Prologue: 2-The Witch

- Elara Voss: Spells

The night is far too quiet.

That's always the first sign of danger—when the forest holds its breath when even the nocturnal creatures hush themselves in trembling anticipation.

I can feel the silence pressing in around me, heavy and suffocating, like the weight of a thousand unspoken fears. It sets my nerves on edge, sending tiny prickles of warning skittering down my spine.

I press myself against the gnarled trunk of an ancient oak, the bark rough against my palms. Slowly, I lower my body until the moss beneath my fingertips is slick with the evening's dampness.

My breath is a slow, deliberate whisper—barely audible above the hush that blankets the forest.

Above me, the canopy is so dense it nearly strangles the moonlight, allowing only the faintest glimmer to filter through.

It casts the world in shifting shadows, pockets of darkness where anything could be lurking.

But I don't need light to know I'm not alone.

Something is out there. Watching. Waiting.

I tug my threadbare cloak tighter, though it does nothing to stave off the chill burrowing into my bones.

The cold I feel has less to do with the weather and everything to do with the truth I can't escape: I will never stop running. Not as long as Darius Draven is alive.

He's the reason witches like me are hunted. Not for our blood, but for our power—a fate that, in some ways, feels worse than simple execution.

Part of me almost wishes the vampires only wanted our blood. At least then, the end would be swift.

But Darius has a different plan, one that requires living, breathing witches. He wants to drown the world in darkness, to wipe out humanity in one merciless strike. And for that, he needs our magic.

He needs me.

A flicker of anger sparks in my chest. My life has become a never-ending flight from shadows that seem to whisper my name wherever I go.

I've seen firsthand what happens to witches who fall into vampire's hands: twisted experiments, forced enslavement, magic siphoned in unspeakable rituals until their very souls are hollowed out.

The memory of those empty-eyed witches, drained of will and life, haunts me whenever I close my eyes. I refuse to become their weapon.

My hands curl into fists at my sides, and I feel the familiar tingle of magic stirring beneath my skin. It's restless, eager, an insistent pulse that reminds me it's there whenever I need it.

But I know better than to unleash it carelessly. Magic leaves traces—like footprints in fresh snow—leading vampires straight to me. I've come too far, survived too long, to risk everything now.

A sudden crack echoes through the stillness.

I freeze, every muscle tensing. The forest has been silent, and this abrupt noise is like a stone dropped into a placid lake.

A twig snapping underfoot—someone or something is close. My pulse quickens, each beat a pounding drum in my ears.

Cautiously, I inch forward, peering around the thick trunk. My heart thuds against my ribs, each beat a warning.

Through the soft haze of moonlight and drifting fog, I spot a figure moving slowly through the underbrush.

A torch flickers in their hand, the flame casting jittery shadows over the forest floor. It's just bright enough for me to see the outline of a tall frame and a blade glinting in the flicker of firelight.

A dagger. Sharp and ready.

Not a vampire, then. A human.

That realization should ease my nerves, but it doesn't. Humans can be every bit as dangerous as vampires, sometimes more so.

Some would trade me to Darius for a handful of coins or a promise of safety.

Others—mercenaries, opportunists, or those self-righteous hunters—would burn me simply because I'm a witch. Magic is a threat to them, and threats are often met with steel.

I can't risk being seen.

Slowly, I shift my weight, preparing to slip deeper into the woods. My plan is simple: vanish into the shadows before he even realizes I'm here.

The thick undergrowth and the maze of towering oaks should be enough to cover my escape.

But just as I'm about to move, the figure stops. The torchlight flickers wildly, casting erratic beams that dance across twisted roots and creeping vines. I press myself closer to the tree, willing my heart to slow.

Then I hear a low, confident voice. It slices through the silence like a blade:

"Come out, Witch" he calls, his tone echoing in the hush. "I know you're there."

Damn it.

My fingers twitch at my sides, magic surging beneath my skin like smoke unfurling in the wind.

It's ready to strike at my command, to form wards or conjure illusions—whatever it takes to protect me.

But that would be a last resort. Because while magic is my greatest shield, it's also my greatest liability.

One spell cast in haste, and I might as well be lighting a beacon for every vampire and hunter in the region.

Run or fight.

Those are my only choices now.

I take a slow, deliberate breath, forcing my racing heart to steady. If I have to fight, I'll make it quick—no hesitation, no second thoughts.

I've learned to kill when cornered. Surviving demands it. Yet the idea of harming another human, even one who might be a threat, weighs on me.

I didn't ask for this life of constant danger. But it's the life I have, and I'll do what I must to protect myself.

The forest around me seems to hold its breath, as though waiting to see what I'll do.

Leaves rustle in a faint breeze, and somewhere far off, an owl hoots—a lonely cry in the darkness. But here, beneath the looming branches of ancient oaks, I can almost feel the tension coiling in the air.

I won't hesitate if it comes to that. I won't let anyone drag me to Darius Draven's throne in chains. I won't be part of his twisted plans to tear this world apart.

Because no matter what happens—

I can't let them catch me.