Chapter Twenty-One
The Council has ruled over the witches for the past two hundred years.
They have become corrupted, and I fear that one day, someone will destroy them as they once did with the royal family.
I do believe they would deserve it, and yet, I cannot help but fear for my mother’s life.
And one day, when I become a part of the Council, I fear for my own.
I must find a way to guide them into a brighter future.
But I worry that there may not be a way to save them from their corrupted minds.
Tabitha Wysteria
Ylva was certain she must have lost consciousness, because when her eyes finally fluttered open, there was nothing.
Only darkness, thick and absolute. She lay upon warm stone, the heat seeping into her skin, and she slid her hands across the surface, searching blindly for some sense of place.
Anything to tell her where she was. What sort of room had swallowed her whole.
Her fingers met a wall, smooth and just as warm.
She shifted onto her knees, breath coming harder now as the truth dawned on her.
The space was far smaller than she had imagined, crushingly so.
There would be no stretching out here. No comfort.
If she lay flat, her head and feet would kiss opposite walls.
A moan cut through the silence.
Ylva froze. She knew that sound.
Heart hammering, she crawled towards it, inch by careful inch, until she reached the wall to her right. She pressed her ear against the stone, pulse roaring in her ears.
‘Arden Briar?’ she whispered urgently. ‘Tell me that’s you.’
Another moan answered her, louder this time, followed by a muttered curse. Relief hit her so fiercely she nearly sobbed. He was alive. He was here.
‘It’s me,’ she said quickly, palms flattening against the wall as though she could reach him through it. ‘Ylva.’
‘You all right, little wolf?’ Arden asked.
She nodded instinctively, then swallowed, remembering he could not see her. ‘I’m fine,’ she said instead. ‘Where are we?’ There was a pause. Long enough to tell her he was asking himself the same question. ‘There’s no light,’ Ylva added softly. ‘I can’t see anything at all.’
‘Neither can I.’
A cold knot twisted in her stomach. She hesitated, then forced the words past her lips.
‘Are we…’ She swallowed. ‘Are we in cells?’
She did not want to be right. More than anything, she wanted Arden to laugh softly and tell her she was being ridiculous, that fear had twisted her thoughts into nonsense. But his sigh answered her before words ever could.
Ylva slid back against the wall, pressing her spine to the warm stone, grateful for its heat as though it were the only kindness left to her.
‘A witch took us,’ Arden said quietly. ‘I’d wager we’re in the Kingdom of Fire. Captives.’
‘Are you sure that was a witch?’ Ylva mumbled, remembering the strange powers the witch possessed. Ylva could not recall her past-life, but she could recall her time as a valkyrian, and valkyrians worshiped the gods. Gods were not meant to be evil…
‘What was she if not?’ Arden asked.
‘A goddess.’
She heard the way Arden inhaled. ‘That’s impossible. The gods are made up foolish tales.’
‘You do not believe in the gods?’
‘I believe the world would be better off without them. I’ve seen the cruelty of mortals, claiming to do such horrid things in the name of gods. So no, I do not believe in them.’
‘Then how did she do that? She summoned these strange dark things to appear out of nowhere, Arden.’
‘Witch magic.’
‘I’ve never heard of witch magic doing such a thing.’
She heard him chuckle. ‘Are you an expert in magic, little wolf?'
Ylva drew breath to respond, but the sound of a door opening nearby cut her short. Warm light spilt into the darkness, chasing the shadows away, and her heart sank. She had been right. The glow revealed a small stone cell, suffocatingly narrow, with a door barely wide enough to pass through.
Footsteps approached.
The witch who had captured them stopped before Ylva’s door, lantern raised. Its glow carved sharp angles into her terrifying face. She smiled down at Ylva, then tilted her head, peering towards the neighbouring cell.
‘My little pets,’ she crooned. ‘How adorable you look. Now, now, don’t fret.
I’ll take such good care of you.’ She snickered and pulled open Ylva’s door.
‘Come along, little doggy. I’ve someone eager to meet you.
I’ll fetch you later,’ she added, glancing towards Arden’s cell.
‘And don’t try using your Fae magic in here.
We have wards against it. Trust me. It’ll hurt you. ’
Before Ylva could even blink, magic snapped into place around her neck. A collar. The witch tugged, and Ylva was dragged forward, stumbling.
‘Ylva!’ Arden cried out.
‘Hush,’ the witch said sharply. ‘Nothing bad will happen to your little wolf. She’s in excellent hands. Hagan will take care of her.’
Ylva did not know who Hagan was but she knew, with chilling certainty, that there would be no safety waiting for her.
Still, she lifted her chin, steadying her voice despite the fear clawing at her chest.
‘I’ll be all right, Arden Briar,’ she said. ‘I’ll come back. I promise.’
She wanted to say more, but the witch did not allow it.
Ylva was dragged from her cell, along a dimly lit corridor and up a flight of narrow stairs.
When daylight finally broke through, she squinted against its sudden brilliance, her eyes stinging.
She forced herself to memorise every turn, every threshold, every door they passed, clinging to the knowledge like a lifeline.
At last, they stopped before a set of plain wooden doors, utterly unremarkable, almost disappointingly so.
The witch chuckled, then shoved the doors open, hauling Ylva inside.
The chamber beyond was beautiful.
An open room bathed in light, with an enormous oak bed positioned beneath wide windows that overlooked a town in the distance.
To one side stood a handsome desk cluttered with scrolls and parchment, and beyond it a terrace opened to sweeping views of the land, a soft breeze wandering freely through the space.
It was the kind of room one might dream of.
At the desk sat a man.
Ylva knew at once he was a warlock by the unmistakable violet of his eyes. His skin was a warm brown, his head clean-shaven, his build strong and deliberate. He was handsome, undeniably so, yet there was something curiously unremarkable about him, as though he faded the longer one looked.
‘How many times must I tell you not to interrupt me, Eris?’ he said, not lifting his gaze from the page before him.
‘I brought you a gift,’ the witch replied lightly.
Slowly, the warlock looked up. His eyes narrowed the moment they settled on Ylva, recognition flaring, followed by something darker, more unsettling. She did not like the way he studied her, as though weighing her worth.
‘Have fun,’ Eris said cheerfully. She snapped her fingers, and the collar around Ylva’s throat vanished.
The witch snorted, leaned close, and whispered into Ylva’s ear, her breath warm and cruel.
‘If I were you, I wouldn’t try to run or fight.
I’d do terrible things to your Fae friend if you so much as think about it. ’
Ylva went rigid.
Eris straightened, turned on her heel, and strode out, slamming the doors shut behind her.
Ylva remained utterly still, watching the warlock as though he were a reflection that had not quite decided how to behave. He looked as if he had seen a ghost. His brow furrowed, his gaze lingering on her with something close to disbelief, until at last he cleared his throat.
‘I assumed you were dead,’ he said slowly. ‘It seems I was mistaken. They made you valkyrian.’
Ylva said nothing.
‘Then I suppose,’ he continued, studying her once more, ‘that you do not remember me.’
‘Should I?’ The words slipped from her lips before she could stop them, and she immediately cursed herself for speaking at all.
The warlock shrugged, already turning back to the papers spread across his desk, as though she had lost her importance in the span of a breath.
‘Well…’ He paused, then added casually, ‘I am the reason you died and became valkyrian, so…’ Those purple eyes lifted again, settling on her with deliberate intent, waiting for shock, for fear, for something.
Ylva nearly gave it to him.
Nearly.
Instead, she locked her astonishment deep within herself, swallowed it whole, and forced it down into the darkest place she could find. Later, she told herself. Later she would unravel his words and let them tear her apart if they must.
Not now.
‘Take your clothes off,’ the warlock said, already turning back to his papers as though the command were no more significant than asking for silence.
Ylva did not move. A faint crease formed between her brows, the only sign that she had heard him at all. Minutes passed. When it became clear she had no intention of obeying, the warlock finally looked up, irritation sharpening his features.
‘Are you deaf?’
‘No,’ Ylva replied evenly.
‘Then do as you are told.’
‘No.’
Rage and confusion twisted across his face in equal measure. ‘Undress.’
‘Why?’ Ylva glanced around the chamber, taking in the bed, the desk, the open space. ‘Am I to be given new garments?’
‘No.’
‘Then why would I undress?’ Her blue eyes narrowed, cold and steady. ‘If you intend to rape me, I will kill you.’
For a heartbeat, his eyes widened. Then he leaned back in his chair and smiled, slow and curious, as though she had said something mildly amusing. ‘Is that what you fear?’
‘Why would I not?’ Ylva did not flinch beneath his stare. ‘All women fear such a monstrous violation.’ Her voice did not tremble; it hardened instead. ‘Consider this your warning. If you so much as try to touch me, I will fight you with every last breath and every ounce of strength I possess.’
The warlock chuckled, low and amused. ‘You could try,’ he said lightly, ‘but I wield blood magic.’ He lifted his tattooed hands, and in that instant Ylva’s body betrayed her entirely.
Every muscle locked, rigid and unyielding.
She willed her fingers to move, begged them silently, but nothing answered.
Panic flared bright and sharp in her chest.
‘See?’ he said, stepping closer. ‘There is nothing you can do against me.’ He closed the distance until his breath brushed her lips, invasive and deliberate. ‘If I were you, I would stop making threats you cannot keep.’
Ylva clung to one small mercy: though her body was bound, her voice was not.
‘Use all the magic you like, warlock,’ she said, her words steady enough to make him pause. ‘Freeze me. Break my arms if you wish. I will not obey you. I will fight you.’
The warlock smiled, slow and intrigued.
‘Is that so?’
She could not nod, but her blue eyes burnt with an answer he could not mistake.
‘We shall see,’ he replied at last, turning away as if bored. He returned to his desk, and with the casual flick of a thought, the blood magic released her.
Ylva gasped as control flooded back into her limbs, knees trembling beneath the sudden weight of herself. The memory of that helplessness lingered, cold and crawling beneath her skin. To lose command of one’s own body was a violation she would never forget, and never forgive.
The warlock did not even grant her the courtesy of a glance this time. His voice drifted back to her, idle and bored.
‘Undress.’
Ylva swallowed the surge of fury clawing up her throat and forced it down, locking it behind her ribs where it could not betray her.
‘No.’
‘Very well,’ the warlock replied calmly. ‘Then you will remain standing there until I grow tired of you.’
Ylva clenched her hands, aching for the familiar weight of her sword, and wondered when they had stripped it from her—where it now lay, discarded or claimed.
Her bow and arrows, too, were gone, and the absence of them felt like the loss of limbs.
Yet it was not her weapons her thoughts returned to most.
It was Freya.
She had tried not to think of the valkyrian since they had been torn apart, not least because the memory of Freya’s strange, unsettling power lingered like an unanswered riddle.
Could Freya also have something to do with the gods?
Still, Ylva hoped that she was safe. That she had found her way back to their people.
That she was gathering help, sharpening steel and resolve alike.
Ylva straightened her spine and lifted her chin.
If she was to stand, then she would stand unbroken.
‘Your friend killed my horse,’ Ylva said suddenly. ‘As well as two Fae and a giant wolf.’
The warlock went still, as though her words had struck him harder than any blade. Clearly, he had not expected her to speak at all. He had told her to stand, never to be silent.
‘She is not my friend,’ he replied at last, one dark brow lifting as he glanced up at her from his desk. ‘That was a witch named Theodora who surrendered her body to a god. A goddess named Eris. And if I were you, I would tread carefully around her, unless you have a fondness for losing your head.’
Ylva’s breath caught.
A goddess.
She had not been taken by a mere witch, nor even by a warlock’s pawn, but by a god wearing mortal flesh. And not just any god. Eris.
In her rebirth, Ylva had learnt the names of the divine, their domains etched into memory like warnings carved in stone. Eris was infamous among them all: the goddess of chaos and ruin, of fractured worlds and delighted cruelty.
She did not merely bring pain.
She revelled in it.
‘Are you not afraid of her?’ Ylva asked.
The warlock fixed her with a stare, plainly unsettled that she still possessed the audacity to speak at all. ‘Did I not tell you to be silent?’
‘No,’ Ylva replied evenly. ‘You told me to remain standing until you grew bored of me. You said nothing about keeping quiet.’
He opened his mouth, clearly prepared to retort, then thought better of it, snapping it shut with a click of teeth.
‘Continue speaking,’ he said at last, his voice cold and deliberate, ‘and I will put a leash on you.’
‘You can try,’ Ylva whispered, the words pitched low enough that they should not have carried.
But they did.
She saw the faint curl of his lips, the flash of something dark and pleased passing through his eyes. As though he had heard every syllable. As though her defiance, her refusal to bend, was not an irritation at all, but a quiet delight.