The Nightmare (Witch Bound #3)

Chapter 1

See? This isn’t so hard, Carwyn thought, despite her seizing lungs threatening to surge up her dry throat. I can do this on my own.

The gentle wind caressed her, cooling the heat suffusing her cheeks and neck that no doubt had her light-brown skin flushing.

Her knees shook with tiredness while her swollen feet ached in her travel boots, but at least the view was exquisite.

She pushed back a stray curl of hair from her brow to truly take it in.

Rolling, flowery hills as far as the eye could see were a feast for her senses, and a welcome change after days of being in the dense forest. The snowy mountain peaks in the far distance were daunting, but they highlighted the true enormity of the world she’d been traversing.

The warmth of the unobstructed sun was a balm, as the early spring air brought on a chill that was especially nippy in the shade.

Meadow grasses swayed in tandem, appearing like green ocean waves. Bugs flittered across their rises and falls, attracting little birds that dived for a quick meal before darting off again.

Standing atop the particular crest she’d struggled to climb, a smile curled her lips, directed at the town in the distance.

There it was – the last stop before she was to complete the final leg of her journey. Her self-imposed quest.

I hope the messenger scroll I received proves true. It was a lot of trust to put in a near stranger, but it’d dug deep into her truest, deepest desires. It should be fine. Valerie has brought me to her before. Although that was a long time ago.

Carwyn took a short break to catch her breath, then hiked up the skirts of her pale-yellow dress and marched down the incline towards Coldbourne Town.

The multiple arrows in her quiver clanked and clattered when she walked, while her short sword gently tapped against her thigh.

Her thickly soled boots crunched the dewy, wet grass with each step.

There were easier paths to take, those that were well-used and gravel-paved, rather than stomping through knee-high meadow grass. Those roads weren’t filled with potential herbs and flowers she could add to her bag of witchcraft ingredients. They were also... predictable.

It was more enjoyable being accompanied by trusted companions, but the only person who’d ever taken this journey with her was her older sister. Someone she hadn’t seen in five years and didn’t know if she ever would again.

Carwyn often thought of Valerie the Heartless, who wasn’t as cold-hearted as she appeared. She was loyal beyond measure. She loved deeply, even if her tongue often spouted venom.

She missed Valerie like a horrible, sickening ache. She was the one person who understood Carwyn. Her pain, her loneliness, and the immeasurable losses in between.

Her concern over her older sister continued to grow day by day, season by season. She was a witch who bore a pixie curse mark that prevented her from being able to use her witchcraft. It left her defenceless, aimless.

Carwyn had considered such things, even if her heart ached at the thought. But I understand the need to preserve our wants against our witchcraft. Something their mother could never fathom.

All she knew about her sister’s life and welfare was that she was in the arms of someone she loved. Someone who themselves had magic, since it prevented Carwyn from scrying for her.

Hopefully they’d convinced her to remove that curse mark Valerie believed would stop her from becoming a dark witch.

This journey would’ve been much easier with her. Less lonely and frightening as well.

She sought another witch, one who harboured a great deal of knowledge. Perhaps more than her family of five, now four, could ever hold in their little cottage.

This had taken longer than it was supposed to, but that was fine with Carwyn.

She was free from her mother, at least for the moment. It’d taken a great deal of convincing to be allowed on such a journey alone to begin with, but assurances were made.

I’m an adult, she reminded herself. The heavens know I’ve been an adult for many years.

She’d been alive for fifty-three years, although she didn’t look a day over twenty-five. A blessing provided by the long lifespan of their dragon ancestor, as was the same for all her kind.

But her mother was controlling and looked down on her reasons for leaving. Carwyn didn’t care. It was her choice, her life, and she wanted to live it the way she sought.

No one else was allowed to tell her otherwise, and she was firm on that stance.

Only once she was close to approaching the town and the soles of her worn boots scraped over the gravel road did she drop her skirts.

She wiggled the tip of her nose, annoyed by the scent of dusty civilisation when she’d been frolicking through the soft flowers-and-grass aroma of the meadow.

However, the waft of herbs, spices, and meat drew her towards the town’s gates.

A good night’s rest, a decent meal, and resupplying her food pouch and water sack were much needed.

Just as she approached the town, she reached into the bag hanging from her shoulder and obtained one of her most precious items. It was also one she hated down to the very pit of her soul. As she passed through the tall stone fence and wooden gate, she donned a set of black leather gloves.

They were a perfect fit: snug as she curled her hands into fists, but soft and malleable enough to not be restraining. They were made with the highest quality materials and craftsmanship.

Her dress came to her ankles, barely skimming the muddied, overworked ground as she entered the main street.

The long sleeves protected her arms from the chill that had followed her on her month-long travels, as well as from accidentally brushing her skin against another’s.

The hood of her cloak was down and bundled around her neck.

With her long, curly hair tied back into a braided ponytail, the only parts of her skin that could be seen were her ears and face.

She passed another pedestrian and the backs of their hands skimmed each other’s. Flesh upon glove, Carwyn barely felt it, although she instinctively ripped her hand away to settle it closer to her body.

Thankfully she didn’t sense their emotions like an invasive caress over her heart and mind. This ability – this magic – was supposed to be a blessing... and had only ever been a horrible curse.

I’m almost there, she thought, lifting her hand to shade her eyes as she took in the cloudless blue sky above a sea of tall, two-storey houses surrounding her. Only a few more days and hopefully I’ll be free.

She lowered her head and flicked up her cloak’s hood to shield her further. She remained vigilant as she walked the streets, and watched her footing so she didn’t step in any horse droppings from passing riders.

As someone who’d grown up with crisp, pleasant forests surrounding her family home and rarely entered human society unless it was to obtain food or materials for clothing, she despised the pungent smell of people.

There was a constant odour that followed her in towns, no matter where she went, and not even burning firewood or fresh food could erase it.

Then there was the cacophony of sounds that reverberated deep within her skull to rattle her into a headache.

The clacking of pots, the hammering in the distance, the clopping of hooves, and the discordant rhythm of countless footfalls.

The chatter was the worst, especially when she passed someone a little louder than the rest and it blasted through her mind like a wood axe to a poor, unsuspecting tree.

She entered the first tavern she found that offered overnight housing to get away from the blare of noise.

Perhaps I’ll only stay for the night.

A bed that wasn’t a woollen sleep bag on the ground wasn’t much of a trade-off for all the overwhelming sensations. I doubt I’ll get a good night’s sleep with all the ruckus.

It was also probably safer if she didn’t linger.

Dark witches were known to be afoot in this part of the continent. She’d already seen the warnings posted upon entry.

If it were discovered that she was a witch, they wouldn’t care if she was a white or dark one. She’d be imprisoned and trialled... and likely burned. Not really how she’d prefer to die, as she could think of more peaceful ways – like drowning, for instance. Although that was only marginally better.

But that was the way of humans. They cared naught if the witch was kind, pure of heart, and if their flame still radiated white. They destroyed what they feared, what they hated. What they couldn’t understand, control, or overpower.

Approaching the counter, Carwyn smiled with one hand resting on the pommel of her short sword and the other curling around the bowstring pressed between her breasts.

“One room, please,” she asked. “And a meal.”

“Sure, little lady. We got a bed for you,” the man on the other side said, his long moustache curling as he returned her smile through a thick, white beard. “I can serve you supper now, if you like. You a’ight with beef stew? It has a few vegetables.”

“Yes, that will do.”

Carwyn sat at an empty end of a long, worn-oak bench seat and waited patiently, eyeing anyone who sat too closely. Thankfully, no one came to disturb her, and she never lowered her hood even when a deep bowl was placed in front of her.

The stew was subpar, the beef too chewy and tough, and the only vegetables in it were a carrot and a few peas. However, it was still better than eating the wild rabbits she’d hunted and cooked over her campfires.

The tavern also wasn’t too bad. It was exactly like the many others she’d visited, with wooden walls and a matching ceiling, although the flooring was compacted dirt covered by a few rugs of animal hide.

There were no paintings, no décor, and nothing that drew her gaze except for the humans who occupied it.

At least her room was warm and quiet when she entered it, the fireplace already lit.

The privacy allowed her to wipe down her body thoroughly with a deep bucket of warmed water and a clean washcloth, making sure to scrub at the places sweat stuck to the most. She also focused on cleaning her hair, ensuring she removed all the dust and pollen sticking to it, before finger-brushing silkening oils through it.

The final thing she did was moisturise to ensure her skin was soft and healthy.

With the last of the water, she washed some of her clothes using the homemade soap she carried with her before drying them with a spell.

As the night grew late, she retired to her lumpy straw-and-wool bed and massaged her aching calves and sore feet. While rubbing in ointment, she chanted quietly, and the liquid glowed a soft, glittering white as her skin healed. Any scrapes, cuts, and blisters faded.

Not much further, she reminded herself with bleary eyes, and peeked out the window at the night aglow from the full moon. Then hopefully I can finally be rid of this curse.

Her mother hated it when she called her ‘gift’ such a thing.