Page 3 of The Witch’s Fate (The Lunaterra Chronicles #13)

RYKER

F ucking hell. I have to tug harder to get my jeans unstuck from a thorny vine that snuck up on me. All of this for a flower? I grit my teeth and push through, shaking off the inconvenience and grateful I’m nearly done with the task.

I’m pleased to do a favor for a friend. That much, at least, is true.

But the pleasure I feel in doing this errand for my friend is not without its vice.

Namely, that I was not honest when I accepted the work.

There was much I didn’t say. For example, I did not say I would rather do anything but attend this wedding.

I would much rather waste my training on gathering florals for the upcoming event.

Gritting my teeth I scan the forest for more of the blooms.

That is exactly what I agreed to do, pick a rare flower in an uninhabited region—apart from a supposedly powerful witch who hates all others.

I’m here at the edge of a quiet woods near sunrise because the wedding of Prince Adom and Princess Charlotte could not go on without the florals—this specific bloom that the princess required .

I have sought the florals throughout the woods. Even at this hour, the moon is bright enough that I can continue until I’ve gathered everything that is necessary and then some.

There, at the edge of the path, is another one of the florals I’m meant to collect.

Its large, delicate, scarlet petals are beautiful…

but so is any other flower. I trudge along, ignoring the stinging of the cuts on my arms as they heal in no time.

A perk of my wolfen blood. The rate of healing is also why I’m a fighter, and a damn good one. A fighter picking flowers …

A crack behind me stops me in my tracks.

A branch snapping under the weight of some creature.

Pausing, I hold my breath and listen. The forest is alive with sounds, but none of them indicate anything other than woodland creatures in the underbrush and leaves blowing in the branches.

Woods in the very last hours of night, when most of the creatures sleep or are bedding down.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

When I’m sure once again that no one is near, I bend and cut the floral, then place it into my pack with the rest.

Flower-picking. That is what my life has come to. I would wager all the money I’ve ever earned that the worst danger in this stretch of forest is me. There is nothing in particular for me to fear. I would have caught the scent in the wind long ago.

Still, I don’t let my guard down.

Even if I’m only gathering florals.

As I search for more, the wedding itself looms far larger in my mind than any of the dangers to be found near this place.

I dread the upcoming event. As a wolf shifter who will never have a fated mate, I’m more than disinterested in the gathering.

Long ago I was cursed. No wolf will ever be mated with me.

Without a wolf to be my fated mate, there is no companionship in my future.

I’ve lived a lonely life in that respect, but the curse was not without a benefit.

Without love, I’ve become one of the most highly trained and deadly forces defending the Crown.

Perhaps it was the curse that instilled this hatred of weddings in me. Perhaps—along with that decree for the rest of my life—they planted a seed of disgust that grew until it was full-blown derision.

I despise the very thought of love. And what is a wedding but the very pinnacle of love?

The love between the married couple, yes, and of all the guests who have come to witness their union, and of the land they will rule.

It will be a day overflowing with love. Flooded with love.

The scent of it will be so thick in the air that it could suffocate a man like me.

A shifter like me.

The wolf that dwells in me does not disappear when I am in the form of a man.

My heightened senses are with me always.

I will never see in the dark the way a human does or scent the air the way a human does.

I will always see the subtle nuances in the shadows and smell everything around me in the detail necessary for a lethal hunter.

An aggravated sigh leaves me. Even I’ve grown tired of my reluctance to do my part and accept that this is a wedding I must attend. Once I’ve completed the task I was asked to do.

Scenting the forest around me, I search for more of the fragrant blooms. Damp earth and budding leaves and half-dried bark surround me.

With the moon high and the day of mundane activity wearing on me, I prepare to rest, although I do not wish to.

So searching for more is what I do, even with my eyes heavy.

I’m used to sleeping in my traveling pack and can do without a tent on warm nights, but I tossed and turned for hours last night, my eyes hardly closing, and now I’m racing toward the end of this task.

By the time the sun is high in the sky, I’ll be gone.

Back through the portal and to the palace to complete my service.

I’ve already collected hundreds of stems for the wedding over the past few days, but I will not take the chance of sending too few.

Forty more, perhaps, or fifty. The sack itself is of a special kind, lined with the ability to keep the flowers, or fruits, or what have you, fresh and protected.

Supposedly the witch in this very land cast a spell on it a decade ago.

As I gaze through the forest, vaguely interested in her whereabouts, my heart races.

The whispers of her are more and more like fairy tales.

I’m not sure what to believe. All I know is that I am to collect the flowers and leave her be if I were to stumble upon her.

What a life to live. Alone in a land all to oneself. Perhaps she is cursed as well.

I move along the path in the growing dawn, every muscle in my body on the edge of readiness. I’ve spent a lifetime honing my natural skills in fighting, and now they are part of me. I keep my limbs loose, yet prepared to respond on a moment’s notice.

Although I am so obviously alone and the very idea of this task being given to me is comical.

If I thought at all about the florals I’m collecting, each one would remind me that I will never have such a ceremony. I will never have a mate, and I will never have that connection which is stronger and more elemental than love.

I don’t think of such things at all as I use my athame to cut this stem, then that one, just below the first leaf.

I don’t leave a path of destruction behind me.

Each flower will have ample time to grow back and bloom again.

That, too, is important to this ritual. The florals cannot have been gathered carelessly, with their roots pulled from the dirt.

Their flowerings must be the only part taken so that life still dwells in them.

The princess was as specific as she was excited.

It is gentler work than I am used to, of course, but I do it with a soldier’s precision.

The florals are fragile, in their way. It does not take much force to slice the blade of the athame through the thin stalks.

The athame has a handsome silver hilt, warm from being held in my hand for so many hours.

It was carved and blessed to be true in its aim and strike as it must. It does not take a strike to gather a floral.

Only a soft press, and the first leaves and the flowering come away without a fight.

The poison I have carried with me every day since the curse flourishes the longer I stay in this forest. It burns hotter when there are no other voices to distract me and when every plant I touch reminds me of the wedding.

A growl escapes my throat as I bend to collect the next floral, but I shake off the feeling of resentment and continue, listening for anything that may be approaching.

This territory, called Athica, is a long one, stretching from east to west and touching the ocean. There is only one being who is known to dwell here—the one solitary witch.

In Abrakearth to the south, however, there are shadow walkers.

To the north, there are shadow fae. There is very little to prevent either of those from crossing this territory.

Except for the threat of the witch of course.

But how powerful could she really be against so many others?

I’ve found no sign that either shadow fae or shadow walkers have ventured here, at least in recent days.

I stay alert nonetheless, growing more and more curious about the witch.

In the back of my mind, I wonder if she knows I’m here.

I follow the path to the edge of the forest and finally emerge into a large clearing.

It stretches away from the trees far enough that it could be a field or a valley.

I tip my face toward the sky and drink in the sight of the stars.

The dark night is littered with beauty. I don’t mind being in the woods, but I can breathe easier under the open sky.

Keeping close to the trees, I move around the outside of the field, following the shallow dips in the land until I find a space that is not so visible.

It is only a few steps down, but that will do for opening the portal.

I do not need secrecy, but the shape of the land will focus the energy into its curve, gathering it closer and making it easier to send the florals through.

I pause on the low rise and look across the field. Its colors are pale in the moonlight, but as the dawn comes closer, the colors deepen.

A new day is beginning. A huff leaves me. Perhaps that is why the heaviness under my eyes begs me to sleep.

I feel a strange ache in my chest. This land is beautiful.

I’ve spent these last days in peace as I gathered the flowers, and despite my feelings about the wedding, I’m grateful that the mission was easy.

A soldier cannot hope for better. I did not risk life or limb, was not injured, and gathered all that the royal house asked of me and more.