Page 30 of Malicent (Seven Devils #1)

Millicent

II. Vexation

“Entity begins to torment the selected host. Abuse includes physical and mental. Body is not yet possessed.”

-The Wretched Sacrament

ARCADIA TAPS MY HEAD WITH the back of her brush, scolding me for moving too much as she works through my hair.

“You pull too hard!” I whine, resisting the urge to free my poor hair from her ruthless grip.

“You’re the biggest baby I know, Millie. Suck it up! Beauty hurts.” She’s rolling her eyes at me; I just know it.

“I’m tender-headed! Maybe I don’t need braids. I’m a hair-down girl anyway. They might not even look good on my face.”

Another sharp whack to my head. I whip around and grab the handle, fighting to rip that damned brush from her grasp.

“You’re a baby, and that’s a lame ass excuse!

You’re hot in everything! So at least come up with a better lie if you want me to stop, you conniving witch.

” She grunts as we wrestle for control. We’re both sitting on our bottoms locked in the heat of battle.

I stick my foot out against her stomach, pushing hard for leverage. The brush rips free.

“HAH!” I shout victoriously, holding it high.

My triumph is short-lived. Arcadia lunges, tackling me to the floor. I shriek, my laughter garbled as she grabs for the brush. I stretch my arm out, keeping it just out of her reach.

Arcadia freezes mid-grapple, her body tensing against mine. A split second later, she slips off me, shifting to her knees with her head bowed low.

“Elanora,” she says, her voice quiet but steady.

My stomach drops; I hadn’t noticed Nora enter the room.

The shift occurs almost immediately. The laughter that once filled the space is strangled into silence, suffocated by the weight of her presence.

The fire still crackles in the hearth to our left, its warmth now a distant thing, swallowed by the creeping cold that follows our elder like a second shadow.

The red tapestries adorning the wall seem darker now, the worn fabric wrinkling beneath the sheer gravity of her scrutiny.

I drop my gaze to the floor and follow Arcadia’s lead, lowering myself to my knees. I bow my head as a show of respect, though I feel the faint tremor in my fingers.

Nora steps forward, her heels tapping against the oak flooring.

“Arcadia,” she says, her tone sharp enough to slice through the air, “what are you wearing?”

The air thickens with tension. I watch from the corner of my eye as Arcadia’s hand curls into a small fist against the floor. “A gown, Nora.” She keeps her head bowed and her voice steady.

Nora clicks her tongue in disapproval. “Not one of the gowns specifically tailored for you,” she corrects coldly. “You are one of the few witches given custom attire. Do not be so ungrateful.”

Arcadia straightens, she manages to keep her voice measured. “I just wanted to cover up today, is all. It’s chilly.” She explains quickly, as if hoping that it might soften Nora’s retort.

I glance at her gown—similar to mine in its plain black corset top and flowing ankle-length panels. Unlike mine, the problem lay in the neckline. Too modest.

Arcadia’s custom gowns are not meant to conceal.

They are cut deep, plunging all the way to her navel, designed to bare the golden witch marks curling over her chest. A display of power, of lineage.

A requirement. Nora tolerates no deviation.

To cover one’s marks is to hide strength. To hide strength is to be weak.

A sin.

“You will bear the cold.” Her tone is flat, absolute. “If you cannot withstand a mere breeze, you will not survive beyond these walls. Far colder things await you in the world, child.” The word child lands with the sharpness of a blade. “Change. Now,” she commands.

Arcadia’s jaw tightens, but she does not argue. She merely bows her head, rising swiftly to her feet. Without another word, she turns on her heel, striding toward the door. She does not slam it behind her. She does not look back. And then, it is just us.

The dull thud of Nora’s heels against the wooden floor is the only sound as she approaches.

“Millicent, you’ve been excelling in your lessons,” she says smoothly. “Today, it is time for another.” She extends a hand.

I hesitate—only for a breath—before I place my hand in hers, allowing her to pull me to my feet. Her grip is firm, cool.

My nerves are already frayed. Inside, the chaotic energy I fight to keep contained stirs violently, like rats clawing for an escape. We follow a familiar path. Leaving the warmth of the residential wing behind, we cross into the Academic building. Our footsteps echo throughout its silent halls.

Then down.

The staircase spirals, the light from above thinning into nothingness. Soon, we arrive at the network of cavernous halls. I furrow my brow as we pass the chamber that houses the pool of that foul-tasting, black liquid. We always stop here. Always.

Not tonight.

“A new lesson today. The next lesson.” Nora’s voice resonates through the corridor.

The torches flicker against jagged stone and earth, casting shifting shadows that seem to stretch and breathe.

“In nature, Millicent, you can be a wolf or a sheep. Sheep exist to be devoured. They are necessary, but not all are worthy.” Her steps are slow as she moves in circles around me.

“To remain strong, wolves select their prey carefully. They do not waste their time on the weak—the inadequate.” She pauses, letting the words sink in, then asks. “Are you a wolf or a sheep?”

The question is rhetorical, yet I still answer. “I am a wolf.” I keep my voice steady, but the confidence is a lie. We press forward. The corridor breathes a faint draft, and soon, a door looms ahead. A bitter chill seeps from beneath it. Nora pushes it open.

Iron grates against iron. The hinges groan in protest, but they do not deny her.

In front of us is a cavern, but different from the one she typically takes me into.

Beyond the threshold, the chamber’s ceiling vanishes into the open sky.

The full moon hangs above a ghostly twin reflected in the still lake below.

The lake glistens, its surface too smooth. The outlines of distant trees emerge in twisted forms warped beyond recognition. The bark coils in tight, wrung-out spirals that unfurl into unnatural, horn-like protrusions. They are barren, lifeless, as though they were never meant to bear leaves.

Nora’s grip tightens around my wrist. Wordlessly, she commands me forward. The shoreline, an uneven bed of cold, smooth stones, crunches beneath my feet. Each step grows heavier, my body resisting—

The voice returns.

It’s the one only I can hear—the one that has lived inside my mind since drinking from the black waters. “Come, my child.”

It is a siren’s call: soft, yet shifting, as though spoken by many voices at once.

“Come, sweet child, come.”

Her voice slithers through the chamber—soft at first, coaxing, almost maternal. Then it shifts. The cadence distorts, deepens, as if layered with another voice beneath it. Something does not belong.

Nora drops my hand. I barely have time to process before she raises her hand to my back, unzipping my gown in one motion. The fabric pools at my feet. “We will see if you truly are a wolf, Millicent.” She murmurs. “Walk into the water.”

A tremor ripples through me. “That…that is all I must do?”

She strips my clothes from me, and I am bare before the cold can fully register.

Goosebumps rise on my skin, sending a shudder that rolls down my spine as the air bites deep.

My breath escapes in faint plumes, curling before me like smoke.

The chill settles under my skin—into my bones.

Yet, I do not argue; the chambers are always cold.

“That is all you must do, little star.” Her voice softens—an old, familiar trick. A lullaby of control. And like always, it works.

Little star.

Mother used to say I would never be afraid. That I was too clever for fear. I cling to the thought.

One step. Then another. My bare feet meet the smooth, wet stones of the shore.

The lake awaits me, too dark, too still.

The water laps at my toes. The unsettling sensation is immediate.

A slippery, oil-slicked cold seeps into my skin, coiling like something alive.

It’s the same feeling that slid down my throat when I drank from the chalice.

“Get in the water.” The voice claws into my mind, its talons scraping. It doesn’t shout—it commands.

My legs obey before I do. Each step feels less like my own. I am walking to her , I realize. To it. I stop. A tremor ripples through me as nausea churns in my gut, threatening to rise and burst out.

There’s no time for that. Nora’s voice cuts through the chamber like ice splintering against stone. “Continue. Do not hesitate. Wolves do not hesitate. You…your weakness is an infection. We will rid you of it.” She waits—barely. “Does strength come from gentleness?”

“No Nora,” I recite, the words spill out as a reflex. “Strength comes from enduring.” A lesson that is seared into my mind—burned into my skin. A lesson I have bled for.

Her tone sharpens, slicing at me with a cold finality.

“Great power begets great sacrifice. What is it to sacrifice fear? To kill the instinct of hesitation? You are to be perfect. Flawless . Relentless . A lamb has no place here.” She pauses.

I can feel it coming. “Your mother would be ashamed to see such weakness.” Her words hit harder than the cold.

And I hate myself for hesitating.

My back is to her. The water stills at my ankles. Weak.

I was too weak to save my mother.

I will never be weak again.