The young witch rode her steed through the forest, her thoughts tangled and restless. Warmth spread across her face as her teeth sank gently into her lower lip, bashfulness glimmering in her eyes despite her efforts to suppress it. The memory refused to leave her mind.
Why did he speak so freely? So boldly, without restraint. No man had ever spoken to her in such a manner. Not once. And it wasn't as though she had ever given them reason to. The only men she had ever exchanged words with were merchants at the market and male servants at the estate, and even then, the conversations were short, polite, and strictly business. Nothing more.
Her lips pressed together as she urged the horse forward, guiding it back in the direction of the cottage. Though her anger toward the old witch had settled into something quieter, it had not disappeared. Forgiveness was far from her heart. What Oryen had done—slipping into her mind without consent—was a crime that could not simply be overlooked. Not even after the chaos that followed in the forest.
Still, she had no choice.
The young witch did not want to return, but the forest was not an option. Never again. One night, she told herself. Just one. She would endure it, leave at the break of dawn, and never look back. The thought gave her some comfort, and she nodded faintly as if sealing the decision.
Above her, the moon returned to full view, silver and watchful. The rain had completely vanished, leaving behind only muddy ground and an unusual freshness in the air. The scent of wet earth clung to the forest, sharp and clean. Speed's hooves struck the ground in a steady rhythm until they came to a sudden halt, reins pulled sharply in her grip.
Her brows drew together as her ocean-blue eyes swept across her surroundings.
Crack.
The sound snapped through the still night, sharp and unmistakable. Dydra's gaze flew toward it, her heart skipping violently as she caught sight of a shadow shifting between the trees. Her breath caught. What was that? Her mind raced. Could it be the elite stranger from earlier?
Crack.
Another snap followed, closer this time. Too close.
Her grip tightened on the reins as instinct took over. She was ready to bolt, ready to flee without looking back. Then a voice cut through the tension—calm, familiar.
"Dydra."
Her heart nearly leapt from her chest, like a startled bird taking flight. The shadow moved closer, moonlight reflecting off half of a face. Her ocean-blue eyes met a single icy one, and terror seized her. Her mouth parted as an earth-shaking scream tore from her lungs, echoing through the forest and sending birds scattering from the treetops.
She was just about to dig her heels in and force the horse into motion when the figure stepped fully into the moonlight.
"Oryen."
Relief crashed over her so suddenly her knees nearly gave out. She shot the older woman a glare sharp enough to cut stone, pressing a palm to her chest as she struggled to calm her racing heart.
"Dear heavens," she breathed. "Oryen, why would you scare me like that?"
The raven-haired woman looked genuinely guilty. "I didn't mean to," she said softly. "I wasn't sure if it was you or someone else. You didn't have a coat on when you left the cottage." Her gaze flicked to the thick fabric draped over Dydra's shoulders, curiosity stirring beneath her concern.
Dydra's hand moved unconsciously to the coat, her fingers brushing over its fine texture. "An elite gave it to me," she said quietly, almost absently.
The memory surged forward—his arm reaching out, steady and sure, breaking her fall. Heat rushed to her face, and she was grateful for her dark skin, which concealed the blush threatening to betray her.
Oryen's eyes widened. "An elite?" she repeated, disbelief lacing her tone.
Her gaze dropped, studying the young witch more closely—the quality of the fabric, the way it fit her form. Understanding dawned. He must have mistaken her for a woman of class. Oryen did not push further, though the air between them shifted, the earlier warmth dissolving as both women remembered why they stood beneath the moon at such an hour.
Guilt and regret flickered across Oryen's face while Dydra struggled to keep her anger contained.
"Why did you do it?" Dydra asked. Her voice was sharp, each word like broken glass pressed into skin.
"It was the only memory that strongly connected you to your witchcraft," Oryen replied, her voice sincere.
Images flooded Dydra's mind—her grandmother's final breath, the weight of loss pressing down on her chest. She clenched her jaw, refusing to let the tears fall.
"Why do you want me to learn witchcraft so badly?" Her voice trembled as she stared at the woman responsible for the ache tightening around her heart.
"Because it is who you are," Oryen answered. "We are sisters of different clans, separated only by the kinds of spells we wield. It is my duty to remind you of yourself, to ensure you can protect your life."
She left the rest unsaid. The truth was far heavier, far more dangerous. Oryen could not risk it—not now. Not when the young witch was already drowning in pain. Too much anger could awaken power neither of them were ready to face.
Dydra said nothing. She broke their gaze and looked up at the sky, blinking slowly to chase away her tears. After a long moment, she spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Get on."
Oryen did not hesitate. She mounted behind her, and together they rode back toward the cottage in silence.
Unbeknownst to them, a pair of midnight eyes followed their every move from the shadows. He had heard every word. His gaze narrowed as a sudden spark of red flared within his eyes, vanishing as quickly as it appeared.
"A witch," he murmured.
As the women disappeared from sight, his attention shifted to the dark stallion behind him. He stroked its temple thoughtfully, lost in his own calculations.
"Prince Leonard," a voice called from behind.
The night held its breath.