There was a cost to Magic. It was a saying common in the lands of Cradle. For where there was Magic, misfortune would surely be close behind. Rumours whispered a farm blessed by the hands of a witch would find itself aflame come winter, or that a child saved by the spell of a mage would grow with a black and rotted heart. That Magic was a volatile, dangerous thing, kept in check only by the First City and its witch hunters. But those were, of course, only that.

Rumours.

Magic exacted a toll. It was never fair, and never kind. It could not be controlled, not by witch and certainly not by man. To ask a service or lash out against it was to invite a cost. And as Taylor Morgan found herself stepping into the glade, she could only assume Magic was to blame for the cost to be so, so awful.

It was a massacre. Armoured men lay scattered amongst the spring blossoms like discarded and broken playthings. Seven of them, with their limbs and spines bent out of shape, curled in on themselves at impossible angles. Crushed underfoot. The stink of meat – of iron and copper – and petrichor hung heavy in the early-morning air. Their horses had fared no better, strung up in the birch trees which marked the clearing’s edge. Their azure heraldry was in tatters, blustering in the summer breeze like morbid bunting. Blue embers danced across the blood-soaked fabric, tracing the familiar crest of a three-eyed crow. Taylor swallowed. The wind stirred, carrying with it the last faint specks of pale fire up and away into an even brighter sky. With it came the soft singing of silver bells, still attached to the saddles despite the chaos.

Witch hunters.

They were not the first Taylor had encountered, but they were the first she had seen up close. The first she had seen dead. She slipped through the trees, keeping to the shadows. Already the corpses were infested with shades.

They were tiny, scuttling things. Like disembodied shadows lost by the animals who had cast them. Each was wreathed in a funeral shroud of black smoke, drinking in the sunlight to leave only an empty, inky abyss suspended in the air where their bodies should have been. They chittered and laughed, scratching at dented metal and tugging at bloodied padding in hopes of sinking their fangs into the soft flesh beneath. What they could reach they tore away, discarding skin and muscle to let it pile up in the sweet grass. It was the hearts and the brains they were after, and the thoughts and fears which lay imprisoned within. Given how these men had probably spent their final moments – and as close as it was to the new moon – it was unsurprising so many of the wretched little things had come to feast.

An easy meal for the scavengers.

The shades paid her no mind as Taylor hugged her crimson cloak closer. So long as she didn’t threaten them, they would continue to ignore her. Shades like these did not attack the living, not unprovoked. She counted them, then counted again. Thirteen. None seemed too large, too powerful. But an easy meal for the scavengers was an easy meal for the predators too, and there was little to separate woodland shades like these. None cast her sideward glances, none sized her up. Only when she was certain did she turn back to where Wormwood waited, framed in the shadows of the woods like some lingering nightmare.

As familiars went, Wormwood was a magnificent beast. He had come in the form of a black lion, two heads taller than she was even on all fours. She had braided his mane back that morning, kept out of his face with golden twine. Bright yellow eyes glinted with an unnatural intelligence, narrowing as Taylor slipped her satchel around to rest on her hip. He trailed through the trees, each step echoed by the chiming of the silver bell at his throat. She tried to ignore him as she fumbled through her bag. By the time she was tugging out a glass jar, Wormwood loomed over her. He shook his head.

“It is not worth it,” he hissed, not once tearing his gaze from the bodies. “Hunters do not travel in such small numbers.”

He was right. He usually was. Hunters travelled in packs, each group formed from a handful of squadrons. They were like wolves, fanning out and closing in to ensure there would be no escape. There would be more, lurking out in the woods, she was certain of it. Every second spent here was another second they would be getting closer. She did her best to push the worry aside.

“Do you want to find out where Thomas is or not?” she whispered back.

“If there are more—”

“It’ll be quick; we’ll be alright,” she replied, earning only a disapproving snort.

Summer had driven the deer from their breeding grounds within the Border Woods, headed to the open meadows and marshlands of the inner kingdom. The shades had followed, an infestation, to snatch away any not strong enough to make the journey. It was the chance they had been patiently waiting for since the winter. There may have been a difference between a fawn and a human, but to a daring scavenger the opportunity a corpse presented was the same, no matter what it had once been.

Taylor had struck a deal, and like it or not, they no longer had time for caution. As if sensing her intentions, her familiar let out a breathy growl.

“They are feeding on people,” he hissed, and when she still crouched down, he sighed. “Be careful, Taylor.”

Her boots sank into the blood-soaked earth as she crept forwards. Her dress swayed around her knees, the white fabric a glowing beacon against the muted greens and greys of the woods. A few of the smaller shades took notice. They squealed as they pulled themselves from the corpses and vanished into the trees. The larger ones, those who had fed well through the season, turned at the disturbance. Taylor froze. They regarded her with formless faces, smoke trailing their movements like ink running in water. Her heart hammered against her ribs, and she was certain they could hear it. Shades may have been unmoved by anything with a steady pulse, but if there was one thing that could draw their attention to the living, it was fear. Taylor took a deep breath and squeezed her eyes shut. She was in control. She was calm. These were scavengers, and scavengers did not attack the living. She exhaled slowly, focussing on how the warm summer breeze caressed her cheeks. Breathe in. Breathe out. When she next opened her eyes, the shades had turned back to the bodies.

Taylor placed her satchel in the mud and wedged the jar between her legs to free up her hands. She took a moment to pull her hair back, gathering the curly red tangles in her fists and tying a loose ponytail with a length of twine. When she was a girl, she had made the mistake of catching shades with her hair loose – a mistake which had led to an unplanned haircut and a scolding from her father.

Flies buzzed around the sallow face of the nearest hunter. Taylor winced, surprised to see the ebony skin and pointed ears of a First City noble. People like that, they rarely left the First City, so what was this one doing here? The captain of the group, maybe? But this corpse wore the colours of a private; the banded mail across their chest was a dull bronze, and the padded armour beneath a dirty cream. The woman – now she was close enough to look past the damage, it was definitely a woman – was young. Too young. Barely older than Taylor herself, maybe twenty at the most? Was this her first time joining a hunt? They weren’t all that far out from the First City, no more than a few days – perhaps whoever was in charge had thought it safe. What a waste. Young enough to have parents, brothers, sisters – people who would miss her. Taylor’s heart ached a little, but she pushed the feeling aside. She needed to stay focussed.

As she unscrewed the lid of the jar, more of the shades took notice. They hissed and seethed at her for daring to disturb their feast, before scattering off into the flowers. Only the largest of the things remained, but she was no threat to them, and unafraid as she was, she most definitely would not be a worthy meal. They turned back to their work. Three left on the dead woman. They’d yet to break through her armour, but the bare skin of her hands and arms and face had been torn to pieces. They weren’t much larger than rats, small enough that between her and Wormwood, they could be dealt with if they turned. The glass was cold beneath her fingers as she took the jar in one hand and the lid in the other. Like a wolf stalking a fawn, Taylor stayed low.

One of the creatures had scrambled up onto the woman’s chest, taking up where the others had left off. The scratching of its claws against metal was almost rhythmic. Screech. Screech. Screech. She moved in time with its scrabbling until she was directly over it. The shade’s form rippled, an almost comically exaggerated shudder running along its spine. Malformed muscles tensed.

The creature shot forwards, but Taylor was ready.

She slammed the jar down. The impact had the last few shades finally losing their nerve, following their brethren off into the woods. The shade flung itself against the glass, screeching and snarling. Its teeth flashed, and it bucked, trying to tip the jar. But Taylor had dealt with shades like this more times than she could count. She kept a steady hand on top and, carefully, slipped the lid beneath. Fast as a flash, she flipped the whole thing right side up. The shade hit the bottom of the jar with a squeal, and before it could even think to clamber its way back out, the lid was screwed on tight.

A smile crept across her cheeks as she held the jar up for her familiar to see. Wormwood’s ears flicked as he scanned the tree-line. His paws crunched through the wild grass as he left the safety of the shadows to join her. He bowed his head, breath fogging the outside of the glass as he inspected the shade. His lips curled.

“Just a scavenger,” he said, “come to feed on the scraps.”

Taylor’s smile faded. “But it’s a large specimen for a scavenger.” Her familiar fell quiet, his ears twitching to follow the sound of a thousand chattering things skittering through the underbrush. She swallowed. “Do you think Jonah will reject it?”

“No. Apologies, I was merely thinking…” He tipped his snout up, nostrils flared. “There must be dozens of corpses in the woods to support this many.”

Taylor could only nod her agreement. While shades had no true form, they – like most creatures – would grow and thrive with enough prey, often taking the shapes of the animals they fed from. Woodlands shades rarely grew larger than a house cat – perhaps a fawn, if they were lucky – and, unable to hunt for themselves, had been designated as “scavengers” by the witches of Cradle. Nowadays, only scavengers were readily found, but there was always a chance they had come across a younger, more powerful shade. Especially if it was choosing to feed on people. Most shades would not dare approach a human, dead or alive.

Most shades.

Taylor held the jar up to the sunshine. The shade writhed and shrank back from the light, searching for any trace of shadow to wrap itself in. What form had it taken beneath that twisting black vapour? A weasel, or something similar – its body was long and slender, shifting and curling in on itself. Glassy black eyes stared blankly back at her. Was there any thought behind that gaze? Taylor worried on her bottom lip. Was it worth the risk, not only carrying it with them but to hand it over to someone else without knowing what it might be capable of? The last thing she wanted was to invite a potentially dangerous shade into their midst. Scavengers posed no real threat, but even the next classification up – the opportunists – she had seen leave grown men crippled. Taylor took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. It was just a chance they would have to take.

Why Jonah Moss had requested a shade was beyond her. Why he had not simply gone out and caught one himself – why he had asked them – was something she had lost sleep over. Laziness, Wormwood had assured her, and Jonah knew it was easier for them than it was for him, and it was nothing worth worrying over; Jonah was a slacker, had been since they were children. What could he do with a simple shade? But she could not help that sinking feeling, like rocks had settled in the pit of her stomach. Her hand brushed her satchel. There was a lot he could do with just one shade. She swallowed, trying to push the thought aside. It was only part of the deal they had made when they had last had the misfortune to cross paths with the witch. Then, she had not been in the position to question his request. She still wasn’t in a position to question it.

He knew where their brother was.

Their task successful, Taylor tucked the jar into her satchel and buckled it shut. They were at least a half-day’s walk from the closest village. Plenty of time to work out if there were any abnormalities with the shade. Plenty of time to quell that little voice in the back of her head before they handed it over.

As for the bodies, well, the shades would be back soon enough. When they had eaten their fill, the foxes and the weasels would take their turn, and then the flies and the worms. The grass would grow over what remained of their armour. Nature would claim their bones, and in a few months, it would be as though this had never happened. Taylor moved to stand.

A hand closed around her wrist.

It took her a moment to process the sensation. Warm and wet, blood smearing up her forearm as the hunter tried to keep her grip firm. Taylor’s eyes widened as the woman let out a breath, and then with a gasp tried to use her as leverage to pull herself upright.

Panic took over. Taylor ripped her hand away, placing both palms flat against the woman’s chest to force her back down. She fought to stay up, but her injuries were draining whatever strength she had left fast. The witch hunter fell back with a breathy whine, her eyes scrunched up tight and her lips twitching out a soundless plea for help.

“Wormwood?” Taylor asked, but her familiar was already moving to check the other bodies.

“Dead, all of them,” he confirmed.

How this one had survived was beyond her, but without immediate attention, Taylor doubted she would live much longer. Her mind raced. She started to move. Wormwood let out a soft growl.

“She is a hunter, Taylor.”

“She’s dying—”

“No.”

“But our Duty—”

“No.”

“She’s young, our age – look at her! This isn’t some veteran. I doubt she’s even claimed a familiar’s bell—”

“She is a murderer,” he said evenly.

Taylor glared at him, but there was a defiant fire burning in her familiar’s eyes, and her resolve crumbled. He had a right to be angry. How many witches had the First City killed? How many like them had the hunters slaughtered? Taylor pressed her lips into a thin line.

The Cull.

An order from the king himself. Witches were dangerous. Magic could not go unchecked. And so, the City had created a counter to them. Knights, trained to combat and execute – to cull – the witches of Cradle. Hunters, like the people lying dead before them.

“Even if she survives, they will blame us,” Wormwood pressed. “We must hurry. If there are others, they will kill us.”

He was right. Of course he was right. Even if they managed to get the woman to the next town over, she was in no position to care for herself. They would have to stay, and this close to the First City? It would only be a matter of time before they were found. Taylor ran her fingers through her hair, tugging a few strands loose from her ponytail. But she knew she couldn’t just leave her, because the woman’s lips were still moving, voicelessly begging for help.

There were only a few sayings that still rang true: that Magic had a cost, and that the Old Ways were dying with every bell the hunters claimed. But Taylor had been raised in the Old Ways, and despite everything, she couldn’t shake that little voice in the back of her head. A Witch’s Duty is to help, Taylor, it insisted, and it sounded like her father, and he was disappointed they were even considering leaving this woman for dead. A witch was not supposed to refuse to help once asked. It was an insult to Magic, to the Old Religion. Wasn’t that why she still donned the colours of her coven, to show she valued her Duty? That she would keep following the Old Ways even in the face of the Cull?

A Witch’s Duty was to help.

Taylor swallowed, but her throat remained too dry, too tight. This hunter did not deserve their help. The woman’s eyes cracked open, barely a sliver, silvery and filled with a dying hope. And there it was again, that ache in her heart which pulled loose the threads of logic. They should leave her to die. It was what she deserved. Or perhaps this was an elaborate trick, and the hunters had finally stooped low enough to injure their own in their desperation to find the last few surviving witches. Maybe Wormwood was right about there being others. Maybe there were scouts hidden in the woods, ready to strike the moment they let their guard down.

But that hope, shining through the pain…

If they could get the woman somewhere safe – get her to a physician – would that count as fulfilling her Duty? She shook her head. Focus. They could get her to the nearest settlement, and they could re-evaluate then – and that seemed to placate the voice for now. Her mind made up, Taylor leant across the woman and started to unbuckle her armour. It would be too heavy, too bulky. It would slow them down. Wormwood watched her work in silence. The woman hissed, tears spilling across her cheeks as Taylor pulled her from the twisted metal. Her under-armour was stained red, still damp to the touch. Wormwood’s expression softened, and only now did he return to Taylor’s side.

“She will die.”

“Then we won’t make it to the next village, and helping her will do nothing more than waste a little of our time,” she replied, and with that, he relented.

Wormwood stooped, nudging his snout beneath the injured hunter. It took them a few minutes to manoeuvre her onto his back and get her secured. By then, the woman had fallen completely still.

She wouldn’t make it.

Taylor could already tell. She had seen it hundreds of times before: the thin sheen of sweat collecting across the hunter’s face; the ragged sound of her breathing. It was in the way the faint traces of Magic – those gentle blue sparks and the stink of petrichor – still clung to her. A cost come due could not be misinterpreted, and for someone’s debt, this woman would die. She would die, alone and afraid, just as her fellows had. Both of them knew it, but neither she nor Wormwood said another word as they started back off into the trees.

.:.

.:.

Boys and girls, a lordly song sing…

Make way, make way, for the Midnight King

The burning of Two Rivers was supposed to end the age of witches. With the covens scattered and the Cull expected to wipe out the last desperate traces of the Old Religion, the Cradle could begin to heal from the scars left by Magic’s wicked claws.

But a forest fire allows for weeds to grow, and from the ashes rise those hungry for revenge.

Now a plan set in motion by witches long dead threatens to bring about an age of darkness. With the King cursed, only Magic can stop the return of an ancient horror lost to bedtime stories and nursery rhymes.

Hunter Eden Fenwick and witch Taylor Morgan are the last people who should trust each other. But if they fail, the Cull will be nothing compared to what’s coming.

Time is running out. The new moon approaches.

30 Days remain.

Interested in Arc reading? Fill out the form below and I’ll get in contact! Thanks! ^^