20. Chapter 20
20
Chapter 20
Bronwen
“Where were you yesterday?” Mama chopped carrots, her knife moving methodically as she tossed them into the pot already boiling over the fire. The soft crackle of the fire and the rich aroma of simmering broth filled the small kitchen, mingling with the faint chill of the morning air. “With Lowen?”
Her question caught me off guard. It wasn’t the first time I’d stayed gone all day. Though I rose early and never told her what I was doing, she had never questioned me before. The sound of the knife rhythmically hitting the cutting board filled the silence as I scrambled for an answer.
She pointed at the onion on the counter, motioning for me to bring it to her, though she never looked up.
“Yes,” I lied, my voice steady despite the tightness in my chest.
“No, you weren’t. Lowen came by yesterday looking for you. ”
The weight of her words pressed down on me. I kept silent, my fingers brushing against the wooden counter as I tried to appear unbothered.
“August, then?”
My stomach twisted into knots.
“I like August. He’s very handsome and seems smitten with you, though I don’t know much else about him or his family.”
If only she knew.
“But you shouldn’t lead Lowen on,” she added, her tone light but firm, the way she always delivered her wisdom without judgment.
“I am not leading him on,” I replied, frustration creeping into my voice. “I have told him my intentions. He has told me his. Many times. And I have denied him. Many times. But he will not leave me alone.”
Mama’s knife paused mid-chop, the soft scrape of the blade against the cutting board suddenly absent. She finally looked up at me, her expression thoughtful and measured. “Sometimes, kindness can feel like encouragement to someone who doesn’t want to listen.”
The words struck deeper than I wanted to admit. I bit my lip, unwilling to concede that she might be right. Lowen’s persistence wasn’t my fault, but a small part of me wondered if I should have been firmer—cruel, even.
Mama shifted her weight, reaching for a sprig of thyme on the counter. She stripped the leaves with deft fingers, the rhythmic motion calming in its simplicity. “People often cling to what they think they deserve, Bronwen,” she said, her voice quiet but purposeful. “You can’t control how they feel. Only how you respond.”
I glanced at her, her face illuminated by the warm light of the fire. She moved with practiced ease, her hands steady despite the slight tremor age had begun to bring. She looked so grounded, so sure of herself, and I envied that.
I wish I could have seen her before I broke her . . . before we broke her.
Her magic began fading while we grew inside her. She told me once that it felt like trying to grasp smoke, the power slipping further away each day. Everyone assured her it was temporary, just her body changing, and that once we were born, her magic would return.
But when my brother and I came into the world and her magic didn’t return, the truth became undeniable: we had taken it.
They didn’t understand exactly what we were until Adar wrapped his little hand around Papa’s finger and pulled magic from him. Luckily at the mere age of a month old, he couldn’t form the thoughts to do anything with the magic. Papa ripped his finger away immediately and because it was such a small amount, it didn’t affect him.
Stories of witches like us—those without a natural connection to magic but with the ability to take it—were thought to be myths until we came along.
She had never blamed us or mistreated us, but I see it in her eyes sometimes. When Papa lights the fire by saying one word or when he gives the wilted leaves of the plants in her garden new life, I see the hurt in her eyes.
The sound of a log shifting in the fire drew my attention. I reached for the kettle, pouring hot water into two mugs, grateful for something to do. Steam curled lazily from the cups as I added dried mint, stirring absently as my thoughts raced. The pale morning light streaming through the window cast soft shadows over the worn wooden table. Beyond it, the world beckoned—chaotic, demanding, and full of the questions I couldn’t yet answer.
“Is there something you’re not telling me, Bronwen?” Mama’s voice cut through my thoughts, gentle but probing.
“No, Mama,” I said quickly, though the tightness in my chest remained. I turned away, feigning interest in the kettle by the fire. The journal hidden in my room felt like a weight pressing against my mind, its secrets threatening to spill over into the quiet of our home.
Her gaze lingered on me for a moment longer, as though she could see straight through my feigned composure. Then, with a small nod, she returned to her chopping. But her silence spoke volumes, and I knew she wasn’t convinced.
As I picked up a rag to wipe the counter, the faint hum of the journal echoed in my memory, a reminder of the path I was walking. One misstep, and everything I loved could crumble around me.
***
As the sun dipped lower, casting the room in hues of gold and amber, I stared at the strange markings and scribbles filling the pages of the journal. The flickering light made the symbols dance, but no matter how long I studied them, their meaning remained just out of reach. My temples throbbed with a growing headache, a dull ache that mirrored my frustration.
I traced one of the symbols with my fingertip, the ink slightly raised as if it had been etched with intention. Who had written this? What kind of mind had created these cryptic words? My fingers itched to pull at the threads of magic humming faintly from the pages, but I knew it wouldn’t help—not without knowing what I was looking for. The journal’s secrets felt locked behind a wall I couldn’t see, let alone break through.
I reached for my mug, now-lukewarm and barely worth sipping, but it gave my hands something to do. The tea’s faint aroma lingered, a mix of dried herbs that couldn’t quite calm the tension winding tighter in my chest.
I leaned forward again, resting my elbows on the table as I pressed my palms against my forehead. I wasn’t getting anywhere—not alone, at least. But the idea of asking August for help sent a fresh wave of frustration rippling through me. My mind replayed his smirks, his cryptic remarks, the way he always seemed to hold his knowledge just out of reach. Trusting him felt like reaching into a fire and expecting not to get burned.
Still, he knew things. More than he let on, certainly more than I did. The truth nagged at me, a sharp and insistent reminder that whatever lay within these pages wasn’t meant to be ignored. I clenched my hands into fists, the cool wood of the table grounding me for a moment.
The journal had to stay with me—there was no way I’d let him keep it. Still, the realization settled over me like a weight: I’d have to spend more time with him to figure out what the journal says.
Gods help us both.
***
The night was heavy with silence, the kind that pressed against your ears and made every sound feel sharper, more intrusive. The moon hung low, its silver light threading through the dense canopy of trees as I slipped into the woods, clutching my cloak tightly around me. The journal felt like a weight in my bag, its presence both urging me forward and filling me with doubt.
The cool air stung my cheeks, and the ground beneath my boots was damp, each step muffled by the soft moss and leaves carpeting the forest floor. Crickets chirped faintly in the distance, their song a lonely reminder of how far I was from home.
The woods had always felt alive to me, but tonight, they seemed to hold their breath, watching, waiting.
Each step carried me deeper into the dark embrace of the forest, and with it, the familiar tapping in my mind grew louder. Not the journal this time, but the memory of his presence and how I had learned that his magic called to me. It was as if the very trees whispered his name, urging me forward despite the weight in my chest.
When the faintest shift of air reached me, I stopped, my heart leaping into my throat. The clearing ahead glowed faintly under the moonlight, the still water of the pond reflecting the stars above. Our spot, though I hated thinking of it as such.
And then, as if summoned by my thoughts, there he was, leaning casually against a tree at the edge of the clearing. The faint glow of his pale skin caught the moonlight, and his dark eyes gleamed as they fixed on me.
“Winnie,” he drawled, his voice a low hum that sent a shiver down my spine. “I was beginning to think you’d never come.”
He took a step into the opening and my eyes followed until they stalled at an unexpected sight. Bound and on their knees next to him were three men, bloodied and bruised. They had put up a fight, but it wasn’t enough to stop him.
“Please, join us, Winnie,” he said, motioning for me to come out of the woods.
“What are you doing?” I asked as I took a step closer. I glanced down to see the small emblem on the men’s cloaks. Legion soldiers.
August had captured three Legion soldiers.