Page 1 of The Coven of Ruin
Prologue
“Whatisit?”hersister hissed next to her ear, trying to peer at what she had gasped at.
The Weaver, the youngest, was blind in only the sense that she did not have eyesight. She swatted away her sibling impatiently before setting to work again.
“Let me see,” the second eldest whined from her other side.
“For the love of Gaia, be quiet,” the Weaver scolded as her fingers expertly roamed over the forming pattern. A shiver went down her spine and a soft ‘ah’ escaped her dry lips.
“It’s happening, isn’t it?”
“Will he be able to do it?”
The two sisters fidgeted behind her then stilled again.
“He has so much strength,” the Weaver exhaled as her hands worked the threads, “but this is where he is most weak.”
The eldest sighed dramatically, placing her hands over her heart. “I do love a good adventure, though.”
This is more than an adventure—it is Fate.
Chapter I
Trista’smagiclayjustout of reach. A coldness had crept into its place. It swept through her veins, sank deep into her bones, and left her lungs feeling empty. There wasn’t any witchsilver that she could feel in the cell or on her person. That meant it was some sort of god magic built into the architecture itself that left her bereft of her own. She imagined that the Olympian gods had no problem creating such prisons.
The loss of her magic was only one cause for panic. There was also the darkness. Inky and suffocating, it made her wonder how she had ever slept in a dark room without being concerned that something else, monstrous and deadly, wasn’t swimming in its depths. The eerie silence was broken only by the breathing, occasional whispering, and other sounds of the men held in cells around her. And then there was the fact that she had been imprisoned for a crime she hadn’t committed in the first place.
A metal-on-metal sound from above startled her.
“Food!” came the declaration as packages were dropped in their enclosures.
Crawling toward where she thought it landed, she swept the air right above the floor with her hand. The cell was covered in all manner of filth that she tried not to think about too much. The only mercy was that the day before, they had thrown buckets full of water on them from above, washing away some of the muck and stench. It wasn’t worth the aftermath of being cold and wet, though.
This would be her sixth meal in the prison, the only way she found to keep track of time. Her fingers brushed over the bundle, and she scooped it up to her chest. Using her cleaner hand, she unwrapped the cloth from around the food. Warm bread, a sour apple, and a piece of hard cheese. She held the bread to her nose and inhaled its wheaty aroma. Trista was thankful to the point of tears just to smell something other than rot and human waste.
“Eat up, gents, tonight we fight!” a prisoner announced.
She first learned where she was right before meal five, making it sometime that morning. A male voice, brimming with youthful richness, had cried out to ask after he was shoved into the cage. The answer came in the wake of a laugh, “I’d say it is the Underworld, but really this is just a stop on the way. Welcome to The Arena, kid.”
He had cried for hours—loud, body-racking sobs. And Trista had silently wept too.
Now, filled with food and the promise of a fight, the prisoners were more talkative.
“Did any champions get put in here?” A man nearby asked the darkness.
Thick laughter echoed from a cell farther down, followed by, “There are no champions held at The Arena, you dumb ox. They’re housed by the gods themselves elsewhere on Olympus. It’s just us chattel here in this hellhole.”
“By night’s end,” a youthful voice responded, “I intend to be made champion. If I have to be a caged animal, I would rather my cage be in luxury.” At someone’s replying scoff, he insisted, “All I have to do is kill a champion and take their insignia—”
“How has that worked for you thus far?”
“I fought well last round,” he boasted.
“Not well enough, apparently.”
“I understand it better now. Besides, I plan on partnering with a champion, garnering a god’s notice that way.”
“There is no understanding,” a cynical voice reproached. “The gods do what they want. I’ve been here for over a dozen rounds, and each one is as different and unpredictable as the last.”
