Which Witch
Cheers rose around her, but Hazel wanted to slink into the shadows. To be forgotten about. Or at the very least, to wake up from this nightmare.
And didn’t they suspect her of being a witch as well? What did this mean for her? She had a bad feeling she’d find out all too soon.
The commotion died down as the crowd and competitors settled back in. She heard Magnus’s booming voice droning on and on about something, but she couldn’t hear him. Everything sounded too far away. Her head swam. She needed grounding, so she looked for Slaide.
But Slaide was no longer beside the King. He was nowhere to be seen.
For reasons she didn’t want to acknowledge, Slaide’s absence was what made the bottom drop out. She couldn’t do this. She had to get out…
Retreating backwards, she stepped on the foot of a brutish man, who growled and shoved her. Before she could catch herself, Hazel slammed into the back of another man, who turned to glower at her.
Murmurs rose in the crowd, men started to shift angrily, and the tension around them grew.
Hazel never thought she’d be grateful for the man’s voice, but it was Magnus’s next announcement that saved her.
And doomed her in one fell swoop.
“I’m sure each of you are chomping at the bit to slaughter one of these demon spawns yourselves. But there’s no need for this preemptive violence—I’ve brought a witch for each of you. I will, however, accept volunteers. Who would like to draw first blood?”
A few of the men before her stepped aside, clearly not wanting to draw attention to themselves. Someone toward the back hollered that he would do it. But Magnus ignored him.
Instead, his eyes trained on Hazel, who found herself wholly exposed after the two men in front of her stepped out of the way. He smiled.
“Well, would you look at that? Nothing like a knife into the back of your own people! Ladies and gentlemen, it seems in a stranger turn of events than even I could have orchestrated, the competition’s only witch has volunteered to kill one of her own. Dedication indeed.”
Raven Blade Knights approached her from either side. She should have fought. Should have done literally anything. But she froze, too shocked by this sickening scene.
The sky revolted as clouds moved in to shroud the courtyard in darkness.
The men coaxed her forward, hovering but not touching her as though afraid she might harm them. Reluctantly, she went along.
“I’ll even give you the first pick. What do you say?” Magnus teased as though he were offering his weight in gold and not a choice in which woman she murdered.
In the distance, thunder rumbled.
They walked her before the line of women, and none of them met her eyes.
Not until she reached the end of the line, where an old woman stared straight into Hazel’s soul.
Her skin was tanned and time-worn, her hair a tightly curled smattering of salt and pepper hues.
She smiled softly at Hazel, thin lips pulling tight, wrinkles forming in the corners of her eyes.
The woman reminded her of Agnes, and it hurt.
She couldn’t do this. She didn’t recognize a single face, but that didn’t make it any easier.
When the woman made the faintest nod, Hazel wasn’t sure if it was real, or if she was seeing things.
But then she tipped her chin high, exposing her throat.
Lightning split the sky, and the immediate crack of thunder announced the storm’s arrival.
Grown men scattered at the unexpected change in weather, and horses reared against their ties. Magnus had the audacity to look annoyed.
“Get it over with already!” he yelled. “We don’t have all night!”
One of the knights beside Hazel offered her a piss poor excuse for a dagger. She’d seen sharper butter knives.
She reached down into her boot and to the shock of those around her, withdrew a dagger of her own—Slaide’s dagger.
“Oh for the love of the gods! Enough playing around!” Clearly she was getting under Magnus’s skin. And for a moment she thought she might be enjoying it.
But the task at hand remained. She looked to the heavens as though someone would answer her, and was instead smacked between the eyes with a large raindrop.
Hazel stepped up to the woman, trembling, dagger held loosely in her hand. She knew the woman hadn’t chosen this fate, but clearly she’d accepted it.
Hazel would do no such thing.
She dropped the dagger to the dirt.
And all Hel broke loose.
Out of nowhere, seven masked horsemen infiltrated the courtyard, rushing into the crowd from different angles. The slaughter began almost simultaneously.
There he was—the familiar figure like a vision from her past—leading the charge, the Wolf Mask.
He cleaved a knight in two just as another tried to cut him down.
In an inexplicable burst of speed, Wolf Mask ducked, spearing the man in the gut with a hidden dagger.
His assailant doubled over as the dagger slipped between the links of chain mail, and Wolf Mask brought his broadsword down into the man’s neck.
Hazel cowered in fear as she took in the horrors around her, but then she witnessed something that changed her perspective.
Wolf Mask’s six accomplices dashed down the line and scooped up each witch in turn, using whatever means necessary to break their chains and cutting down all who stood in their way.
The women were tossed into the saddle, handed the reins, and given a command in a language Hazel didn’t recognize.
But the horses did, and they bolted for the courtyard walls.
It wasn’t an ambush. It was a rescue.
With only six horses and ten women needing rescue, several of them were doubled up, but not a single steed balked at the additional weight.
Their riders continued the assault, but as Hazel watched, she determined they only went after the knights and any others who attacked them first.
People do know, Hazel. Trust me when I say they make very calculated moves behind the scenes and are near impossible to track…
The rebels. She knew in her gut this was the rebel group Slaide hinted at.
And yet, even with that knowledge, Hazel stared down death itself when she spied Wolf Mask charging straight for her.
So, she ran.
Hazel knew she wouldn’t outrun a horse. She also knew she wouldn’t outrun a man with superhuman speed. But she wasn’t going to sit there and be taken captive by someone else with unknown intentions. Even if they were saving the witches. Who was to say they weren’t transporting them to a worse fate?
Where the Hel is Slaide? He had a habit of swooping in when she needed him to, but the past two incidents he’d abandoned her.
Maybe Magnus was right. She scowled at the thought.
But he’d claimed Slaide was a self-serving bastard.
And now that she wasn’t playing the games his way anymore, he didn’t care what became of her.
It was in that moment, mid-thought, that Hazel’s foot struck a rock and she went sprawling to the ground.
The last thing she saw before her world went white was the boulder awaiting her face.
A brazier crackled in the corner. Hazel looked down at her hands. Something touched her shoulder, clasping it, turning her around…
It was the winged man. He stepped closer, their bodies almost touching. She balked, twisting away, stumbling over one of the infirmary cots. She slipped on the blood-slicked stone and crashed to the floor.
He stood over her, his menacing form blocking out light, his breaths seeming to suck the air out of her lungs. He reached out for her, his hand drawing closer… closer. Hazel held her arm out in an attempt to block herself from harm, tucking into herself on the floor.
A cold hand grasped hers, and she shuddered. When nothing else happened, she chanced a glance up at him. He tugged on her hand gently, as if to say “get up.” It was clear her options were very limited, so she leaned into his grip and allowed him to help her stand. He let go of her then.
“We need to go. They’re coming.”
She recognized that voice. “Who? Who is coming?” she asked frantically.
“No time. We have to move.” He stepped toward her then, grabbing her upper arm and tugging her into motion. She looked at him as they ran, and as the glow of the firelight danced across his features, she realized who she thought she’d been running from all this time.
Slaide.
Hazel awoke with a start, panting, heart pounding in her chest. She threw the covers off and raced over to her wardrobe, flipping through the contents within. “Phaedra!” she yelled. What happened? How did I get here?
In an instant, the angel was at her side, causing Hazel to jump. “Thank goodness you’re here.”
“Can I be of assistance, Mistress Hazel?” Phaedra bowed.
“I-I think you can. But Phaedra, what day is it? How long was I out?” Hazel stammered.
“Not long, Mistress,” Phaedra replied, taking a seat in the writing chair. “The… incident… was just last night. You’ve slept most of the day, but it’s not even been a full day since you hit your head.”
Hazel reached up, feeling the bandage above her eyebrow for the first time. She winced.
“Phaedra, is the tournament over now?” Hazel asked. She had to assume after the events she’d witnessed, the King and his men would be more worried about damage control than crowning a new champion.
“I believe so, Mistress. Though, the ball is still this evening.” The moment the words left her mouth, the angel pursed her lips.
“You’re kidding me,” Hazel said, kicking the covers off her legs. “That’s tonight?”
Phaedra jumped to her feet, rushing to Hazel’s side just as she tried to leave the bed.
“Mistress, please. Your head. You’re in no condition to attend a ball. Please sit back down.”
“I feel fine, really. There’s no need to make so much fuss over a little cut. Besides, I have to talk to Slaide. Assuming he wants anything to do with me.” Hazel frowned.
“As you wish, Mistress. Please mind that injury, though. Is there any way I can assist you in getting ready?” Phaedra asked, bowing her head.
“Yes, I believe you can. I know it’s a bit early, but I need you to run and fetch Master Pimley for me, please. Tell him Hazel has urgent need of him.”
“Right away, Hazel.” And the angel was gone.