Page 11 of The Coven of Ruin
She inhaled raggedly. This ability wasn’t new to her, but she hadn’t accessed it since she was a witchling. It was a generational magic—something passed down from her parents. Auntie Harlow, her caretaker, had forbidden her to use it, seeing as how most witches didn’t want a voyeur lurking in their minds.
Why was it happening now?
“Healer Trista!” Eral called her, and she moved in his direction. She passed two more similarly sunken bodies, one so covered in blood she couldn’t see any identifying features. Her chest constricted and her hands became clammy.
Eral’s dark eyes had never looked icier than they did at that moment. “A hand, Trista!? Mother curse you. What iswrongwith you?”
Her gaze followed the length of his arm, the sleeve of his tunic was rolled up and his forearm covered in blood, to his outstretched hand so they could link and share magic. He had two fingers plunged into a puncture wound, and his magical signature filled the space between them. Placing her palm against his, the familiar drag of his essence on hers was instantaneous.
Stars exploded in her vision. She saw Eral as a witchling, sprinting down the halls, a wild smile on his face. Then as a man sitting alone in his chambers, staring at the gray stone, his cheeks wet with tears. Lastly, to him inside of Elder Lianna, her rocking against him, her head thrown back in ecstasy. Trista was pushed away with a snarl, breaking the connection.
“Get out of here,” he seethed, not bothering to hide the disgust and unease in his tone.
She stumbled onto shaking legs and moved toward the front of the chamber. Elder Sarange called for her as she passed, but she didn’t break stride. Once outside the room, her breaths became so ragged that she had to brace herself against a wall as she fought to steady them.
When she managed to fill her lungs at a slower rhythm, Trista went to the only person she could trust with her secrets.
Aunties were healers turned caretakers, specializing in witchlings. When her parents gave her up to the Akeso as a babe, Auntie Harlow was the one who took her in. She bathed, fed, and played with her. And she was the closest thing to a mother Trista had.
Trista traversed the halls quickly, swiping away sweat and tears as she did. Blood had dried on her palm, and she spent most of the journey wiping it off on the front of her skirts.
Two witchlings almost ran into her when she stepped into the spacious, open-aired courtyard where Harlow was known to spend most of her time with the little ones. They backed up, cheeks reddening.
“Sorry, Healer Trista.”
She forced a smile for them. “Don’t worry about it.”
They gave her toothy grins and ran around her, laughing and squealing as they went. She glanced around the courtyard, spotting another pair of witchlings whispering to each other next to a pillar. All were orphans.
Though students from any coven came to learn at the Akeso, youths that dwelled there year round had been given up by their families. They were covenless. Their magic,their very lives, were owed to it.
She had been such a witchling.
“Trista,” the stern voice of her former nanny traveled across the spacious area. She whirled and spotted her near the lilies.
Auntie Harlow waited with hands fisted on her hips. The moment Trista was within her reach, her caretaker pulled her into a bone-breaking embrace.
Pulling back to inspect her closely, she said, “I heard the bells. Shouldn’t you be there? And are you eating enough? A bit frail and peaky. Do I need to—“
If Trista let her continue, she would be forced to eat an entire six-course meal. “Auntie, I need to speak with you about something. Please.” She tried but failed to keep the edge of desperation out of her voice.
Harlow’s all-seeing eyes searched her before she called out to another caretaker, notifying her that she was stepping away.
The plump witch guided her to her chambers with a firm hand pressed into the small of her back as if she knew Trista was on the verge of shattering. Once inside her cramped quarters, Harlow beckoned her to sit down on her overstuffed settee as she entered the kitchen. There was no way Trista would get out of this without a warm cup of tea and at leastsomethingto eat. Once they were both settled, tea in hand and biscuits on the table, Harlow looked at her expectantly.
Where did she even begin?Auntie, I was kidnapped by a god over a crime I didn’t commit, thrown in a prison on Olympus, and then forced to fight to the death. Oh, and The God of War himself saved me, and we sealed a life debt? And now I can’t be around blood, and my familial magic is suddenly happening as if I don’t have any control over it.
Her face reddened.
“Just say it, girl. There are no secrets between us. I have bathed you and fed you from my own breast.”
Trista sighed, collected herself, and then began recounting the events of The Arena.
“There was so much blood and the bodies…” She shuddered, and Harlow patted her hand as she moved closer to wipe her tears away.
“Then a god came for me.” She paused at her old caretaker’s expression but rushed ahead anyway. “It was Ares, The God of War, and he—“
Harlow gasped, her russet eyes widening as she muttered something under her breath.
