The Elf Witch |Book 1|

Chapter 8

Dawn came, but the sun didn't rise. An eerie quiet had settled over Norshire overnight.

Throwing open the curtains, Imani was greeted by a foreboding fog. Nothing permeated it except a mournful mist, lightning flashes, and the arid stench of smoke blowing into the Riverlands.

She could feel the fear spreading that their skies would darken permanently as villagers, shaken that it hadn't cleared, appeared to sequester themselves in their homes. While some carried lanterns as they made their way to work, many storefronts remained empty and dark, with the oil lamps the only light. Looking down again, she watched while people peeked out their doors. They shivered as the night charged at them like a wild beast and hugged them in cold, chilling discomfort before slamming them shut again.

Imani squinted her eyes to the south. Night had spread like a disease across the horizon there, then never left, and everyone agreed—except the branded and people familiar with magic—that it was a problem of the other kingdom. Repercussions they'd received from the Gods for their lawlessness and brutal culture.

Indeed, before today, most people in the Essenheim Kingdom shook their heads, refusing to look, even as smoke blew into their lands, carrying the smell of magic and death.

As if sensing her thoughts, booms of wicked thunder rumbled far in the distance over the mountains. Then, a mesmerizing orchestra of lightning lit up the enormous dark cloud over Niflheim, flashing in random sequences for a minute.

After years spent watching this same Fabric storm over the southern kingdom, Imani found it difficult to believe such destruction wouldn't eventually spread here. Abused and chained into submission for far too long, the Fabric always took something in exchange for magic and no one escaped payment. Even here in the sunlight, Imani knew dozens of those who'd already paid.

She'd been one of them—and the price was almost too great to comprehend.

Amongst her mounting worry, Imani kept to the routine she had followed every day for years and made her way into the crumbling alley to unlock their shop. Even in the overcast light she could recognize the intricate details of each oil lamp and navigate the cobblestones that were still wet from last night's snowfall.

Acting normally was especially important after the Fabric Event, and her appearance in the pub last night.

Inside, the shop smelled like it always did with red currant and shaved cedar, a hint of smoke, and musty paper. She sat on the rickety stool behind the counter and opened the thick, ragged-paged ledger, scanning the most recent pages.

Imani didn't have time to waste. They had several orders she'd already planned to collect, and Imani needed everything to go perfectly.

While the unbranded grew ignorant of her kind, other witches didn't forget, and it was only a century ago that people killed female Norn in droves. More powerful witches were captured and prostituted, forced to feed from customers or use their feeding draw for their masters' gains. Her magic skills were so unpracticed, and she could see the appeal of other female witches throwing in with a more prominent coven for protection.

She needed to stay vigilant and focused.

A disturbing thought struck her as she turned to the next page. If Imani could run everything else all these years without the magic, she could do it now that it surged through her veins. Ara did nothing on a whim, and she wasn't stupid. When she died, she knew Imani would eventually possess magic, and it seemed the old witch had planned her death for years, which didn't surprise Imani one bit.

The bell jingled, and she choked on the hysterical laughter threatening as her sister stepped into the shop. Imani had to cover her face to silence her crazed mirth.