Page 2 of The Elf Witch (The Plot of the Six Saint #1)

Chapter 2

S moke and ash from her grandmother’s execution began coating Imani’s skin, hair, and even her mouth as the fire picked up. She tongued her teeth at the taste of the old witch.

The chalky substance coated Imani’s mouth, leaving her without an ounce of guilt.

A crowd stood in impenetrable silence as the orange and blue flames licked the wooden stake, moving leisurely up the nymph’s skin. While Imani waited for her grandmother to die, her focus drifted. The scent of magic hung heavy in the air for some reason. The smell set her teeth on edge, but it was why Imani bothered to come at all—to ensure Ara met her fate.

The fire grew, and the crowd flinched. But no one looked away as flames sank their teeth into Ara’s skin like a wolf ripping its prey to shreds. Ara’s destruction cast a beautiful glow in the drab, winter daylight of the Riverlands territory.

With each crackle of the tinder, Imani felt a terrible foreboding grow inside her. Her grandmother’s death marked the end of Imani’s previous life, but she still couldn’t erase the eeriness that this moment was the beginning of something new, something worse.

The annoyance of having to wait proved to be somewhat of a distraction, at least. Watching someone die took a long time. The longer it dragged on, the more her eyes glazed with a detached indifference as she waited for her grandmother to leave this realm.

Startling heat blasted from the pyre, forcing onlookers back in a violent yet mesmerizing burst. Pricks of sparks hit Imani’s skin, and flames danced among the circle of idiotic, wide-eyed stares. She glanced around.

He wasn’t here. Ara’s accuser had skipped the execution.

“You’ve got to give it to her. The old nymph is strong.”

Imani didn’t bother to try to figure out who had dared say what they were all thinking. The witch stood stock-still, silently accepting her fate, even as her skin melted. Imani couldn’t look away from the gruesome sight.

Once the flames engulfed the stake at her back, Ara’s eyes dropped and fixed ahead into the crowd. The witch held dominion with a simple gaze.

Soon, the flames rose to rival the height of the surrounding buildings, then the flames became Ara’s hair, and that, too, whipped in the wind. It wouldn’t be much longer.

Unmoving and unflinching, Ara’s shocking blue irises reflected the light of the flames, flashing like a blade in the sun as they commanded a final directive to the young elf witch in the crowd.

Indeed, everything about today, she controlled, even her execution, despite her imminent death and the light dimming her gaze. Death was a mere inconvenience. Imani had no idea how or why, but if Ara made the decision not to die today, she wouldn’t. It was that simple. Imani hated all the power her grandmother effortlessly exerted in all things, constantly remaining two steps in front of everyone, even when she was half-mad.

Well, if she was half-mad. The woman could fool the saints when properly motivated.

And still, Ara didn’t move, her blue irises dimming as her life drained away.

Her grandmother spoke to her then. Those horrible eyes that looked so like her own repeated the disconcerting words she’d said only hours ago. Imani hadn’t wanted to hear them last night and didn’t want to listen to them now.

“ Don’t waste this gift ,” Ara had said last night.

The tingling through her limbs hadn’t stopped since Ara had shared those strange words with Imani.

She rubbed her right forearm where her magical brands would have appeared if the Fabric had given her any. Imani’s eyes never strayed from the pyre as her lungs breathed in the harsh smoke and she wrapped the cloak tighter around her.

Imani was magicless, and when she twisted her glamoured, pallid face into a scowl, she became so bland that no one even bothered to call her ugly. Once Ara died, any magic the witch cast, including the illusion over Imani’s face and soul draw, would fall and reveal her true form. Her sister, Meira, would need to cast another at home later. It was risky for her to be out here, showing her real face, but worth it.

Another eruption of heat hit her as the nymph burned. Imani buried deeper into her cloak, not knowing when precisely the illusion would fall. It would be soon.

The nymph loosed one shrill sound, cutting through the whispers at last. She became entirely engulfed in fire, a raging inferno instead of a body, incinerating into ash while she roared.

A shudder threatened to wreck Imani’s body, waiting.

With a gasp, the nymph’s soul left the corporeal state.

The heat was remarkable, unbearable. What a world of pain it must be.

Finally, the witch was dead.

Imani’s heart picked up speed as the tingling under her skin grew increasingly hotter, reaching a fevered temperature. Was the illusion falling?

Her grandmother’s flesh had seared off her bones, ash flinging in the wind while the pyre’s flames began to dim. They died quickly in the cold winter air, but the coals still radiated heat. Only the ashy figure of a woman with charred bones remained.

Imani couldn’t breathe, tormented by the tingling cutting through her flesh. She fought through it, ignoring it and needing to savor this moment. Air undulated and pulsed around the burnt, grotesque shape that used to be the nymph.

She screamed an agonizing, embarrassing sound she had no control over. Maybe it was from the physical pain, maybe from the fear of Ara leaving them without answers. Maybe both.

Exposed and alone in a city where they were outsiders trying to run a magic business, competition would be swift, with covens moving in to take the Aowyns’ territory. There wouldn’t be time to waste after Ara died to solidify their area if they wanted to keep their livelihoods. Especially with only one witch—her sister—to make the magic now.

It terrified Imani.

The small crowd remaining retreated. Some considered reaching out a hand to help the young elf, but in the end, strangers simply murmured their sympathies at her apparent grief.

A storm of emotions raged inside her, not the least of which included anger and no little amount of fear, but grief ? No, she wasn’t grieving one bit. She was furious . Furious but free.

In an act of raw hunger, rage, and impulsiveness, Imani stumbled forward, gasping and panting as she tilted back her chin, hood dropping to reveal the female Norn elf underneath. She reached out and let the spirit—no more than a wisp of smoke —wrap itself up her arm. Then she unapologetically inhaled all the air containing Ara’s soul.

Blissful calm settled inside her as she devoured her grandmother’s essence. Unlike the sliver she regularly took from Meira every week, this was all-consuming. It even calmed the tingling still nipping at her skin.

A smile spread across Imani’s face. Prickling aside, she was invigorated and ready to claim her second helping of sweet revenge.

The merchant Malis’s house sat on an idyllic spot along the river, and the tree-lined path greeted her with a sort of cheerfulness. Yet the peaceful scenery at twilight made her shadow menacing.

The sun dropped further, and the shade of her body danced at the edge of her figure. Odd behavior for a shadow, but Imani brushed it off as the weather. Winter rarely came this south to the village of Kishion in the Riverlands territory.

Ravens perched on the shingles, drains, and eaves. Every room in the manor remained dark except one on the first level. Imani smirked and repeated the plan to herself as she peered through the glass, looking for signs of her prey. Holding people responsible for their choices, even grown men, was something she did surprisingly well. Like most men, Malis considered himself invincible compared to women, which was probably correct in almost all other instances—females could never hit someone as hard as a male. But, like all elves, Imani still had her soul draw.

A door slammed upstairs. Imani snapped her neck to the side as the birds lifted into the air like leaves stirred by a gust. It gave her a distinct feeling of dread, of being watched.

The strange tingling slowly picked back up again. Shivering, she tried to fortify herself.

Malis had sent the servants away like clockwork. Imani assured herself it must have been the wind. Maybe she’d brought the dread from the execution and the brutal, bloody words she and Ara had exchanged. Maybe the ravens had brought some of it, too, on their feathered, twilight wings.

Imani understood one thing in the swirl of the creatures—more death awaited her.

She scurried behind the shrubs, reminding herself to keep low beneath the windows. Pleasure flooded her when she lifted her head to see him pacing in front of the glow of a hearth alone.

The tingle grew into a deep slit, cutting into her skin, burning from the inside worse than before. Imani had a fierce urge to rip her heating skin from her flesh. The illusion falling had never felt like this before, but Ara had never died before, either.

Malis stood by the windows, unmoving, as the wind picked up. It whistled through the cracks of the house.

Imani took in a ragged breath to control her body. She thought this day would have been euphoric, but seconds ticked on, turning more tiny jolts into pricks of pain streaking through her arms and hands. She leaned against the side of the house to keep her balance through a wave of dizziness. Her chance at retribution was slipping away.

Imani tugged her hair as another wave of prickling needles hit her, along with the sharp sting of weakness and worthlessness. Skin and blood caught in her nails. She ripped her hands away from her head in horror.

Veins and tendons blackened her pale skin.

Something was really, really wrong.

With a resigned deep breath and all the strength she could muster, Imani fled to the nearby riverbank. Nearly tripping over her feet, she half-walked, half-staggered along the dirt path. The river’s current grew to a loud, dull roar. The trembling intensified, forcing her to her knees. Ignoring the overwhelming pain took all her strength. Seconds passed like hours before her belly clenched, making her slant her head.

Imani gagged violently as the contents of her stomach came up. Consuming her grandmother’s soul following the execution might have been a mistake. The sickness was relentless, and she retched a second and third time until, finally, she expelled red bile and heaved a large object from her throat, nearly choking.

A powerful cough forced a small, black-scaled creature out. Rattling, the snake slipped from her lips and smacked onto the ground. It slithered in the grass momentarily. Then the animal and bile turned to ash. A light breeze picked up the remnants.

Imani wiped her mouth and watched with fascination as the ashes drifted away. She understood what the snake meant, and it made her happier than she’d ever been since coming to the Riverlands twelve years ago. Whatever flesh magic that existed inside Imani had been powerful, but the creature had turned to ash and disappeared forever. Which meant the caster—her grandmother—was dead.

She carefully dragged herself to the water’s edge and peered over. With all the magic stripped, her true self stared back. Her hands were dirty from picking weeds earlier, and her long hair was tangled in a braid. Imani wanted to try harder with her appearance—she loved pretty things—but couldn’t muster the energy these days. Sometimes, she even forgot what she looked like without the glamoured illusion. Did she have the same luminous blue eyes and silver hair as her mother? Did she have her father’s sharp chin or bright freckles? Her adoptive father used to say they were like little diamonds sparkling in the sun.

Ara always said it was a pointless fantasy. Her father wasn’t even her real father, and her parents had been dead for a long time. But Meira would say there was nothing wrong with having dreams, and Imani’s shriveled heart still held some tiny hope that someday they’d be happy living in the Draswood again. Imani had plans for their magic business. Plans that might get them back into the forest soon.

Darting her eyes around, Imani panicked, but the area remained deserted. Her cloak ruffled in the wind.

“For fuck’s sake,” she muttered to herself, wrenching the hood over her ears, tugging it as far forward as possible to shroud the arched tips. Despite the freedom, being seen in her ethereal elven form among the naiad nymphs was unwise. In the Riverlands, Imani was more of a prisoner than powerful. Sightings of Norn elves were so rare she hadn’t seen one besides her siblings since the day they had left the Draswood.

Anger ripped through her at the thought, twisting her face into something feral. Was it possible to lock someone’s magic away for nearly a decade? Imani thought it probably was, but it would be a spell only the most advanced, powerful witches could pull off. Possibly even flesh magic, the worst, most atrophic, destructive kind of magic, requiring parts of the physical body as the medium to cast. Sometimes, even an entire body. Any witch could use flesh magic to enhance any spell, making it more powerful, but such barbaric, sacrificial magic was considered dark and illegal here in Essenheim.

Indeed, this betrayal went beyond simple hatred. How could her own grandmother commit such an act?

The truth was staring Imani in the face. Ara wanted another way to control her. As usual, only a fool would underestimate the woman. She had been that fool one too many times.

Walking on unsteady legs, Imani sought out the nearest tree. She felt the magic but needed to see the proof.

She tore her sleeves back on both arms. Her skin bore nine burning brands; they glimmered in the moonlight—it was a beautiful sight. One Imani wouldn’t let anyone take away from her again.

Tears stung her eyes. Six, sparkling blue magical brands—alteration, alchemy, binding, enchantment, illusion, and wandlore—wrapped up her right forearm. While she only possessed the most basic power level of these abilities, the brands would allow her to use a medium, like a wand, to pull from the raw magic of the Fabric and cast specific spells related to each. Unlike destructive, atrophic magic, people with blue brands could cast nascent magic—creation magic.

Imani lifted her head as the ribbons of light danced in the sky. When the sun eventually dropped entirely, the night would light up with streaks of wild, raw magic shimmering across the stars, a source of power inaccessible to most.

In total, she had seven magical brands, denoting seven distinct magic abilities. While there were rumored to be twelve-marks out there, most witches had no more than three or four. A slight smirk tugged at her lips. Meira only possessed five brands, making Imani the more powerful sister.

While she reveled in the blue brands, the seventh, red one twisted her stomach into a horrifying knot. Only blue brands existed in Essenheim; a red brand probably meant the person could cast atrophic magic of some kind. Her kingdom didn’t harbor savages or tolerate the ruinous magic they practiced in the south.

Worse, sitting on her left arm were two red stag sigils to replace the Norn’s intricate leaf Imani had had before. Her mind reeled, realizing the blue leaf had been a glamoured fake. Indeed, someone had hidden her actual sigil, which had marked her dominant breed since birth. She was only half-Norn, and without a blue brand, she wasn’t from Essenheim, either.

Was she from the sunless Niflheim Kingdom? How would her mother have met and mated with one of them ? Anything to do with the southern kingdom was illegal. Imani had never even seen a Niflheim brand before—not in a book, not on a person, a painting, or in paper circulations.

The second sigil also meant she had a heartmate who was the same mysterious breed. Imani had racked her brain since Ara had mentioned him but possessed no memory of meeting a male elf before, let alone touching him, which was required for the heartmate sigil to sear into your skin. Slumping in defeat, she honestly couldn’t remember this elf.

Despite the gravity of her situation, the fact that the first Niflheim brands she laid eyes on might be her own almost made her crack a smile. Realizing they had appeared immediately after the Crown had executed her grandmother for illegal magic practically sent her over the edge with hysterical laughter. Exhaustion, shock, and happiness made her lightheaded and giddy.

At least it was encased in a familiar triangle, like all high-bred elves, no matter their sigil. She didn’t know what kind of elf, but she would find out.

Ara’s words rang in Imani’s head, sobering her.

“ Before we reach heaven, the saints will eat us. Which means I’ll be with your father shortly. ”

“ We’ll be better off without you. ”

“ You’d be nothing without me. ”

While her magic was new and unpracticed, it didn’t change anything. It couldn’t change anything. Her heartmate’s identity didn’t matter right now. All that mattered was Malis had gone after the wrong family—the Aowyns—and he would soon pay for his mistake.

Imani swept her cloak tightly around her and headed back toward Malis’s home.