Page 8 of The Path of Blood and Betrayals

Fear clamps a cold fist across my throat, forcing short breaths to escape my lips as rage engulfs my belly.

The Crimson Army—the bane of our world—is here.Now.

Raiders who pillage and destroy villages, who take women and children, gold and valuables then burn everything left. They raze entire towns, and sell survivors off into servitude. And they’re here.

Crouching low, I prepare for his attack, heart hammering in my chest.

Iremember the red leather, the ash covered blue eyes that glared into my face, as he swung his sword. I may not remember my family, my village, but I know, in my deepest parts of my soul, the Crimson Army destroyed my home as a child.

This army tried to kill me once. I cannot let it happen again.

Before I can think long, the raider races at me, grabbing me around the midsection and we tumble.

Breath whooshes from my lungs and black spots dance in my vision at the impact, freezing me. The raider climbs on top of me, pinning my hands.

ThankingCella and Gerfor Nafre’s limited self-defense lessons, I lift my hips as I exhale, hooking my ankles around the solider’s gut and pull. He falls back and I use the freedom to flip us, me now straddling him.

My fingers hover over his chest as I focus on his blood—his heart.

Pausing, I debate what I’m about to do. I know I shouldn’t—it’s a wretched magic, born from evil. It’s what all the elders say, it’s what Nessa used to say.

She taught me to be afraid of it, to hide it. Only bad things can come from using this magic.

But if I don’t use it, if I don’t defend myself, then this raider wins.

The choice is clear. Exhaling, instinct floods me and my fingers bend.

They move into the air, dangling, pulling imaginary strings connecting me to my unsuspecting puppet.

The pounding of his heart knocks against my skull as the image clears in my mind. It’s panicked, blood rushing around the organ, as his body stills, now under my control. Red and violent, adrenaline making it thinner, I command the blood to slow, force it to surround the heart.

The tips of my fingers turn blackish-red, as if dipped into the substance and they hook, twist and flare. It’s unnatural the way they move, crooked and broken but beautiful. I’ve always thought it was beautiful—but so deadly. The raider convulses, the blood responding to my silent commands.

It’s completely instinctual, how my magic moves and responds. Iwas never taught to use this power—only to fear it. My hands move, my magic swirls, demanding the heart to stop—to break.

It seeks his death for retribution for daring to hurt me and I let it.

The blood pools into his lungs as he gags, the pressure on his chest too great. I smile despite the terror.

There’s a wickedness in my magic I don’t usually enjoy. But right now, seeing my enemy fall from such a terrible gift, I do.

Fingers flex as he chokes, blood caving into his chest and his lungs stop as his heart gives one final thump.

A death rattle leaves his lips as I release his blood, body trembling from adrenaline and rage. His hands drop to my thighs and my skin prickles at the closeness as I shove off of him, knees rocking together.

Inhaling, I ignore the guilt trying to consume me. It was either kill him, or let him kill me. I won’t feel guilty over that.

A few tears fall down my soot covered cheek as I look to the Coven, surveying the damage. Men run by and the children clutch to their mothers’ legs as everyone flees. My stomach rolls with nausea as the stench of blood takes over the burnt cedar smell.

Gods, it’s too much like my nightmare.

A child screaming to my right breaks my stupor and I turn. Crimson soldiers are cutting down those who would defend against them and standing here, in the middle of a battle, won’t help.

I have to do something.

Shedding my cloak, I grab the sword the soldier dropped and heave it into the air, running to intercept.

The Blackwoods Coven doesn’t have an army - we’re too small, ill-trained to have a force. The guard not he ground is just another Witch who tends to the herbs. He lifts his dagger, a small scrap of metal against the raider’s broadsword and closes hiseyes, praying for an end.