To overthrow the cruel King who brutally slaughtered her foremothers, the last surviving water witch Elara Consuli must team up with novice warrior Juda Vikaris from the Serpent Order and realise an ancient prophecy, before the blood-thirsty ruler d...
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"Come on, we have to get you out of here," he said, finally finding his voice, albeit not one he recognised. At least not since his mother had been alive. He'd sounded softer then. He'd been softer.
And he hated that Juda. When the dark moon was at its strongest, and Juda was alone in his cell, he despised the pathetic whelp he'd been more than anyone. More than the Order. More than the bastard nobles. More than the King even. Because if he'd been stronger, if he'd been harder, then he could have stopped it all. He'd have stopped them from dragging Aleina onto that ship and he wouldn't be here now, consumed with a hatred that burned endlessly inside his veins, a loathing he knew would never be satiated even when Ban-Keren lay dead at his feet.
Hatred is a poison, boy, Roth had told him once, drink of it too long, and your heart will rot everything it touches, just as the water does.
Whatever hatred still lurked in Roth's veins, Juda knew it was the reason his guardian reached for the wine these tides more than he ever had, but Juda wasn't Roth and he wasn't the boy he'd once been.
He had to be more than that, especially if he was going to get the witch out of here alive.
Her eyes had taken on a glassy edge, whatever recognition she'd had of him slowly slipping again, a steady drip of fading consciousness.
Juda tapped her on the cheek sharply. "Stay awake, for fuck's sake, or I'll leave you here, by Ban-Keren, I swear it."
The witch's gaze swam into focus, her brow thickening as she looked up into his face. "You...?"
"Yes. Me. Now fucking get up." Reaching behind, he grabbed her clothes and thrust them into her arms as she sat. "Get dressed, or do I have to do that for you too? Quick, now!"
He was the one that moved quickly then, wiping the smears of her blood from the edge of the tub with the hem of his cloak, emptying the contents of two flasks of wine and leaving a third on its side. A drunken man could easily fall unconscious in the bath. An unconscious man could easily drown in the bath. It wouldn't exonerate the witch, of course—and Juda was under no illusions that she'd escape blame here—but with no injuries and no sign of a struggle, it was the best chance he could give her.
Heading next towards the door of the bathing chamber, he listened intently, before opening it a crack. He could hear nothing from the ground floor of the house, but that didn't mean no one was there. Koh-Miralus might have dismissed his servants for the rest of moontide, but no decent house servant would stray too far if they knew what was good for them. A noble's whim could turn on a knife edge. Always best to be ready.
Glancing back, Juda saw the Naiad pulling on her britches, sluggishly sliding one leg up over her ankle. She blinked as if to clear the haze. Thin streams of blood were trickling over her collarbone, diluted by the water that dripped from her hair, pink rivulets running over the curve of her breast.
