"We are the daughters of the witches you burned!"
Abductions and murders are happening in the City of Strey, a place for all types of divine in the Veil. Protected by the Veil, a magical barrier created as a safe haven for the children of the Mothe...
Wraith-like figures cut through the deserted streets, shadows mere wisps. After the destruction of the All Hallows Eve Ball not many dared the night; tending to the wounded or swallowed by relentless grief. None of it mattered, not really, as the Gates surged into view. They had never moved so fast.
"How do we plan on getting through?" Andre shouted. Even his shout was doused.
Emrie Michele picked up speed, running alongside Rosalyn. Hands flying out, magic swirling around her, Emrie Michele knocked the Guards out with a minor sleeping curse. She hadn't lost a step as the cure left her. Ezra whistled in sympathy as the Guards hit the ground like bricks. Rosalyn didn't slow, so none of them did.
"It won't kill them. They'll awake in a few hours with massive headaches, but nothing lasting." They should could themselves lucky, didn't pass Emrie Michele's lips.
The witches, dryad, and the Five breached the Veil, multitudes of colors shimmering as they braced against it. Rosalyn's body ached at the sheer amount of magic washing over her and closed her eyes.
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Biting cold leeched at her skin, shivers so wrecking it jerked her from the dreamless state she'd succumbed to. Millicent's eyes flew open. The first thing she was aware of, besides the insufferable cold, was the metal cuffs chaining her to a stone slab. Terror widened her eyes. She was raised above the ground, positioned high enough if someone stood beside her their hips would rest at the edges of the sacrificial table—and Millicent was sure what she laid on was in fact a sacrificial altar.
She tried to reach for her magic, the constant source of comfort she'd had her entire life. Nothing. She didn't feel an ounce of her powers. I can't even feel the tether linking me to my sister, to the coven. An almost unbearable wave of despair crashed through her, robbing her of breath.
There was no use crying out for help.
Blood trickled from her arms, draining along meticulously carved pathways in the stone so it swirled around her in nauseating smoothness. Dampness settled in the air like a disease, a musty breeze barely lessened the heat of her skin. A different kind of weakness was sapping her strength as her blood continued to leave her.
Millicent moaned.
Mother Goddess—
"She can't hear you here, little witch." A voice void of caring spoke. It was stark, ruthless, and filled with an indifference she knew this person cared nothing for life.
A man stepped from the shadows, as if he bled from it. He wasn't Casimir. This man, who stood with such raw power, had the same red eyes. His, though, held not even a fraction of life Casimir's did. If Destruction could be personified, it would be this creature that hardly passed as a man.
Words fled her, but not the defiance in her gaze. Millicent wished she could have broken her restraints and used them to wipe that arrogant smile off the man's face.
