“Come. The ritual is starting soon,” Pale-Eyes continues.
We retrace our steps, and I try to memorize every turn, keeping track of where everything is, in case we need to make a quick escape.
A rhythmic beat of drums grows louder as we approach the ritual grounds. The witches’ pace quickens, urging me to follow them toward the edge of the clearing. The flickering firelight casts long shadows, and the women gathered in formation sway in time with the drums. The intensity of the music builds, a pulse that resonates deep in my bones.
“You’ll stay here,” one witch says, her voice sharp. “Do not move forward, as you may ruin the magic our sisters weave.”
I don’t answer. My gaze is fixed on Arlet, who steps forward, bathed in the firelight. My heart clenches in my chest. I want to be closer, to be with her, but the witches block my way, forcing me to remain at the outskirts.
One of them speaks again, her voice colder now. “You are not to join. If you do, we will kill you. Remain here, or die. Do not test us.”
I don’t notice their formations and rite objects, my eyes land directly on Arlet as she steps forward.
Everyone is bathed in dark hues, but Arlet… she is radiant in the steaming air, a new green and pink dress clinging to her frame like water silk. The fabric gathers at her breasts, tapers at her waist, and flows down to the ground, the slit up one side revealing long, pale skin streaked with fire lit gold.
She moves like something untamed—wild and laughing, her hands slick with the berry-stained dye the witches have painted on her. The color is striking, strange against the deep red I’ve seen on her hands before.
Blood-red. War-red. The red of something taken, something stolen.
But this is different. This is hers. Given freely.
A smile spreads across her face, and my chest clenches with an ache I don’t know how to name.
She’s a wild, free thing.
One of the witches speaks, her voice rising above the drums, and the tempo quickens as the ritual shifts.
One steps forward with purpose. I assume it is the leader called Maelira. She carries a ceremonial dagger, its blade carved from dark obsidian, its handle wrapped in woven silver thread. The other witches slow their movements, circling around Arlet as Maelira approaches—the drumming changes, steady, low. It’s a heartbeat against the night.
Arlet stills, chest rising and falling with exertion, her cheeks flushed from the dance. She meets Maelira’s gaze as the witch takes her hand, turning her palm upward beneath the glow of the full moon.
“This is our covenant,” Maelira murmurs, voice powerful. “Blood, given freely, under the eyes of those who came before us.”
She presses the blade against Arlet’s palm, and a thin line of crimson blooms. Arlet flinches but does not pull away.
Maelira lifts her own hand and slices a matching cut across her palm. Then, she presses their wounds together. A shiver runs through the air, a pulse of something unseen.
Arlet breathes out slowly.
The gathered witches murmur in unison, their voices weaving together, pulling at the air, at the night itself. Maelira tilts her head back, letting the blood drip from their joined hands into a small stone bowl. The liquid glows as it touches the surface, swirling with threads of gold and deep violet, magic laced within.
The earth hums beneath my feet.
Maelira releases Arlet’s hand, lifting the bowl toward the moon. The light catches in the liquid, sending shimmering reflections across the gathered women.
“The first step is done,” she declares, her voice carrying over the clearing. “In the morning, let Ashra show us the way to unmake it!”
Melodic grunts are chanted faster and faster as the blood moves up toward the moon, vanishing in the air.
The women break apart, their steps shifting into something more frenzied, something primal.
Their arms are thrown wide, hips swaying, feet pounding against the earth in rhythm with the song rising to the sky.
At first, Arlet hesitates, caught between watching and joining, but the hesitation doesn’t last long. One of the humans grabs her hand and pulls her in, and instead of resisting, she laughs.
Gods, the sound of it.
Unbidden, I remember how she looked under me as I’d made her come. Red hair splayed over our shared bed, sweat trailing down the column of her throat and beading on her forehead. The pale cream of her skin had given way to a vibrant red flush.