break the glamour—if they found a way to read what was inside.

‘Why do ya have a notebook that is glamoured?’ Wren asked.

Klara blinked up at her, schooling her expression into one of utter ignorance. ‘Glamoured? What does that mean?’

‘Do not play stupid,’ Mal hissed, crouching beside her, gripping the notebook tightly. ‘We know Vera is a witch. Strange how my first maid turned out to be a witch and then vanished, to be replaced by a second one that has in her possession a book that reeks of magic.’

Klara’s mind raced.

They hadn’t seen her use magic.

They hadn’t.

Suppressing a smirk, she forced herself to shrink back, stammering out, ‘I—I found it. Vera dropped it.’

‘So it is not yours?’

Klara shook her head. ‘I was planning on giving it back to her, I swear it.’

Mal tapped her fingers against the cover, considering. ‘Well then… In that case, you won’t mind if I…’ She flipped the notebook open.

And began tearing pages out.

Klara reacted before she could think. A scream tore from her throat, sharp and ragged, as if Mal were not shredding paper but rather her very skin.

Mal’s movements stilled. She tilted her head, a slow, knowing smile curving her lips. ‘Huh, that was quite a reaction, wasn’t it, Wren? Especially for someone that seems to only be keeping it for a friend for the time being.’

‘It’s not mine,’ Klara spat, trying to steady her breathing. ‘If I give it back broken, Vera will think I’m the culprit.’

‘Strange how she didn’t even flinch or look surprised when we said Vera’s a witch,’ Wren intervened. ‘Maybe she already knew. Maybe she’s an accomplice.’

‘No, I am not ,’ Klara snapped, her voice high-pitched and desperate. ‘I’m just a simple maid, I swear it.’

‘Great,’ Mal said, standing abruptly, hauling Klara up with her. ‘Then you’ll bring us to Vera and once we have her in front of us, you will be free to go.’

Klara hesitated as panic surged through her veins. She could distract them. She could use her magic, twist her form, become Vera before they noticed the switch.

But they wouldn’t let her out of their sight.

She could fight them, flee.

Or confess.

Klara’s heart pounded as she weighed her options.

She had never meant to harm Mal Blackburn. Quite the opposite. She had wanted to help her. But if she revealed herself now—if Mal chose to hand her over to the drakonians…

The consequences would be unforgivable.

Klara let Mal drag her back through the castle, weaving through dimly lit hallways and up the winding staircases to the wyverian princess’s chambers.

Their passage drew no attention—just two royal figures moving purposefully with a servant in tow, their presence mundane, unremarkable.

No one looked twice. No one suspected that behind the delicate steps of the princesses and the docile pace of the maid, there lurked something dark, something dangerous.

Mal shut the doors behind them with a quiet click, sealing them in. With a firm push, she forced Klara into a chair, the weight of the moment settling like a blade pressed to the throat.

And it was then that Klara realised—Mal had never asked where Vera’s room was.

She hadn’t needed to.

A slow, resigned breath left Klara’s lips. ‘You already knew.’

Mal gave a small, satisfied nod. ‘I thought the idea of seeing you sweat over trying to fool us was rather entertaining. Wanted to see how you were planning on transforming into Vera without us noticing.’

‘So why am I not sweating?’

‘It would be rather cruel of us.’ Mal shrugged, her expression unreadable. ‘Are you going to keep pretending?’

The moment the words left her lips, the nervous look that had clung to Klara like a mask melted away, as did the golden strands of her hair.

A ripple of magic twisted the air around her, and suddenly the trembling, fair-haired maid was gone. In her place sat another—a red-haired drakonian with small brown horns, a face Mal recognised instantly.

Vera.

‘It is wonderful to see you once again, Vera,’ she said. ‘But I did not mean for this. You can show your true face, witch .’

A huff of irritation, and then the illusion collapsed like smoke dissolving into the wind. The red-haired drakonian shimmered, her image folding into itself before vanishing completely.

And then, there she was.

A woman of striking beauty, her bronze skin a canvas of black ink, intricate tattoos curling up her hands, winding like serpents along her arms to her elbows—witch markings, unmistakable in their dark artistry.

And her eyes.

Not brown. Not blue.

But purple.

A mirror of Mal’s own.

The witch regarded them with an air of amusement, as though they had walked into her trap, as though it was she who had summoned them into this room, not the other way around.

She exhaled slowly, her lips curling into a half-smile. ‘Well, well,’ she mused. ‘I suppose I ought to applaud.’

Vera noticed the way Mal’s posture stiffened. She had probably expected a disguise, yes. Had probably braced herself for deceit. But the voice that emerged from the witch’s lips—cold, cruel, laced with the weight of power—was not the voice of the maid Mal had known.

For a brief moment, something unfamiliar twisted in Mal’s eyes.

Regret.

And in that moment, Vera could tell that Mal had missed her.

The other Vera. The one who had fussed over her gowns and brushed out her tangled hair in the mornings, who had folded the sheets with quiet precision, who had never once spoken with the quiet venom this woman now wielded. But that Vera had never existed, had she?

It had all been a lie.

‘What should we call you?’

The witch lounged back in the chair as though she were seated upon a throne.

‘Vera, that is my name.’ The witch smirked, tracing a finger idly over the carved armrest of the chair.

‘I couldn’t be bothered to change it. It was a popular name a few years back in this land.

It means summer to the drakonians. And yet, in the witchlands it means faith.

It is one of the few names that shares territories, being used in more than one kingdom. ’

‘Why are you here?’ Mal did not react. She was not interested in the poetry of names.

The witch arched a brow. There were things she would never reveal—not to them, not to anyone. But just this once, she allowed a small sliver of truth to slip past her lips.

‘I’m here to help you,’ Vera said simply. Her purple eyes gleamed like dark gems in the candlelight. ‘To help you kill your husband.’