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Chapter One
The song of death sang in her ears. She hacked and sliced as the coppery tang of blood sprayed through the air, the white-hot power flowing through her veins like molten gold. The screams and sobs faded away until Rua only heard the call of the Immortal Blade, begging to spill more blood. Fear and delight warred together. Joy and sorrow clashed in her mind. She could not hold it all.
Powerful arms encircled her, hauling her back against a hard chest. Hot breath pressed against her ear as a voice whispered, âGods. Ruadora, stop.â
The Witchslayer.
Of all the pleas, his was the one she should have ignored. But his deep timbre spoke down to her very gut and her grip on the blade loosened.
Warped air clearing, she peered over the throng of dead and dying. The wrath of Baba Morganna still moved the earth, the walls crumbling down from every side. Arms tightened around her, heavy breath in her hair, but it felt so distant as she scanned the carnage. Amongst the gore, her gaze snagged on him again, the reason she grabbed the ancient sword now in her handsâRaffiel. Her brotherâs eyes stared lifelessly toward the sky as the ground shook.
Their interactions over the years had always been awkward and stilted, but the opportunity for a stronger relationship was cruelly snuffed out. It was her fault. All of it. She should have seized the weapon sooner. She could have saved him and given herself the chance to be a better sibling . . . but she hesitated. The red witches would be so disappointed.
She was not a warrior witchâshe was a fae Princess frightened of what she could become with the death blade in her grasp. Looking down to the sanguine rubies embedded in the hilt of her sword, the power in them tingled like static in the air. The fear that she had made the wrong decision doused ice on her flames.
Gasping, she yanked herself free from the Witchslayerâs arms. Cold bled into her at the absence of his hold. The son of the Northern King stood stock still behind her, surveying the slaughter. He had called her Ruadora even though she was glamoured . . . How had he known she was the High Mountain Princess?
The magic of her glamour itched, begging her to return to her fae form, as the echoes of the battle thrummed through her. Only a few quaking Northerners remained alive. The true horror was not the sea of blood, but the utter anguish on the survivorsâ faces. How many of those bodies were the victims of her blade? Acid burned up her throat. This was not the warrior the red witches trained her to be. She hadnât looked her enemies in the eye as she hacked them apart.
Baba Morganna halted her vengeful maelstrom of debris as she stared across the dais. The deafening rumble of rock gave way to the keening wails of those who survived. Following her line of sight, Rua spotted her sister lying limp and bloody on the white marble floor. Agonized, panicked faces gathered around her, but their eyes all clung to one person. The witchâs long copper hair was tied back in a braid, a serene calm over her face as she smiled down at Remy and lifted her dagger.
Rua squeezed her eyes shut. She knew what was going to happen. The midon brik was the most powerful gift a witch could give, swapping her fate for another. Stomach churning, Ruaâs hands shook as she stared at the circle, but Remyâs face was obscured. So many people gathered around her sisterâpeople willing to exchange their life for hers. And then there was Rua, a lone beast with a sword. The battle had ended, and yet, her heartbeat ratcheted up into her throat until damning tears welled. She couldnât let them see it. Whirling, she snatched the Immortal Bladeâs scabbard off the table behind her. The High Mountain crowns fell to the ground in her haste, but it went unnoticed, everyone watching the midon brik.
Only one set of emerald green eyes tracked her as Rua fled. She hung her head as she ran, not wanting to face Baba Morganna as she surged past the High Priestess. They had trained Rua as a warrior, to stand and fight, to show no weakness, and she had always failed them. Her heart was too soft to be a red witch and too rigid to be a royal fae. Running faster, she shoved bodies and rubble aside to escape the room. She could not let them witness the tears that would betray her or watch as she retched the bile from her stomach.
She knew it made her the darkest sort of soul that she didnât turn back to see if her sister lived or died.
* * *
The smell of blood clung to the Immortal Blade, though its steel had never touched its victimsâ skin. Over the sound of her steady footsteps, Rua still heard their screams, pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears as the roar of magic had pulsed through her muscles. The whoosh of the blade striking its next casualty echoed in her mind. One day had passed, and the battle continued to rage inside her.
Her sisterâs guard, Bri, led Rua through open hallways filled with snow. The castle was in ruins, few rooms remaining intact. She had watched Remyâs caravan trail off into the distance, frozen as she wondered if she had made the wrong choice to stay behind. Before she could yield to the mounting dread, she was called away to a council meeting.
Skirting another pile of rubble, she rubbed her hand anxiously down her thigh. Baba Morgannaâs destruction marked every corner of the Northern palace. The Immortal Blade tugged on her flimsy belt, a reminder of the power she now possessed. Horror bled through her pride. She had already spilled so much blood.
Gods. Ruadora, stop.
Eyes flitting to the ground, scattered shards of glass crunched beneath her boots. Morganna practiced wrath and restraint in equal measure. She knew when to stop. Failing to master that control was what Rua feared most. Were it not for the warm whispers of an evil man, how many more heads would have rolled?
They arrived in a makeshift council chamber. Bri opened the door for Rua, allowing her to enter like a Queen, head held high. The room was little more than a closet, haphazardly arranged. By the far wall, Renwick and another elderly fae sat, another three gathering around them, as they surveyed papers and scrolls strewn across the table. They were all fae males with pale Northern complexions and aging silver hair. Watching her with cold gazes, they appraised her appearanceâher dark, wavy hair, her freckled brown skin. Their eyes lingered on her attire. Bri had given her a jacket, but she looked like a child, swimming in clothes too big for her.
âYou arenât wearing the Northern crown?â Rua asked, cringing at how her mouth garbled the Ific words. Of the three languages of Okrith, Ific was the one she spoke the least, even though it was the common tongue.
Renwick wore a silver circlet, a serpent coiling around the band. He sat resplendent in a velvet green jacket with golden detailing, making his eyes shine like emeralds from his pale face. Beneath the thin window, a perfect halo of light encircled him, highlighting his ash-blond hair.
The councilors stiffened, one scowling at her outright as she stared at his circlet.
Hand drifting to her hip, her fingers traced the golden letters carved around the scabbard: Each strike a blessing or a curse. It was written in Mhenbic, the witchesâ ancient languageâa language Rua knew better than her own native tongue, Yexshiri. Growing up with the red witch coven gave her their sharp accent. What would her parents, the late King and Queen of the High Mountain Court, think of their youngest child: a fae Princess who spoke like a witch?
âPrincess Ruadora. Welcome,â Renwick replied curtly, pulling her from her swirling thoughts. âI am having a new crown made.â
âA new crown for a new King,â the eldest councilor said with an approving nod.
It felt wrong to hear of another King Vostemur so soon. Even as the blood was being washed off the floors, Renwick had pushed for a coronation. It made his intentions all the more suspicious.
âPrincess, these are my councilors.â Renwick gestured around the room to introduce each of the four elderly fae. âRomberg, Berecraft, Fowler, and Barnes.â
Rua noted that Fowler, the tallest and widest, did not acknowledge her other than sneering in disgust. Of course he would sneerâshe was a High Mountain Princess bringing the Immortal Blade into their meeting.
âThere were twelve, but . . .â Renwickâs eyes darted to the ruby hilt of her sword.
But Rua had killed them.
Bolts of golden lightning still coursed through her, beckoning her back to the blade. It was a force like no otherânot the burning muscles of fae power or the buzzing dizziness of witch magic. Underneath that deceptive feeling of euphoria lurked something primordial, a promise of unfettered power. She was finally someone worthy of being feared.
âThey were loyal to your father, Your Majesty,â the seated councilor, Berecraft, uttered in a scratchy voice. Given his proximity and the way he spoke, Rua wondered if Berecraft was the Head Councilor.
âIndeed.â Renwick frowned. He turned his sharp gaze to Rua and said, âWe were just discussing plans to travel north.â
Rua studied the map on the table, held open with rocks in each corner. It showed the entire continent of Okrith. The Northern, Western, Southern, and Eastern Courts circled a crown of tall mountains, the High Mountain Court, her homeland. Unceremoniously crossed out with an inky black X was the capital city of Yexshire. Rua hadnât stepped foot into Yexshire since she was five years old. She had grown up hidden in the forests northeast of the capital along with the red witches who escaped the former Northern Kingâs grasp. They would need to draw a new map. Yexshire would rise againâHer sister would make sure of it.
âWith all due respect, Your Majesty, your uncle is still out there. Do you think travel northward is wise?â the smallest man, Barnes, said.
âYour uncle?â Rua asked.
Renwick clenched his jaw for a moment before he spoke. âMy uncle is the real threat in the North. Killing my father has only created more enemies for your Court, Princess.â
Bristling, an icy wind blew through the window, rustling the papers across the table.
âThis is the infamous Balorn Vostemur you speak of?â Rua asked. âHe was not here when your father fell?â
Renwickâs eyebrows lifted. âYouâve heard of him?â
Despite her isolated upbringing, Rua had read stories of Balorn in the books gifted to her from the red witches. Rumors swirled through the witch camps that Balorn had gone mad when his father died and that his elder brother had indulged his bloodlust too much. Even as the whispers of him went quiet over the years, the elderly red witches remembered. They said the Siege of Yexshire was Balornâs idea, as was the torturing of blue witches for their prophecies. Rua had hoped Balorn was among the piles of bodies slain by the Immortal Blade.
âHe was not here,â Barnes stated, his hands trembling before he clutched them together. âBalorn keeps to the northern parts of the kingdom, by the late Kingâs request.â
âHe wasnât much fun at a party, you see,â Renwick said with a bitter smirk. He looked back to his councilors. âWe need to ride north and find the Witchesâ Glass. It is too much power to be left in Balornâs control. We need to stop whatever he is planning before it goes any further.â
âWhat is he planning?â Rua interjected.
âHe has named himself the King of the Northern Court,â the gruff one, Fowler, said. âHe believes His Majesty is not fit to take the throne because he is a traitor.â
Renwick didnât show a single emotion at that statement. A known gambler, Rua was sure he was hiding his tell, but staying frozen told her enough.
âWe need to reclaim the blue witch fortress. The Witchesâ Glass will be there,â Renwick said with finality.
âWhat is this Witchesâ Glass?â Rua went rigid as they all turned their pale eyes onto her again.
âSo, sheâs heard of Balorn but not the Witchesâ Glass,â Fowler huffed in a mocking tone.
Rua gritted her teeth. âI know nothing of the blue witches. They keep their secrets well.â
âThe Witchesâ Glass is the sacred stone of the blue witches, much like the rubies in your sword or the amulet your sister wears. It has the power to amplify blue witch magic and enact their ancient curses,â Renwick murmured, his gaze locked on the map as his thumb thoughtfully stroked his bottom lip. âIf Balorn is in possession of the talisman . . .â He released a slow breath. âWe must reclaim it or all of Okrith will suffer.â
She had not agreed to find the witchesâ relic. Rua had planned to wave her sword and scare off the remaining fae loyalists, but she didnât want to be around witches again.
Releasing a slow breath, she rolled her shoulders and scowled at Renwick. âIs that all?â
His lips pulled thin as he glanced at her up and down before saying, âNo, while we a...
