Chapter Thirty-Nine
The world was built for girls to fear
Rebellion is refusing to disappear
The mouth of The Perils greets Seren just as it always does—volatile, enraged, unstable beneath her boots. Whipping wind slams against her skin, slipping beneath it, as if testing her right to stand here.
Her pulse steadies as she straightens, shoulders squaring, senses already scanning.
Seren’s eyes snap up, detecting a presence.
Lara stands beyond the mouth, weapons strapped and sheathed at her thighs, hair pulled back from her face in a wild, intricate braid of iron clasps and beads. Two witches flank her, both armed, both already mid-preparation.
Seren has seen them before, of course, but never this close. Never this… personal. They do not greet her, nor are they surprised by her presence. Just ready. Expectant.
Seren steps forward, the tear in reality slowly closing behind her with a soft pull.
“I need your help,” she says without preamble.
Lara’s gaze flicks to her—sharp, assessing—but before she can respond, something shifts behind Seren. A second presence.
Seren turns just as Elyssara steps fully through the rift, her landing less graceful, her body still healing, still catching up to the violence it has endured. But she stands anyway. Of course she does.
Lara sees her, and recognition flashes across her face.
The space changes. Not in the way anyone can see, but in the way everyone can feel. Seren notices it instantly—a subtle shift in electricity, in gravity. The Perils stills.
Lara’s attention locks onto Elyssara, and for the first time since Seren has known her, the High Witch does not move to speak or assert dominance. She studies her. Calculates and measures her in a way that sets Seren’s senses on alert.
Lara does not look at Elyssara as a stranger, though that is exactly what they are to one another. She looks at her as an equal.
“Lightborne,” Lara says at last, voice a cold, flat tone. It’s not a question. There’s certainly no awe. It is a fact.
Elyssara lifts her chin despite the crusted blood and strain still evident in her body, her gaze steady, unflinching. “High Witch.”
The words settle between them like a line drawn in sand. Seren doesn’t intervene. Not yet.
Lara steps forward, slow, deliberate, her eyes never leaving Elyssara’s. “So it’s true,” she says, voice low, almost thoughtful. “You still stand. Survived it all.”
Elyssara’s mouth curves, something sharp and knowing beneath the exhaustion.
“So did you,” Elyssara returns. The words are simple, but they convey every battle faced, every day hunted, every moment survived. They are an acknowledgement between two women who shouldn’t still be here.
A heartbeat passes.
Two.
A look flickers between them. Recognition. Understanding. Not allies. Not enemies. Something far more dangerous—two forces that could either remake the world… or end it in a heartbeat.
Lara’s lips tilt into something that is not quite a smile—the most emotion Seren has seen from the High Witch of The Dreaded.
It is the gleam of a woman who knows things she shouldn’t.
Who’s calculating plans right here as she stands.
Who’s looking at Elyssara to see how she can bend her to her advantage.
Seren’s eyes drift to Elyssara. Her eyebrows are raised, her chin slightly lifted, and her jaw set in defiance. Somehow, Seren knows that Elyssara is thinking the exact same way about Lara.
Seren exhales sharply. “This should be interesting,” she murmurs.
The two women stare at each other in silent assessment, seeing who will break first, who will soften first, who will shift under the scrutiny of the other.
But Seren knows the answer: neither.
“Lovely,” she mutters, stepping between them before the moment can stretch any further. “We can circle back to whatever this is later,” she says, wagging her fingers between the women. She turns her attention to Lara. “You gave me an hour and I’m back. I’m here for the assignment.”
That snaps the tension cleanly.
Lara’s attention shifts back to Seren, focus sharpening.
“This will be your final Harrow, little witch,” she says, her amethyst eyes boring into Seren.
Seren nods once, unafraid. “And my question?”
Lara studies her for a long moment, something heavier than simple approval weighing in her gaze.
Then she gestures to the witches at her side.
“This is The Marrow,” she says.
“The Marrow?” Seren echoes.
“The last thing inside a bone before it turns to dust.”
A pause.
“The witches who will still be standing when the world isn’t.”
Seren’s gaze shifts between them.
Not apprentices. Not guards. Not followers. The witches Lara trusts to stand closest to her. The ones who’ve earned the High Witch’s loyalty.
Somehow that feels more dangerous than an entire fucking army.
The first witch steps forward.
“Daphinia,” Lara announces as though the name alone carries weight. Not an introduction. An announcement. Or perhaps a warning.
Elyssara stills. Seren feels it more than sees it—the shift, subtle but immediate, like a thread pulled taut between them. Elyssara’s eyes lock onto the witch in assessment. Not awareness. But close enough to unsettle. Like recognizing a nightmare she has never lived.
Daphinia inclines her head, slow, measured, eyes inspecting Elyssara with too much care, but neither of them speak.
No time.
Daphinia.
Seren files it away.
Lara gestures to the second.
“And Caev.”
The witch does not move forward. Does not smile. She watches Elyssara—no, both of them—with a gaze that feels less like curiosity and more like calculation. Like she is measuring something invisible and finding it… lacking. Or perhaps merely sufficient.
Seren doesn’t linger on it. She can’t. So she nods, and turns her gaze back to Lara.
“Are you going to tell me the assignment?” she presses.
Lara’s attention returns to her fully now, all prior threads severed cleanly in favor of purpose.
Her voice lowers.
“Virellin.”
The words land like a warhammer. Seren’s stomach drops but she doesn’t let it show.
Elyssara’s eyes flare wide.
Virellin.
Home.
“Of course it is,” Seren mutters.
Lara continues as if she hadn’t spoken.
“We will be culling the men running an illegal trade circuit,” Lara states, tone unreadable and cool. “Three wagons of women being sold into the Flesh Circuit of Virellin. Spare the girls, cull the organizers, eliminate anything that gets in your way.”
Seren’s jaw tightens.
In a heartbeat, she is back in that wagon.
Memories drag her back by her hair to the night her father sold her for a single copper.
“It’ll feed your brothers. At least they’re useful,” he’d said, his eyes never meeting hers. She understands now—he was never a father. Just a man who took her in. Likely for no more than a coin or two.
Memories claw at her, pulling at her leathers, her cloak, just as the man at the wagons did.
Elyssara’s hand finds the small of Seren’s back, tender and caring, as if she can see through the armor and resolve to the little girl that still lives within.
But Seren shrugs her away.
“Sounds great,” she grits out, already unsheathing a small blade from her thigh.
“We need to get them out safely,” Lara says simply. “All of them. And the men running it are not to see another sunrise—no survivors.” Her voice drops low and cold.
A pause.
Then Lara’s eyes settle on Seren.
“Do you have the guts for The Dreaded, witch?”
The words land heavier than they should.
That’s her question.
Seren feels it settle into her bones, into the marrow of her being, into the place that has been shaped and reshaped by every test she has endured to get here.
Do you have the guts?
She already knows the answer. She just hasn’t proven it yet.
Her answer is immediate.
“Yes.”
No hesitation. No doubt.
“I’ll take pleasure in it,” Seren adds, her words a sharpened blade.
Lara watches her for a moment longer, then nods once.
“We’ll see. Violence is always appealing from a distance. But up close, women rarely have the stomach for it.”
Seren turns before anything else can be said, already reaching for the threads of magic that will tear open another path.
“Elyssara,” she calls out, glancing over her shoulder.
Elyssara is already watching her. Steady. Something has shifted in her too. Seren can see it now, even if she doesn’t understand it yet.
“I’ll come back,” Seren says with certainty.
Elyssara nods once.
“Go. Kill every last one of those fucking bastards.” No argument. No hesitation. Just a woman who’s made peace with the cost of surviving this godsforsaken realm.
Seren turns back to the space in front of her, magic already gathering in her palm, reality thinning beneath her will.
Behind her, she feels it—
Lara.
Elyssara.
Daphinia.
Caev.
All watching.
All waiting.
The world splits.
And Seren steps through like a woman rewriting the past.
The stench of Virellin hits her first—it always does. Piss, shit, ale, and meat gone to rot. The beautiful aroma of home.
Lara, Daphinia, and Caev land with grace through the Gateway.
“Fucking humans,” Caev complains, burying her nose into the crook of her elbow.
The soot-covered walls of abandoned buildings stretch into the Virellin sky either side of the witches, giving them cover. Seren crouches low, dagger already palmed, peering around the corner.
She never did this with Ronyn and El. Was never extended the trust. Was never taught the skills. But now? She won’t wait. Won’t let someone else decide what she’s ready for. She’ll fucking prove it to herself. And them too.
“The Flesh Circuit wagons try to blend in with the trade wagons. They’re always cages covered with a tarp,” Seren whispers over her shoulder.
Lara steps closer, her midnight skin glowing in The Barrier’s light.
“You know of this circuit?” she asks. Though it’s not really a question.
Seren turns, voice hushed in the volatile Virellin night. “Elyssara saved me from it. It’s how we met.”
Lara grunts in response, her face remaining unreadable. The lack of care stings, and Seren hates that it does.
Lara takes another step forward, closing the little remaining space between them.