“No, no. You look perfect,” Trista blurted out, and the witch smiled shyly.
Demurielle had the uncanny ability to wake up from carriage naps looking lovely. Hailing from The Coven of Sun and Gold, she was beautiful in the same way flowers were—bright and charming. Her blonde hair was skillfully braided down her back, and she had jeweled lagoons for eyes. Dressed in a flowing lilac gown, her flawless golden-tanned skin glowed. She looked all the part of a Spellspire witch.
Zyana, on the other hand, wore pants and a loose-fitting tunic that she tucked into the front. Her hair was short, tight curls that she took the time to ensure were in place. True to The Coven of Mountain and Moss, she had a dagger strapped to her waist. With an almost permanent look of vexation on her face, her full dark lips pursed, she always seemed slightly annoyed. Trista thought she looked like the type of witch who could survive The Arena.
“So do you! Let’s just hope when we get there, we still look like this and don’t smell like a pile of dragon dung,” the sun witch scrunched up her nose as if the very thought was horrifying. Zyana huffed a laugh with a sincerity that hadn’t been there just over a week ago.
“We can only hope,” Trista added with mock seriousness. “I didn’t mean to stare. I was just deep in thought.”
When Demurielle looked at her eagerly, as if she wanted her to explain what she had been thinking about, Trista scrambled for something else to bring up. Clearing her throat and looking between the two witches, she asked, “Why did you choose to go to the capital?”
“I’m the only daughter,” Zyana said first, “and they grew tired of me avoiding the coven mages. Ididn’tchoose. They didn’t tell me anything until I was already standing in front of a carriage with a packed trunk.“ Her fingers fiddled with the ties on her tunic. “I plan on figuring something else out when I get there. I will not be a pawn.”
Demurielle peered at her with concern creasing her features. Turning her attention to Trista, her expression brightened. “Purely because I am unwed. My father is in a position of authority in the coven and I was always meant to marry well. But almost every unattached witch and mage is somewhere in these carriages. I was told the main reason is because the prince and princess are looking for their partners.”
Zyana nodded in agreement that she had heard the same.
Demurielle leaned forward, “Though I like mages as much as the next witch, I’m excited about the fashion and dancing. It’ll be months of events and entertainment. They haven’t held Circes insooooolong. It is going to be soextravagant,“ she gushed.
“Let’s be honest,” Zyana started with a glare thrown in the sun witch’s direction, “the Circes this time around is just glorified matchmaking. Fewer witchlings are being born every year. This is nothing but a desire to boost the population while conducting whatever political games are afoot nowadays.”
Demurielle wrung her hands but didn’t say anything. The three of them fell into a contemplative silence. It wasn’t far-fetched. The generation that Trista belonged to were having far fewer witchlings than the previous. And when they did, they were usually fatally ill. She had even heard some experiencingthe loss,the death that comes from reaching the depth of one’s magic, before they could even cry for their mother. Without solving the issue of why, it wouldn’t matter if every single witch in all of Witch Country fell in love.
A couple of hours later, when the carriage abruptly stopped, Zyana rushed to open the door only to be met with a gruff, ‘stay inside’ from a guard. They shared a concerned look with each other before Zyana, who was sitting closest to the doorway and farthest from the window, leaned over Demurielle to look out of it. The other witch reclined to give her better access. Trista peered out of it as well but didn’t see anything.
“What’s happening?” Demurielle asked, her voice muffled.
“I don’t see anything,” Zyana grumbled at the same time the guards yelled, “Right flank!”
The mountain witch flopped back in her seat, her glance landing first on Trista and then Demurielle.
“It’ll be fine. You’ve seen the number of escorts they gave us.” Zyana tried a reassuring smile, but Trista couldn’t help but notice her hand drift to the long dagger at her side.
They stared at one another as they struggled to hear anything from outside. Blowing out a frustrated breath, Zyana reached to open the door.
Demurielle grabbed her wrist and hissed, “They told us to stay inside!”
“I’m not going to hide in here if something is happening out there.” Zyana peeled the other witch’s fingers from her wrist, opened the door, and shut it promptly behind her.
Yelled commands, and the clashing of metal on metal faintly resonated within the confines of the carriage, and then silence. Just when Trista’s panic began to tighten her chest, the carriage door opened to a winded Zyana.
“It’s taken care of,” she said, offering Demurielle a hand to exit.
She hesitated only a moment before taking it. “What happened?” The blonde witch huffed out as she gathered her skirts and stepped down.
Offering her hand to Trista next, Zyana recounted the events. “Masked mages had blocked the path up ahead.” As Trista exited the carriage, Zyana gestured to the area she was referring to. “Obviously, they were well outnumbered, but they were demanding to search the carriages.”
This was the most spirited Trista had seen her.
“It led to a minor scuffle, but they ended up retreating. Several of the guards were dispatched to bring them down.”
“Who were they?” Trista was aware of the dangers that came with traveling, but the paths they had stuck to were fairly well taken care of and secure. Why would someone attack them all the way out here?
Zyana shrugged and a thoughtful frown pulled at her mouth. “They wore masks. The guards were unsure, but concluded it was probably a group of vagabonds that were looking to cause a disruption and didn’t realize the number of soldiers within the convoy. At first glance, we look to be an easy target.”
Demurielle took two steadying breaths and then slapped Zyana’s arm, each hit punctuating her words. “Next time, listen to the guards,” she scolded. “If you get yourself killed, we will have to find some other grumpy witch to be a part of our trio!”
Zyana stepped away from her slapping hands and was smart enough to look properly chastised, if not a little confused.