Page 29

The herbs slip from my fingers as the first stick strikes my shoulder.

"Witch!" The word rings across the meadow, sharp as the pain blooming beneath my skin. "Look at the little witch, gathering her poisons!"

I know better than to run. Running only excites them, like wolves scenting blood. Instead, I kneel carefully, gathering the scattered yarrow and feverfew back into my basket. My hands don't shake—I won't give them that satisfaction. Won't let them see how my heart hammers against my ribs, how fear turns my tongue to lead.

They’re just boys, I know. Boys throwing twigs. They won’t hurt me.

Thomás emerges from the tree line first, flanked by his usual pack. The tanner's son stands head and shoulders above other boys his age, all bulk and meanness, taking after his father in the worst ways. His cronies spread out behind him—smaller boys eager to prove themselves through cruelty, their faces flushed with the thrill of cornering acceptable prey.

"Picking flowers for your spells?" Thomás scoops up another stone, tossing it between his hands. "Going to curse the village like your grandmother?"

"They're medicines." My voice comes out steadier than I expect. Grandmother's lessons echo in my head: Keep your chin high. Show no fear. They can only hurt you if you let them see you're afraid . "For your sister's fever. Your father asked—"

"Liar!" The second stick catches my hip, but I don't flinch. "My father would never deal with witches. Everyone knows what you are.”

His friends snicker, and I resist the urge to scowl. It’ll only make it worse.

They're closer now, circling me. I count six of them—Thomás and his usual followers, plus two I don't recognize. Probably visiting from the next village over. News of the witch-child spreads, after all. Everyone wants their chance to prove their bravery against the monster.

But I am not a monster. And I am very, very tired of being afraid.

"You know what my father says?" Thomás takes another step forward, stone raised. "Says we should have drowned you when you were born. Says you'll bring nothing but trouble, you and that crazy old—"

"Careful." The word comes out soft, but something in my tone makes him falter. "You wouldn't want to catch it, would you?"

"Catch what?"

I smile, slow and secret. "Haven't you noticed? The way it spreads?" I gesture to his arm, where angry red welts have begun to appear—poison oak I recognize from the forest edge where they were hiding. Of course they didn’t notice it. Fools like them don’t know danger until it’s upon them. "First the rash. Then the fever. Then…well. I'm sure you've heard the stories."

Thomás looks down at his arm, eyes widening. Two of his friends back away, scratching unconsciously at their own reddening skin. I rise slowly, brushing dirt from my skirts.

"Don't worry," I say, careful to keep my voice gentle. Concerned, even. "I'm sure it won't affect you too badly. Not like the last boy. The one who went mad from the pain. Unless…" I tap my chin thoughtfully. "Did any of you eat blackberries from the woods? The ones growing near the old oak?" I know they did; I can see it around their mouths, the dark stains.

They are the monsters. Not me.

More scratching now. One of the smaller boys looks ready to cry.

"You're lying." But Thomás's voice shakes. "You're just trying to—"

"Am I?" I meet his eyes steadily. "Look at your hands, Thomás. See how the veins are darkening? That's how it starts. But I'm sure you'll be fine. Probably. And if not…" I shrug, gathering my basket. "Well. You know where to find me. If you want the cure."

I walk away slowly, keeping my steps measured. Behind me, I hear urgent whispers, the sound of bodies crashing through undergrowth in their haste to reach the stream. To wash away the phantom poison they imagine coursing through their veins.

Only when I'm safely hidden behind my grandmother's garden wall do I allow myself to laugh. Allow the fear to drain away, replaced by fierce pride. I didn't need magic or strength to defeat them. Only wit, and their own ignorance, and the power of fear turned back on itself.

"Well done, little one." Grandmother's voice makes me start. She stands in the doorway, eyes bright with approval. "You're learning."

"They'll only come back angrier next time."

"Perhaps." She takes my basket, examining the scattered herbs with practiced hands. "But they'll come back warier too. And that's its own kind of power."

"I wish I really could curse them.” It’s the first time in my memory I have said such a thing aloud. “I wish we really were witches.”

"No." My grandmother’s voice turns sharp. "That's not our way. Real power isn't about hurting others. It's about knowing yourself. About turning their fear into your strength."

I nod, though I don't fully understand. Not yet. That lesson will take years to truly sink in—years of being hunted, years of being feared, years of learning that true strength often looks nothing like power at all.

But the seed is planted that day, taking root alongside the herbs in my grandmother's garden. A truth I'll carry with me through all the dark days ahead:

Sometimes the greatest victory is simply refusing to break.

***

The cold wakes me first—a deep, bone-cracking cold that even my winter magic can't quite shield me from. Then pain, radiating from the back of my skull where something struck me. The world swims into focus slowly, fragments of memory piecing themselves together like shards of broken ice: walking in the lower gardens, a shadow moving where it shouldn't, a familiar voice carrying an edge of madness, speaking one word.

Speaking my name.

When I open my eyes, I know exactly where I am.

These peaks tower above Millrath like the teeth of some ancient beast, their jagged faces permanently wreathed in storm clouds. Arvoren brought me here once, in those early days when he was still trying to break my spirit. I remember how terrified I was. The fear brings a sour taste into my mouth. The drops are just as terrifying now as they were then, the winds just as bitter.

But this time, I am not here with Arvoren. I am not here with the man who would come to love me.

I’m here with a monster.

"Finally awake, Calliope?"

I hate the way he says my name. I wish I could rip out of his mouth, curse him to never say it again.

Ulric's voice carries none of its old charm. He stands at the edge of the narrow ledge where I lie bound, golden hair whipping in the frigid wind. His fine clothes are ragged now, his face gaunt and haunted. Burns from our last battle still mar his skin, the scarring worse than I remembered. He’s clearly been hiding for days from the dragons hunting him, looking wild and unkempt.

But it's his eyes that truly frighten me—there's nothing left in them of the charismatic prince who once pretended to be my ally. Only madness remains, sharp as broken glass.

"How did you get into the castle?" My voice comes out weaker than I'd like, but I force myself to meet his gaze. "The wards—"

"The wards remember me." His laugh holds an edge of hysteria. "Just as the stones remember. Just as everything in that cursed city remembers who I was meant to be, before my brother stole it all. The walls remember my blood. Really, it’s all about blood."

I test my bonds carefully, trying to access my magic. But something's wrong—the power feels distant, muffled, like trying to hear through deep water. When I reach for the familiar pulse of winter storm, I find only echoes.

"Wondering why your little tricks aren't working?" Ulric's smile is knife-sharp as he holds up an iron pendant. Ancient runes pulse with sickly light along its surface. "Amazing what you can find in the old places, if you know where to look. The first dragons knew how to bind magic. Knew how to cage things that were never meant to be caged. It won’t last long, but then again, you won’t be conscious long. I’m going to make sure you have a…painless pregnancy."

I struggle to sit up, fighting waves of dizziness. "He’s going to find me. How does it feel, Ulric? To be the monstrous failure you are? It can’t feel good."

His expression darkens.

In two strides he crosses the ledge, fingers tangling in my hair as he yanks my head back roughly. "You think you're clever, don't you? Think you've won? My brother's tame little witch-queen, carrying the heir that should have been mine—"

"I was never yours." The words emerge fierce despite my fear. "Never meant to be."

"No?" His grip tightens painfully. "Then why did the Gods lead me to you? Why did they whisper of your power, of the child you would bear? A child of dragon and Windwaker blood, strong enough to reshape the world…." His voice drops lower, edges of madness creeping in. "Fate wanted me to rule this place. I know it. But if I can't have that power, if I can't rule through that child, then neither will my brother. I'll see you both dead first. Perhaps I should just kill you both now. Either way, I’d get what I want."

Terror claws at my throat as his meaning sinks in. One hand moves to my swollen belly, feeling our child's magic pulse beneath my palm. They're moving less than usual, as if the binding magic affects them too. The thought sends fresh fear coursing through me.

"They're innocent," I whisper. "Whatever quarrel you have with your brother—"

"Innocent?" Ulric's laugh echoes off the mountainside, startling the circling dragons. "Was I innocent, when our parents died? When Arvoren claimed everything that should have been shared between us? When he left me with nothing but scraps and shadows?" His fingers dig deeper into my scalp. "Now he'll know how it feels. To watch everything he loves torn away. To be left with nothing but memories and regret."

The wind howls fiercer around us, driving snow like daggers. But for once, I'm not the one controlling the storm. My magic feels weaker by the moment, drained by whatever power pulses in that cursed pendant. Even our child's strength seems to fade, their movements growing sluggish, uncertain.

Desperately, I reach for my bond with Arvoren. The connection flickers like a guttering candle, but I pour everything I can into it—my fear, my location, my certainty that time grows short. Please , I think fiercely. Please feel this. Please come.

"He won't find you in time." Ulric reads the hope in my eyes. "By the time he realizes you're gone, by the time he tracks you here…it will be far too late." He releases my hair, stepping back to survey me with clinical detachment. "I wonder, should I wait for him to arrive? Let him watch as I end his legacy? Or would it be crueler to leave him wondering, searching forever, never knowing exactly how you died?"

"You really hate him that much?" I ask, though I already know the answer. "Your own brother?"

"Hate?" Something shifts in Ulric's expression—grief perhaps, or what remains of it beneath the madness. "You don't understand. You couldn't. Do you know what it's like to grow up in his shadow? To watch him take everything, claim everything, own everything? To know that no matter what you do, no matter how hard you try, you'll never be anything but the spare? The backup plan?"

His voice cracks on that last word, and for a moment I glimpse the wounded boy beneath the monster—the child who never felt good enough, who learned too young that love was conditional on success. But then his eyes harden again, and that glimpse of humanity vanishes like smoke.

"But none of that matters now." He draws a blade I recognize—the same dark metal as the pendant, inscribed with runes that make my teeth ache. "All that matters is making him suffer as I have suffered. Making him understand what it means to lose everything."

I try to scramble backward, but there's nowhere to go. The ledge drops away behind me into endless white, and my bonds prevent any real movement. But as Ulric advances, blade raised, something shifts inside me.

Our child’s power flares, stronger than I’m used to, and suddenly I know with bone-deep certainty that Arvoren is coming. I feel him through our bond like approaching thunder, like the promise of dragon-fire and fury. My husband is hunting, and all of Ulric's madness and magic won't stop him from finding us.

"He's coming," I say, and there must be something raw and truthful in my voice because Ulric falters. "You know he is. You can feel it too, can't you? The way the very air changes when he hunts?"

"Let him come." But there's fear beneath the bravado now. "Let him watch you die—"

"He'll tear you apart." The words emerge in a whisper, but they carry the weight of prophecy. "Not quickly. Not cleanly. He'll make you suffer for every moment of fear you've caused me, for every threat to our child. And this time…this time I won't try to stop him."

Ulric's hand shakes slightly, the blade wavering. "You think I fear him? After everything—"

"I think you've always feared him." I meet his gaze steadily, though my heart hammers against my ribs. "Why else spend so long trying to prove yourself? Why else this desperate need to take what's his? You're still that little boy, aren't you? Still trying to step out of your brother's shadow?"

"Shut up." The blade presses against my throat, drawing blood that freezes instantly in the bitter air. "You know nothing about me. About us. About what it means to be the second son—"

But I see the truth in his eyes now. Behind all the madness, all the cruelty, all the carefully crafted schemes…he's terrified. Of Arvoren, yes, but also of himself. Of what he's become. Of the monster he chose to be when being second-best grew too painful to bear.

He’s just a man, I realise. An angry, scared, viciously cruel man like any other.

And today, he’s going to die.

A roar splits the sky in the far distance—a sound of such primal fury that the very mountains seem to tremble.

Ulric's head snaps up, eyes widening as massive wings blot out the sun. His grip on the blade tightens, but I see the way his hands shake, the way sweat beads on his forehead despite the killing cold.

"Brother," he whispers, and for the first time since he took me, real fear enters his voice. "You're too late. Far too late—"

The blade moves.

But I am not the same woman he once tried to break. I dodge, roll hard to my left, and fight.