Page 59 of Merciless Is My Crown

Like being swallowed by a ravenous beast.

Terrible magic tinged with an ancient evil, the flavor malevolent in a way I’d never encountered before. Thunder cleaved through my head while beside me, Anaria hissed and grasped her arm—right where that fucking tree was branded into her pale, perfect skin—her mouth parted in a silent scream.

That’s when I knew.

The mark had triggered the ward, sending out some sort of warning.

Anaria had just announced herself to the coven.

Cold slammed into me like a wall when the ward spit me out on the other side, intact but gagging from the dark magic slithering through my veins, a headache pounding in my temples. I caught the reins of Anaria’s horse when she stumbled through.

“Anaria?” I dipped my head to better see her face, her lips clamped into a tight line. “Are you hurt?” I moved my horse closer, brushing snowflakes off her flushed cheek. Even here, in the middle of a barren wasteland, she was so warm. The most alive thing I’d ever seen.

“I’m fine.” She was not fucking fine.

None of this was fucking fine.

Adele turned enough for me to see the satisfied smile on her lips and the hair on my arms rose. She knew. She knew the second Anaria passed through the ward there’d be no going back.

“I want you to stay close to me, ‘Naria,” I murmured, reluctantly letting her go, leaving a trace of jasmine behind. “Your mother has us walking into a trap. And I need you to stay right beside me until we figure out how dangerous this is.”

I pulled out my bow and an iron-tipped arrow from my quiver.

The air here was thinner. Colder.

“Keep your eyes on the ground in front of you and follow me step for step. Avoid anywhere the snow has drifted over; chances are there’s a deep hole,” Dane ordered, casting a pointed look back. “Your horse breaks a leg, I’ll have to put the beast down, and I’m not in the mood for spilling blood today.”

We spent hours winding through a tangle of narrow, open-sky caverns, snow swirling like ghosts in the eddying currents. When the path opened up onto another flat plain edged with steep, hard-edged cliffs, Dane reined in his horse and waited until we caught up.

“We’re close.” His dark eyes picked over the cliff edge above us.

“They’ve got sentries posted every thirty feet or so. Archers.” His face was uncharacteristically pale as he gazed upon the ancient, forbidding stronghold rising up from the flat plain, the twin arches of stone guarding the squat building like a watchful sentinel.

“Those are Stormfall’s gates. Keep your hands off your weapons. Do not even look like you’re thinking about violence. Once we’re inside the gates, expect to be stopped and searched. They won’t be gentle about it, either.”

Fear—the kind I hadn’t experienced in ten centuries—crawled up my throat like bile, leaving a sour taste in my mouth. My wyvern raged to be set free, especially when Anaria threw back her hood and kicked her horse forward, falling into line right behind Dane.

These witches…

The blood drained from my face. These witches and my kind had a dark, twisted past, and not one where my people came out on top. I was a fool for coming, but after Anaria’s kindness…I couldn’t leave her side.

I didn’t know if this urge to remain close to her was the bond or the cursed magic at work, but something tied us together and I’d be godsdamned if I’d let her ride into this trap alone.

I left Adele behind and caught up, not leaving Anaria’s side as we crossed beneath the imposing arches and into a sheltered inner ward where the wind didn’t cut so sharply.

Tavion and I pinned Anaria firmly between us as the host of black-armored witches surrounded us, ordering us to dismount. They were rough as they plucked knives from our belts, sorting through my quiver and testing the string on my bow. If it wasn’t for Dane’s glower, I would have yanked my weapons out of their hands, but he knew their ways better than any of us, and for now, I’d trust his judgment.

These witches were strong beneath their layers of leather armor, moving with a smooth confidence that indicated decades of weapons and combat training. The reek of spent magic hung so thick around them, they all possessed some manner of power.

My guess was, physically and magically, if we had to fight our way out, we were evenly matched.

“The High Priestess is expecting you,” one of them crooned, her teeth sharper than was natural. “Leave the horses. You will not be needing them.”

I met her coal-black gaze and let fire coat my hand as I took my twin knives back and slid them into their sheaths. They wouldn’t do much against the wicked, curved blades that hung from the witch’s baldrics, but they were better than nothing.

“Come. She is waiting.” As if they were controlled by one mind, the host turned and marched into the fortress, the reeking smell—the utter coldness of this place—leaching into me like death itself.

Everything inside was spartan and simple. The witches—mostly women, plus a handful of large, brutal-looking men—were all dressed in black leather doublets, heavy matching divided skirts that were easy to walk in, or plain black pants, their boots ringing against the bare stone floors.

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