Page 5

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C ora nocked an arrow into her bow and pulled the fletching back to her cheek. Her heart thumped heavy in her chest, her mind still reeling with the echo of Roije’s words. It was sundown—several hours since he’d delivered his cryptic warning—yet she still couldn’t shake what he’d said.

She released the arrow and heard the beautiful strum of the string snapping forward, a sound that normally settled her nerves. Now it did nothing to calm her, especially when the arrow missed her target and struck an innocent cherry tree standing just behind the pockmarked stump she’d been trying to hit. Pink cherry blossoms rained down to the forest floor in protest.

She cursed under her breath and withdrew another arrow from her quiver. As she nocked it, she replayed Roije’s warning for the hundredth time.

Avoid the villages .

What had he meant by that? Was she simply imagining the darker implications of his statement? His warning must have had something to do with what happened to his father…

Murdered by King Dimetreus’ men.

But had the warning been given out of general worry? Romantic favor, like she’d first assumed?

Or because he’d learned why she’d really been stumbling through the woods six years ago when the Forest People found her?

Her fingers trembled, sending her aim wildly askew as she shot her arrow. “Damn.” She nocked another one, willing her hands to remain steady, her grip easy on her bow as she shot her arrow. This time it struck the rotting half-felled tree, but nowhere close to the circle she’d carved as a target when the Forest People first settled camp at the beginning of spring. This little pocket of isolation was her safe space. Her private training ground. Not that it was doing her any good at the moment. She was normally an adequate archer. But today…

With a grumble, she threw her head back and closed her eyes.

Breathe , she told herself. Breathe. It was nothing. His warning meant nothing.

Releasing a slow exhale, she forced her worries aside and tried focusing on her inner sensations instead. As a clairsentient witch, feeling was the source of her power. She knew this, and yet it wasn’t always easy to remember in practice. But as the Forest People liked to say, magic was strengthened by challenge. Often that meant doing the very thing that felt the hardest. Right now, Cora’s greatest challenge was getting out of her head and into her magic. The last thing she wanted to do was abandon her attempts at logic, but she could at least admit her current state was doing her no favors. Not where her sanity was concerned, and certainly not for her archery practice.

She breathed in again, narrowing her attention down to the sensation of air moving through her nose, filling her lungs, then warming her nostrils as she released the breath. Shifting her focus to her skin, she felt it prickle beneath the cool evening breeze, then warming under the blush of the setting sun, diffused beneath the canopy of trees overhead. Next, she brought her attention to her feet, to the feel of solid earth beneath her leather boots, and imagined she could sense the Magic of the Soil the way the Faeryn descendants could.

Calm replaced her racing thoughts, settling her heartbeat into a steady rhythm. She took several moments to relish that calm, to feel it with every fiber of her being, before she opened her eyes. Drawing another arrow from her quiver, she nocked it in place and assessed the stump with its carved target, saw in her mind’s eye her arrow soaring straight to it. She drew her arrow to her cheek, felt calm radiate down her arm, her hand, felt her tattooed palms tingle with magic.

Everything inside her felt her next shot wouldn’t miss.

She released the arrow and watched the arrowhead strike the center of the circle. Exactly how she’d seen it in her mind. Exactly how she’d felt it would hit.

Her lips flicked up at the corners, but her smile faded as soon as she heard the crack of a twig behind her. Nocking a fresh arrow, she whirled around and aimed her weapon.

“Salinda,” Cora said, tone full of apology as she quickly let down her bow.

The other woman didn’t so much as flinch at having been momentarily targeted. In fact, there was a good chance that snapping the twig had been intentional. A test. Salinda nodded at the stump that still bore Cora’s arrow. “You shot that arrow with clairsentience, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Cora said and went to retrieve her numerous arrows that were scattered around her practice area. It was considered disrespectful to turn one’s back on an elder when approached, but Cora had a feeling she knew why Salinda was here and hoped she could end the conversation before it began. Besides, Salinda was Maiya’s mother, as close as Cora had to a mother herself, which meant the woman expected less formality from Cora than the others.

“Maiya told me about the nightmares,” she said.

Cora sighed as she tore an arrow from the stump and tucked it into her quiver. “Of course she did.”

“That’s not why I’m here, though.”

Cora slung her bow over her shoulder and turned back toward Salinda. “It’s not?”

With slow steps, Salinda closed the distance between them, stopping a few feet away. She and Maiya looked similar with their petite stature, dark eyes, brown skin, and warm smiles. Salinda, however, had the slightest point at the top of her ears. Even being half witch, she still might have had the most Faeryn blood of any of the Forest People. Salinda also had more tattoos than most, with black ink trailing from her palms to her inner forearms, disappearing beneath the sleeves of her green linen dress, only to peek up again above her bodice. From there, geometric shapes adorned the sides of her neck, ending in a single tattoo at the tip of her chin—the sign of the triple moon. A symbol only the elders’ chins were marked with.

Salinda gave Cora a warm smile, one that made her eyes crinkle abundantly at the corners, and took another step closer. “I think you should take the path of elders.”

Cora stared back at her, stunned silent. Taking the path of elders was a high honor, as one could only begin training by invitation of another elder. Thirteen Forest People comprised the council of elders. Aside from Nalia, the High Elder, there were six witches and six Faeryn descendants on the council. The six witches represented the strongest in each of the six senses, while the six Faeryn performed a separate vital task. Unlike Maiya, Salinda’s magic favored her Faeryn side, although she understood witch magic just as deeply as the Magic of the Soil. She was so skilled in her Art that she’d earned herself a place as one of the Faeryn elders, tasked as the commune’s Keeper of Histories. It wasn’t just Faeryn lore she kept either. She also recorded anything relevant to the witches of the commune. With how intermingled the two people had become, the distinctions between the witches and Faeryn were growing less stark. New traditions were being created every day, new spells, tonics, and rituals that combined witch magic with the Magic of the Soil. It made Salinda the perfect candidate for the job of Keeper of Histories.

Cora knew she should feel triumphant. Proud. To be singled out as a witch worthy of one day becoming an elder…it should have been a dream come true. The way her heart raced, cheeks warm under Salinda’s kind gaze, made it seem like Cora’s body knew exactly what kind of honor it truly was.

But her mind…

Her mind filled with echoes of her nightmare. Echoes of Roije’s warning. A reminder that being singled out for anything could be dangerous. And not just for her. For the Forest People.

Reining in the joy that begged to fill her chest, she took a step back. “I don’t think I’m the right choice for the path of elders.”

Salinda reached for Cora’s hand and cradled it in hers, Cora’s palm to the sky. “You’ve only been with us for six years, yet look how your insigmora has grown.”

Cora’s eyes dipped to her inked palm, taking in the pattern of overlapping shapes. The tattoos were a Faeryn tradition, the process itself meant to represent the elements—minerals from the earth to form the pigment, water to turn it to liquid, fire to transmute it into ink, air to aid the tattoo’s transformation from a wound to a permanent marking of the flesh. The symbols themselves were thought to help connect one to the elements as well as direct one’s magic. Another high honor Cora wasn’t sure she was worthy of.

She slid her hand from Salinda’s. “There are other witches stronger than me who’ve earned far more insigmora in a shorter time.”

“Time isn’t everything, Cora. And I promise you, you’re stronger than you think. You came to us fully clairsentient.”

Cora chuckled. “You mean plagued by it.”

Salinda’s tone softened. “You didn’t understand it. Yet you learned so quickly what your powers meant after we took you in. You learned to put up mental shields within your first three months of being with us. The way you can feel what others feel, sense outside emotion…not all clairsentient witches can do that. Most simply connect to their magic through feeling, bodily sensation, and personal emotion. What you do is no small thing.”

It felt like a small thing, but Cora didn’t say so. She was grateful she’d learned to control her Art, but even after six years, being clairsentient didn’t make her feel powerful. Or safe. Archery, on the other hand, made her feel at least somewhat capable. Strong. That was all she wanted—one thing that could make her feel like she could face the horrors of her past and overcome them.

Instead of being destroyed by them.

Cora’s hand went to the bow slung over her shoulder. She closed her fingers around the solid wood wrapped in smooth leather. “I think I’d rather take the path of hunters.”

Salinda’s smile fell, revealing the full weight of her disappointment.

Before the woman could reply, Cora rushed on to add, “I’ve been practicing. You saw me use my magic to make that last shot. I’ve been joining the hunts.”

“And do you enjoy them? The hunts? Do you honor the process of taking life from an animal, blessing its spirit and its sacrifice for the good of the commune?”

Cora bit the inside of her cheek, trying to form a proper response. The truth was, she cared little for the hunt itself, only for the opportunity to learn how to use her weapons in a practical manner. She hated the act of killing. Hated skinning rabbits and carving hides. The other hunters didn’t relish such acts either, but she could tell they honored the process, held it in high regard. Cora didn’t have a sacred connection to hunting. If there was a path of warriors, she’d prefer that.

“Cora, I’m proud that you’ve learned to use clairsentience with your bow, but your magic has more potential than you’ve been giving it. If you let it flourish, you could step fully into the role of empath.”

Again, Cora knew she should feel honored. An empath was the strongest kind of clairsentient witch, much like a seer was the strongest clairvoyant or an oracle was the strongest claircognizant. An empath had the power to do more than read feelings. According to legends, she could use the power of sensation to accomplish many magical feats, and most were too fantastical to believe—use another’s emotions to read their mind, control physical material using touch. Cora wasn’t sure she did believe any of those things were possible. The commune had one empath, an elder. Her greatest feat of magic was taking on the pain of the ill or wounded so they could be more easily healed. But that would always leave her recovering from the pain she’d taken on, and the actual healing was left to those skilled in brewing tinctures and salves or setting bones.

Salinda released a sigh. “You don’t value the role of the empath.”

“I’d rather be more useful.”

She placed a hand on Cora’s cheek. “Magic is so much greater than you know. You don’t believe in its power because it leaves very little evidence to the naked eye. That is the way of things. True magic is quiet. Unassuming. Easily explained away through logic. But remember, just because magic is quiet doesn’t mean it isn’t strong.”

Cora wanted to argue. She’d seen magic before that was neither quiet nor unassuming. It was dark. Terrifying. How could she value the gentle power of the empath when she’d witnessed something so much darker?

“Sit with me at the Beltane ceremony tonight,” Salinda said. “ Feel what it’s like to be amongst the elders.”

Her heart sank. Part of her yearned to make Salinda proud, to be the person Salinda thought she was.

If only she knew the truth…

“I believe in you,” Salinda whispered, then took her leave.

Cora watched her go, stomach sinking under Salinda’s faith in her. Part of her wanted to run after the woman, take all her doubts back, profess that she really did want to take the path of elders. That same part of her craved the future the opportunity offered.

Prestige.

Respect.

Family.

But it would all be a lie. Cora may have been a witch, but she wasn’t truly one of them. No matter how much she wished it, no matter how much she yearned to bury her past, it haunted her.

With the resurgence of her nightmares and Roije’s mysterious warning…

She felt more than haunted.

She felt hunted.