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01 THERE IS FIRE
—THERE is a male with hair of hearth fire, and he is screaming.
Lucien Vansera's knees are kissing the mosaic tiled floor below him, and they show no signs of stopping.
A female, the Witch, stands above him, her own hair a deep red wildfire and her eyes a piercing black. The whole of her right hand is soaked and dripping vile viscera down to the toes of her heels, and a small object is nestled delicately in the space between the nails of her pointer finger and thumb.
She inspects it closely with casual interest. All the while, Lucien continues to scream in agony at her feet. The sound is like music to her pointed ears.
"Please," he begs, and she decides this is the real music.
She's been longing for an outlet ever since that building came down around her days ago. She'd been lucky to escape that hidden Summer Court vault unscathed, but the threat on her life had been made and almost executed to completion. The anger still simmers beneath her skin as she thinks about how her 30 years of arduous work could have been all for naught.
"It was that large male, the one with wings of leather and the red stones," the Summer Court denizens had whispered around her as she snuck away, "from the Night Court. He must have been lost in his cups."
But the Witch knows better than to believe that nonsense. He'd been there, during her visit to the Night Court's palace only four years ago, clearly displeased by her presence. He'd also been there during the war; she can remember his legion well. Only a measly foot soldier then but leading his comrades as a general would.
It was no coincidence that he destroyed that building while she was snooping around inside it.
Her gaze falls back to her sticky fingers. She imagines for a moment that it is the Illyrian brute's hazel eye, and that it is his stocky body kneeling at her mercy instead of this fox. The thought brings her immeasurable joy.
"Please," he says again, disrupting the mirage. She rolls her eyes; begging is only pleasing for so long.
An emissary, she scoffs to herself, a clear offense from the High Lord of Spring. Well, she thinks, two can play at that game.
The russet irised eye rolls down her fingers and into her awaiting palm. Below her, Lucien looks up, his breath a heavy, strangled pant. His hands cover the gaping hole and mess of skin on the left side of his face, and blood is seeping through the crevices of the tanned and lanky fingers, pooling at his knees. The sight is ghastly, and she can't help but grin as she crushes her hand into a tight fist.
He whimpers now, horror painting the visible portion of his profile while he watches the remnants of his stolen eye ooze out of the cracks of her hand.
