The Silver Witch. #2
She’d even let me peek behind the drapes, inviting me into her sanctum, eager to boast about her genius in spellcrafting and her talent for shaping the future.
But Wolver’s death had torn down the entire sheet of gilded fabric, exposing the truth hidden behind Regina’s carefully arranged curtain.
She stalked over to the fireplace.
“I’ll have a famed victory over these enemies to magic—to my realm, witches, wizards, and magical subjects,” she mumbled to herself.
Raising her blade once more, she aimed it toward Mabina, as if the deadly weapon were an extension of herself.
“I want the fairies and elves of Wistaman’s Woodland readied for battle,” she commanded.
Before Regina could continue, Mabina shook her head vehemently—her shimmering wings swaying ever so slightly.
“No,” Mabina said in a deep, guttural tone. “When you arrived on this Isle and claimed it as your own, you swore a promise to me. If I gave up my regal title, the fae wouldn’t be forced to fight in your senseless war.”
“Fine,” Regina snapped, her mouth twisting into a grimace, as if Mabina’s refusal physically nauseated her.
“The fairies will remain in the woodland, but I want the elves prepared to fight by sundown—”
“The elves don’t answer to you,” Herla interrupted, glancing up from his elixirs to meet Regina’s steely stare. “We only answer to Mabina, Queen of the Fairies.”
Regina’s expression remained eerily impassive, though her trembling hands betrayed her simmering rage.
Slowly, she crossed the hall and positioned herself behind Herla.
“Do you want his tongue for those words?” Billy asked, drawing a dagger from the scabbard on his belt and leveling it at the elven healer.
Herla raised his hands—they trembled like surrendering flags.
I held my breath, praying he’d be granted mercy.
Regina shook her head. “No, he can keep it in his mouth,” she declared, clutching the hilt of her sword in both hands.
As I exhaled, thanking the gods for hearing my plea, Regina opened her mouth once more.
“For I want his head,” she spat.
There was no time to flee for sanctuary. In a single, decisive swing, her blade cleaved through Herla’s neck—severing it cleanly.
Herla’s body collapsed one way, his head another—both landing on the tiles with a gut-curdling thud.
A deafening shrill filled the hall, almost as quickly as the all-encompassing scent of iron.
Isobel hunched over, hands planted firmly upon the ground as she retched and heaved—her pointed ears tilted backward, her big eyes bulging from their sockets as she fought against vomiting.
I reached for Fitzroy once more. Without hesitation, his hand closed around mine in a tight squeeze, like a silent promise that everything would be fine. Yet as Regina stooped to retrieve the fallen head from the blood-slicked tiles, dread dampened my skin.
I could never support her claim to the throne.
“Does anyone else want to question my queenship?” she bellowed, thrusting the elf’s head high into the air.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a vague outline of Herla’s face—his mouth slightly open, blood still dripping from the sliced flesh—but I couldn’t bring myself to look directly.
Silence reigned for a long, uncomfortable moment.
Regina then placed Herla’s head on the ground before circling back to a vacant Mabina.
“Prepare the fairies and elves for war,” she ordered. “Inform the fae that if they refuse to fight for me, I’ll take to the skies on my dragon and burn Wistaman’s Woodland to ashes.”
Mabina didn’t move; she clung to the mantelpiece like the castle was swaying. Her bloodshot eyes were fixed on the flames, and her face bore the same defeated resignation of a captain destined to sink with their ship.
“My Queen,” Fitzroy said, rising and pulling me to his side. “Niamh and I shall depart from the Isle before nightfall, bound for Cambas to fulfill your orders and muster the army of men.” He lowered his head in a reverent bow.
I trembled, struggling to maintain balance as I curtsied.
“Have no doubt, we shall meet you on the battlefield in a matter of days,” he continued, taking my arm.
“Fly safe, Nephew,” Regina said—her tone reverting to that sweet, affectionate one she’d used before.
I shuddered at her effortless switch.
We left the Great Hall wearing calm facades, as if the events inside had been as merry as the other evenings at court. But I shook as if I were out on the peak of a hill during the longest night of winter.
Although Fitzroy remained silent, as he hurried us through the passageways, his mouth moved like he was internally arguing with a voice in his head.
As I hurried into my chamber, I realized Bronwyn was stripping the linens from my mattress. She glanced up at the sound of the creaking door, her eyes meeting mine—which were wide with panic.
“Is everything all right, just Niamh?” she asked cautiously.
I shook my head as Fitzroy stepped in, ushering me forward and quietly closing the door.
“Oh, welcome, Prince Fitzroy,” Bronwyn said respectfully, bowing her head.
With his hands planted firmly on his hips, Fitzroy began pacing the chamber. “Damn me,” he muttered under his breath.
Bronwyn watched him nervously from beside the bedstead. “Whatever is the matter?” she probed.
“Wolver was killed during a patrol last night,” Fitzroy replied, abruptly stopping still.
Bronwyn gasped, instinctively covering her mouth.
“And then Regina just…” His voice trailed off as he brought a hand to his neck.
“She did what?” Bronwyn pressed.
I exhaled, shaking my head in disbelief. “She just—”
Before I could finish, a faint knock at the door interrupted me.
A wave of dread seized my chest as I glanced toward Fitzroy—the thought of Regina lurking on the other side made me lightheaded.
He moved cautiously, easing the door open just enough to peer into the corridor.
“Ah.” He sighed. “Come in.”
Fitzroy swung the door wider, allowing Elizebeth, Mabina, and Isobel to enter.
“She’s in shock,” Isobel said, guiding the wide-eyed Mabina to the bedstead.
“Regina’s utterly insane,” I mumbled under my breath.
Elizebeth tutted sharply. “Do you think we don’t already know that?” Her voice was harsh yet hushed.
Moving to the mirror, she performed a healing incantation; slowly, the deep laceration on her arm closed and the cuts on her face faded.
“Watch your tongue,” Fitzroy snapped in my defense. “It’s not Niamh’s fault you’ve all indulged Regina’s fantasies.”
“You’ve seen what happens to anyone who defies her rules,” Isobel countered, unshed tears brimming in her eyes.
She was right. Herla had dared to remind Regina that she wasn’t the true queen of Annwn—a mistake that cost him his life.
“Yet you’ve all chosen to stay on the Isle,” Fitzroy remarked.
Elizebeth tutted again as she moved to stand beside me. “If we could, we would’ve left many moons ago.”
“Mabina could have flown to another kingdom to secure an alliance—as I have,” Fitzroy suggested.
Mabina shot him a tearful glare, fury blazing in her eyes.
“She cannot fly,” Isobel murmured, resting a comforting hand on Mabina’s shoulder. “None of the fairies can.”
Fitzroy huffed exasperatedly. “Why not?”
Mabina glanced upward to meet his eye. “When Regina arrived on the Isle, she stripped me and my people of flight—she clipped our wings. Now, all fae are pinioned from birth,” she cried, her voice breaking as Isobel shushed her.
“Quiet!” Elizebeth whispered, her gaze flicking toward the door.
Turning back, she continued steadily, “If we had our own army, we could stand against Regina. Her strength lies in ogres and goblins—if we had sufficient manpower, we could destroy her.”
“Fitzroy has an army in Cambas,” I said, turning toward him. “They may currently fight for King James, but if you promised them an end to the war and prosperity, I believe they’d swear loyalty to you.”
Fitzroy furrowed his brow in deep thought—as if contemplating my words.
“Do you really believe the soldiers would abandon their king?” Elizebeth asked, a hint of optimism lacing her voice.
I nodded, knowing how tired the men were of fighting.
“The fairies and elves will support you,” Mabina stated. “I’ll tell Regina that I’m heading to the woodland to prepare the fae for battle. She won’t suspect our true intentions until it’s far too late—I want that witch dead.”
“If we prevail, I’d be in charge of Lyonesse,” Fitzroy muttered, testing the idea aloud.
“It would make you king,” Elizebeth corrected him, giving his shoulder a firm pat.
Fitzroy turned his gaze toward me—his eyes searching my face. “Do you truly believe I can lead an army of magical and mortal beings, challenge both the King of Lyonesse and the Queen of Annwn, and emerge victorious?”
“You have no other choice,” I replied truthfully.
He took my hand in his firm grip. “Excuse me for a moment,” he told the others, then guided me to a quiet corner of the chamber.
Softly, almost hesitantly, he murmured, “Do you think I’d make a good king?”
“You’ll be a better ruler than Regina or your father,” I reassured him, and I meant it.
Fitzroy sighed, his gaze dropping for a moment.
“If you promise to stand by my side, I’ll do it.”
When he looked up, he locked eyes with me—flecked with gold and desperation, his strong brow pinched with doubt.
My heart swelled at the thought of him needing me. And if I was ever to live freely, as both a witch and a blacksmith, I needed him to rule.
Gently, I cupped his cheeks, letting my thumb graze his stubble. “From now on, whenever you look to your right, you’ll see me there.”
His hand settled on my waist, sending a tingling warmth through me as the tension between us mounted. Leaning in, his lips met mine in a gentle kiss—an unspoken confirmation of our alliance.
After a moment, he pulled away, shifting his focus back to the others.