Chapter 1
25 Years Later
Shivani
B ook clutched to my chest, I flee my house and run for sanctuary.
My feet pound the wooden bridge draped across the swamp, slapping the surface of the water. I ignore the damp splashes and press on, weaving across the network of raised buildings and bridges. I pass several startled villagers and ignore them as well. My arms are laden with the too-heavy book, and my legs tangle in the long fabric of my skirt. Reluctantly, I slow. Somewhere, I know he is either running behind me or still at the house, waiting for me to return.
My chest burns and my eyes water with angry tears, but I force them back. I do not want to give him the satisfaction .
It is early in the day, the first thin sheaths of morning light filtering through the cracks of the tree canopy. In the distance, through the purple haze of the lanterns, people filter quietly into the village square. Even from afar, I notice the glint of armour. Mornings are slow in Mossgarde and mostly consist of the king’s pernicious guards collecting taxes, often in the form of food or drink. My father has not paid his due in some time and I have very little to spare after feeding us both. I swerve away from the village square and its guards.
Instead, I half-jog across the narrow, lesser-used bridges, moving towards the outskirts. The buildings here are derelict and the platforms groan underfoot. Faded posters cling to the walls by a single nail, benches with worn grooves from being used, homes sitting with no occupants. Ghosts of old Mossgarde. It is a struggle for me to imagine our small village as a bustling town with all this space being used.
Once I am far enough away from the village square, and with a quick glance over my shoulder to ensure no one has followed, I slow to a walking pace. I suck in deep breaths of air, pleasantly crisp against the usual stuffiness of Mossgarde. When I reach my destination—a secluded spot behind the back of an old shop—my body finally relaxes. There is a small breeze on the outskirts, enough to blow some of the humidity away. I swat at some lingering insects before finding a mostly intact bench to rest my book on. I take another deep inhale, slowing my heart.
A stubborn streak of sunlight forces its way through the swamp and I step into it, tipping my face up. Travelling merchants say Mossgarde is a dark, gloomy place, but I know nothing else. For now. One day soon, I too will feel the warmth of the sun drench my skin instead of the constant glow of witch magic lanterns.
For today, however, this quiet spot in Old Mossgarde remains one of two places I can reliably go when I need to leave my father behind, his voice rising and his breath stinking of ale.
My collection of lost items is tucked into the corner of the platform, hidden under a pile of damp leaves. I make my way over and pull one of them free—an old bucket, half red with rust. Grasping it by its rough rim, the handle long since gone, I place it carefully on the other side of the platform near my book. I take a few long strides away from it and suck in a deep breath.
My ophid, the long muscle running along my spine, is taut. All witches are born with an ophid. It holds our magic. Our au’mana. My ophid twitches, impatient and aching to be used.
I focus my magic, drawing it out until a purple glow emanates from my skin. I raise my hand, letting it swirl across my palm like smoke. Au’mana should smell like salt, although I have become so accustomed to it, I rarely notice anymore.
Unlike dragon magic and siren spells, au’mana draws on emotion. The stronger the feeling, the more powerful the magic. My aunt has told me of other witches who train for decades, carefully pulling on threads of emotion to fuel their au’mana so no one emotion dominates the others.
For me, however, I am often ruled by wrath.
I draw on the deep well of anger towards my father and my au-mana responds. I flex my hand, aiming it at the rusted bucket. In an instant, the bucket glows lavender and I feel it in my grip as though I am holding it in my palm. I close my eyes and use my au’mana to rip the rust away. Magic washes over me, warm like sunlight, as it cleanses the barrel. I smile, rolling my shoulders to stretch my ophid.
I cross the space between myself and the bucket, allowing myself a brief moment of satisfaction at the clean metal. But witch magic is not permanent. With one swift movement, I lean back and kick the bucket.
The enchantment breaks. The bucket rattles across the platform, landing with a clang against the front of the shop. The purple glow evaporates like steam from a teapot. Rust crawls over the surface of the metal once more, red tendrils burying into the silver until it reverts to its earlier state. I regard the scene as my ophid relaxes. My aunt’s words ring clearly in my ears.
A muscle must be used to be strong.
Dragons and sirens learn their magic over several years, sometimes decades, while witches are born with an innate ability to tap into their au’mana. From the moment of my birth, I had a well of magic at my fingertips. But an ophid is like any other muscle—it can be stretched and strengthened. Or torn and injured.
When I was very young, I had tried to take on too much at once. My father, sick of all my books taking up space in our small home, had tried to rip one of them. At once, the house was enchanted and alive. Floorboards shook and the walls rattled and I threatened to collapse it on us both.
I was only stopped by a painful twinge in my back, bringing me to my knees. The pain nearly drove my anger into a blind rage, but I could not even stand. I had asked too much of my ophid and it had torn, putting me on bed rest for several months after. My aunt tutted and fussed over me, rubbing cooling creams along my spine and distracting me with stories.
“Just like your mother,” she told me. “You inherited her temperament.”
My father did and said nothing, but he has not touched my books since.
I tuck the rusted bucket back under the pile of leaves, hidden from view despite me being the only visitor Old Mossgarde has. I collect my book, gathering it to my chest and holding it tight. I breathe deep one last time and savour the cool air. Tomorrow, I will return and strengthen my ophid again. Until then…
Despite the release of my magic, anger still simmers in my chest. I have been forced from my home, yet again, and cannot return yet. It will be several hours before my father drinks himself unconscious and I can slip back inside, hoping he awakes in a better mood.
“Bastard,” I mutter.
I turn away from my pile of lost items and scurry towards my other sanctuary.
Mossgarde is a cluster of homes and buildings, the raised platforms allowing us to avoid the big below. I peer down at the water as I cross the bridges. A thick layer of algae and moss coats the surface, completely still. I shudder at the depths beneath and keep walking.
Near the village square, on a set of sturdy stilts, it’s the library. It is stout and proud and the sight of it calms my heart. Unfortunately, I must pass the public house to reach it.
Many of the unsavoury types, my father included, linger outside the public house when the barkeep has tossed them out. There is nowhere else for them to go, after all. As a young girl, I would bow my head and try not to draw attention. I soon learned that meant nothing to them. Now, I jut out my chin and push my shoulders back and snarl and snap at whoever believes himself entitled to look upon me. My mother’s daughter, indeed.
Most of them have come across me before and so turn their eyes away. But there is one who is either too inebriated or too bold to care. I feel his eyes on me.
“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” he calls. His words slur together like muck.
I meet his eyes but do not slow my pace.
“Why don’t you come and join us for a bit of fun, eh?” His grin is lecherous. I do not break pace, but I change direction towards him. “That’s right, we’ll—”
He is cut off when I slam my book across his face. He crumples to the floor, dazed. The other men look at me.
“Good morrow, Miss Shivani.” One of them inclines his head and nearly stumbles forward, catching himself just in time. The stench of ale is apparent. “What enchantment was that?”
“None,” I reply, regarding the man I knocked down. He blinks rapidly, blindly grabbing at the wall of the public house to haul himself up. “Just a heavy book.”
“Off to the library, then?”
“I am.” I inspect my book, making sure I didn’t get blood on it, and silently apologise to it for using it as a weapon. “The examiner from Frostalm is visiting in a few months. ”
“University?” one of the other men pipes up, his voice gruff.
“House of Learning,” I correct him. “Universities are in Coalsburgh.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Don’t know why you bother.”
“Why do you bother spending your time and money on drink when you have a wife at home to look after?” I bite out. He has the grace to look ashamed, casting his eyes downward.
“Let the girl do what she wants,” the first man replies. “It’s a far cry better than staying here with a king bent on slaughter.”
He spits out these last words before turning away. With a sinking feeling, I realise I recognise him. His daughter was the latest in a long line of Never Queens. Women sent to break an unbreakable curse. Six months to break the curse, to gift true love to the monstrous prince, before their head is forfeit. Six months of mourning before the next is chosen. A barbaric cycle, leaving only bodies in its wake. Another reason to leave Mossgarde behind.
“My condolences,” I murmur, unsure what else to say. He only grunts in response. He has already spoken out of turn, and others have been put to the chopping block for less. But perhaps he does not care anymore. Only one more week until the next Never Queen volunteers, and his daughter is forgotten.
“You should get going,” the other man tells me. He looks pointedly at the man I hit as he begins to find his bearings once more. I agree and leave quickly, a weight on my chest that had not been there before. At five-and-twenty, I am one of a rapidly dwindling pool of women in Mossgarde of marriageable age. I had never, and would never, volunteer. I can only look on as others line up and hope one of them breaks the curse, freeing the Beast of Mossgarde. At least until I am accepted into Frostalm’s House of Learning and I can escape this place.
The first and only time I witnessed a maiden being put to the chopping block, Aunt Meena had gripped my hand tight. Her eyes were like steel. She whispered to me just loud enough so only I could hear.
“I wonder if the prince is cursed or the entire village.”