If he closed his eyes, he could still see it so clearly—the sight of his mother
in agony, engulfed in flames.
Nearly ten thousand soldiers marched through the Asdra Plains, a
landscape with nothing to entice the eye but the thick forests that flanked it.
The plains were not far from Cuscull at all, cut through by a highway road
that led from Tayiri to Cuscull. Troops marshaled by Tayiri's Prince Reust
marched along this road on their way to Cuscull. This crown prince was
Cecelia's older brother, much sterner than their father in temperament, and
he had disapproved of his royal father's decision to send aid requests to the
neighboring countries.
The Tayiri people were known for their valor in battle, and they
regularly boasted that their soldiers could beat Farsas's in hand-to-hand
combat. In the eyes of the military officers of Tayiri, Reust included,
Cuscull was a country of five hundred mere mages at best—no different
than an irritating pest. It didn't matter to them that such a number of magic
users was ten times more than a normal country possessed.
The troops Reust commissioned, commanded by a trusted general in his
place as he remained in the castle, made their way with no troubles. At their
current pace, they would reach the castle in Cuscull in another two days.
"…They'll reach the target in twenty minutes."
The scout's report made all in the forest tense up.
Cuscull mages were lying in wait. For the past several days, they had
made meticulous preparations to ambush the Tayiri army. Riding high on
prebattle excitement, one mage said, "Can't wait to see the looks on their
faces."
"It'll be over before that happens. They don't have any mages on their
side. They can't use or defend against magic."
Their hushed whispers were as much to reassure one another as anything
else.
Another mage piped up loudly, "They're just a pack of delusional fools
who think they're strong, even though they don't even have any magic.
They better realize who's going to be controlling whom."
Upon hearing such scornful derision, the Cuscull soldiers all around
them exchanged uncomfortable looks. Not able to use magic themselves,
the soldiers ended up on the receiving end of numerous openly
contemptuous glances. Leaning against a tree trunk, Renart rolled his eyes.
The oppressed had flocked together to form a country, and now they
looked down on anyone who wasn't one of them. That was the current state
of affairs. The few soldiers that Cuscull commanded had been brought to
the fledgling nation for a number of reasons. Some were the family
members of mages who had come; some agreed with Cuscull's founding
principles; some were simply in it for the promise of new money.
Whatever the purpose, they faced worse treatment than the mages
because they could not cast spells. Peeling the veneer off the so-called
nation of mages revealed this underneath. It was still a long way away from
any sort of stability derived from a ruler with overwhelming power. It was
not yet Tuldarr.
Originally from Tayiri, Renart was a youthful mage fighting for Cuscull.
He loathed seeing how those around him were behaving and shut his eyes.
The murmurs persisted, even in the dark.
"Anyway, the witch is getting her revenge now, isn't she?"
The atmosphere of the forest grew even more fraught at that.
They were talking about the woman who had suddenly been made the
king's bride.
She was terribly beautiful, with black eyes and hair, and she destroyed
five enemy cities as soon as she arrived in Cuscull. There was no warning
and no mercy given to women and children. Her power was so tremendous
that it inspired more fear and awe than joy in victory among the mages of
Cuscull. Because they were mages themselves, they understood her power
far outstripped that of any human.
"…So she really is a witch?"
"Most likely. I don't know which one she is, but I pray she's not the
Witch Who Cannot Be Summoned. That's the one who destroys countries."
"Best not to interact with her. She's only our ally for as long as we don't
upset her."
A while back, a member of the royal council by the name of Kagar came
to invite her to Cuscull, but he incurred her wrath and got himself cut down
in cold blood. The king had now set her free to do as she liked. No one
wanted to be her next victim.
"A witch? Now isn't that interesting," cut in a very relaxed voice.
Renart opened his eyes. There was now a man standing in the middle of
the group—the chief mage of Cuscull, Bardalos. He wasn't very tall, and
his looks were nothing to write home about. His eyes glinted with a sadistic
gleam, however, constantly seeking out his next prey.
"The witches can change the course of history, or so they say. Don't you
think it's actually pretty good luck that we've got one at our disposal?"
Bardalos asked leadingly, but all fell silent. Not only were they afraid of the
witch—they were also afraid of Bardalos. Originally hailing from a small
eastern country, he was a criminal who had carried out numerous mass
murders in the towns and villages of his homeland. After wiping out the
team sent to take him down, he was banished and went into hiding. Now he
had reappeared as the chief mage of Cuscull.
Seeing that no one would answer him, Bardalos snorted and pointed out
at the plains just beyond the edges of the forest they were concealed in.
"Well, it's just about that time. They're walking right into our
slaughterhouse. Let's burn them to the ground."
At that, everyone squinted out at the rolling fields. As Renart gazed at
the shadowy shapes of troops marching closer, he thought of the flames on
a day long ago.
Ever since Renart could remember, he and his mother had lived in a
cabin in the forest.
His dad died before he was born. His mother was an embroidery artisan
who went into town once a week to sell her work and buy food with that
money. Renart himself, however, was not allowed to go into town.
Unfortunately, the forbidden was all the more alluring. One day, he
slipped out of the house and snuck into town, where he met a group of
children his age and showed them what he always did. He used magic to
retrieve a girl's hat that had fallen into a pond. She was in tears, so he
thought she'd be happy. When he presented her with the hat, however, she
slapped it away with a look of abject fear. The children scattered and fled,
and scary-looking guards chased after him.
Renart desperately ran all the way home.
Even now, he could clearly remember the look of despair on his
mother's face when she heard his hurried explanation. When they ran out of
the house without even packing their belongings, the guards from town had
just arrived. They saw Renart and his mother trying to escape and lit a
bottle they'd brought with them. Then they threw the flaming container of
oil toward the house, at the two of them. Renart's mother shoved him away
just in time, and he fled into the forest.
He looked back once, only to see his mother in her death throes,
writhing in agony in the flames.
"…My mother wasn't a mage," Renart muttered to himself.
His mother had died for his mistakes, but mage haters had been the ones
who'd actually killed her.
Renart didn't think of joining up with Cuscull as fleeing to safety. It was
a means to carry out something he knew he had to do.
Even now, he could recall the faces of the men who killed his mother.
They were still young at the time of the fire, and over the years they went
from guardsmen to officers in the army. He knew exactly where they were
stationed.
Revenge.
Redemption.
Those were Renart's only reasons to live.
Thus, when he saw the large-scale spell enacted across the plains…
Renart felt a dark exhilaration. Those men would die on these grasslands.
They deserve to go up in flames, roiled with agony, just like my mother did
that day, he thought.
"We really stepped in it this time. We're marching out to the middle of
nowhere." The general laughed dryly, surveying the army from horseback
in the middle of the Asdra Plains. "We've gotta get this over with quickly
so we can go home and give a good report to His Highness. We'll make a
nice clean sweep of those filthy mages. Ah, maybe we'll bring a few of the
nasty curs back as tribute. Chop them up alive."
Flattering laughter rang out around him. The general was in good spirits
and sported a grin on his face. Suddenly, a messenger dashed over from the
vanguard at top speed. The general's expression quickly soured.
"G-General, we have a problem!" cried the messenger.
"Yes, what is it?"
"There's an invisible wall up ahead… It's blocking our advance!"
Just as the general was about to spout That's absurd! the ground beneath
them shimmered. From horseback, the general watched as a red spell
configuration materialized and expanded across the ground as far as the eye
could see.
"What is this…?"
The general leaned forward to get a better look. No sooner had he done
so, however, then crimson flames leaped up from the design and swallowed
him whole.
"Now there's a sight," said Bardalos, hungrily observing the blazing plains
from midair. He could see the figures of thousands of soldiers writhing and
collapsing amid the flames below his feet.
The mages had laid out a far-reaching fire ignition spell on the plains in
advance. They waited for the Tayiri troops to pass over it, and then they
activated it.
It was all done under Bardalos's command, and he watched the sea of
flames with delight. As he was taking in the sight of the enemy soldiers'
anguish, a voice from the ground hailed him.
He looked down at his subordinate. "Yes?" he asked.
"Lord Bardalos! They're breaking in from the south!"
"Oh, are they? Well, I'll be. Let's go meet them, then," Bardalos
declared, an intrigued smirk on his face as he mounted his horse.
Cuscull and Tayiri were now in open war.
The Tayiri cavalry emerged from the flames amid cries of anguish and
death throes and the awful stench of burning flesh. Their faces were masks
of mad rage as they charged at the mages, who poured from the forest to
meet them. Waves of magic hit the Tayiri soldiers one after another, setting
them ablaze.
Undaunted, the soldiers kept coming in a rushing torrent that soon
reached those Cuscull mages on the front lines. They trampled over the
magic users who had fallen to a stab of their spears, and the cavalry soldiers
brandished their swords.
"Kill them! Kill them!"
None could tell from which side the cry had come. All anyone could do
was muster their sword or spell. Renart fell back to a part of the forest the
soldiers hadn't penetrated and set up a defensive barrier. Shielded from the
growing flames, he looked for the former guards who had wronged him
years ago.
Inside, he hoped they'd already fallen prey to the licking tongues of fire.
If they hadn't, Renart was ready to slay them himself. He began a new
incantation.
Just then, an explosion went off right next to him.
A scorching hot wave blew through his magical defense wall. Renart
whirled back, and his jaw dropped open.
The forest just behind him was gone.
This was Bardalos's doing. From atop his horse, the chief mage laughed
as he let loose more magic attacks.
"Go on and kill them already. If you don't hurry, they'll all be gone!" he
shouted. This was the voice of a man who was clearly enjoying himself. He
sent out another fire explosion. Those mages running about trying to escape
found themselves reassured by Bardalos's power and confidence. With a
renewed will to fight, they began pushing back against the Tayiri soldiers.
After the front line moved past, the air filled with silence and a cloying
heat.
All that was left were dead bodies burned to a crisp by Bardalos's
magic. Renart saw that among the dead lying there was a soldier who was
once his ally. Secretly, Renart let out a sigh of grief.
Less than an hour later, a great number of people lay dead.
As the fires began to wane, the scene they revealed was so horrific that
most of the mages turned green at the sight.
Charred corpses blanketed the earth as far as the eye could see. The
nausea-inducing spectacle and foul smell hanging in the air were so intense
that the mages would likely never forget what they'd witnessed. While
victory clearly belonged to Cuscull, the aftertaste was brutal. The
suffocating nature of war made it difficult for anyone to speak.
Renart felt suffocated, too, as he sprinted through the forest. He clicked
his tongue in annoyance as he caught sight of three soldiers running around
screaming like chickens with their heads cut off.
He wondered why they were so desperate to survive at the loss of their
dignity. Surely, they should've perished in the blaze. How selfish of them to
want to live after taking his mother's life. Someone who killed another had
to be ready to suffer the same fate themselves, after all.
Like a huntsman stalking his prey, Renart sent out a blade crafted of
wind. It pierced the back of the man lagging the farthest behind, and he fell.
When Renart stepped over his body to pass through, he looked at his face.
He'd gotten a little older, but it was definitely one of men who'd
murdered his mother ten years ago. The man was already dead, with a trail
of blood leaking from his mouth. His eyes were bulged in fear over his
untimely death.
Renart was a little surprised to realize that this inspired no emotion in
him.
He thought he'd feel satisfied, but he didn't. All he felt was dull and
numb, as if he was submerged in cold water. It was like realizing that the
person he thought he was this entire time had actually been sloughed off
along the way. His body kept going out of pure momentum.
The second one was within range, and Renart shot him down with
magic, and he crumpled to the ground like paper. He'd likely died instantly,
but Renart didn't look at his face… He didn't want to see.
The third one tripped on a tree root and fell to the ground.
Crawling forward, he looked back and begged in vain, "Someone save
me…"
Renart muttered to himself, "Mother pleaded for the very same thing…"
No one came to help her, however. They had killed her in cold blood. So
why did they want to live now?
Renart hummed an incantation, and a blade of wind appeared. The man
saw it and feebly shook his head. "Please… I don't want to die…"
Renart looked down at the man, lifting his summoned sword.
Thoughts of his mother's last moments and of ten years of hatred came
rushing back. All of that would finally end here.
As he narrowed one eye, he heard the man sobbing.
His right hand was hot from the magic he'd manifested. The time he'd
waited for was finally here. He'd dreamed of this—the end of the vision
seared onto his mind. There was no cause for hesitation.
That was why…
And yet—
For some reason, he just couldn't manage to bring his summoned blade
down.
Renart stared at the trembling man. And a command fell naturally from
his blood-caked lips.
"…Go."
He lowered his hand. The blade made of magic vanished.
"Go! Don't let me see you again! Get out of here!"
At that, the man rushed to get to his feet and took off deep into the
forest. Renart buried his face in both hands so he wouldn't see this. He took
a deep breath to calm his agitated breathing.
Then he heard a jarringly blasé taunt from behind him. "Oh-ho? What
do you think you're doing? Don't tell me you let the enemy escape?"
The tone was mocking. Renart turned to see Chief Mage Bardalos, with
a cynical smirk twisting his face. He eyed Renart. "I thought I said not to let
a single one get away. Am I wrong?"
"…You're not wrong."
"Well, whatever. I'll chase him down and kill him. You head back."
"Wai—" Renart started to cry out, then bit his tongue.
Bardalos snickered as he tore into him. "What is it? Are you telling me
not to end his pathetic life? He's a soldier who entered a battlefield. Don't
you think he knows death is a possibility?"
"He no longer has the will to fight," Renart argued.
"Do I look like I care? If he doesn't want to fight, he shouldn't have
come out here in the first place. Or…what? Do you want to die in his
place?"
"…Excuse me?" Renart said, utterly at a loss for words as he stared at
the man before him. Bardalos's eyes were filled with a mad, murderous
glee. To him, it was all the same if he killed the enemy soldier or if he killed
Renart.
Great mages had the power to kill people as easily as cutting blades of
grass. That was what it meant to be a mage.
Renart let out a ragged breath. An unspeakable exhaustion weighed
heavy on him.
Maybe I wouldn't mind dying, he thought. He'd die covering for an
enemy he thought he wanted to kill. He wanted to burst out laughing.
But—enough. He needed to end things here.
Just when Renart made up his mind, a woman's thin voice cut in.
"That man is my attendant. I'll thank you not to bully him too much."
The voice was unfamiliar, and Renart looked over his shoulder.
There in the forest permeated with the scent of blood stood a ravenhaired woman, the king's favorite.
She was so beautiful it almost looked artificial. Bardalos gave her a dark
smile. "Well, well, well, Lady Aeterna. When did you arrive?"
"Only moments ago."
"Well then, I do apologize for not meeting you personally. You appear
quite exhausted. Was it that tiring giving the declarations of war to the other
countries? I would've happily done that for you." Bardalos's tone was
openly mocking.
Renart took a closer look at the woman. She did look terribly pale-faced.
He could even detect fluctuations in her power, as if she'd spent too much
magic.
She only eyed Bardalos with a haughty stare, despite his sarcastic
attitude. "This way was faster. Ignore deserters. Treat the wounded and go
back to Cuscull."
"…Very well," Bardalos said, wiping his expression blank and bowing
before teleporting away.
The woman glanced at Renart. Before he could even gasp at the
darkness of her eyes, she'd already vanished, too.
"…Thank you for what you did back there," Renart said, his head
bowed. He had come to the woman's chambers after returning to the palace
of Cuscull.
She was sprawled along a couch by the window, looking indolently up at
the sky. It was as if she hadn't noticed him there at all.
Despite her seemingly paying Renart no mind, he inquired, "Why did
you save me?"
While he was her attendant, he had never spoken to her. He only knew
what she was.
She was the fearsome woman the king had brought back. She was the
one who would be queen someday. This was a woman who did not get close
to anyone and never smiled. People spoke of her as a doll made of ice
whose only job was to kill.
Renart did not believe all the rumors, though he did think of her as one
far removed and above himself. Bardalos probably saw through all the
rumors, too.
She finally flicked her eyes over to Renart expressionlessly. Her voice
was devoid of any inflection as she answered quietly, "Because you looked
tired."
The reply was so simple that Renart wasn't sure if it was a proper
reason.
Curiously, he felt himself freeze up. He was struck by the odd sensation
that this woman had peered so thoroughly into him that he may as well have
been transparent.
Her long eyelashes were cast down. Her eyes appeared as ebony pools.
It was a strange gaze, very reminiscent of an abyss. Meeting it gave
Renart the feeling that he could see his own past reflected there.
"I—I—"
Before Renart registered what he was doing, he spilled everything about
himself. It was like a dam had broken. His childhood, his mother's death,
the days he'd spent in pursuit of revenge, and what'd happened earlier that
day.
The woman remained silent the entire time, evidently content to stare up
at the ceiling. He couldn't tell if she was listening, but once his story came
to an end, she cocked her head at him. "How did you feel when you killed
them?"
For a second, Renart was at a loss for words. Hurrying so as not to make
that apparent, he fumbled to express himself. "It was like a load was taken
off me…but it was also very unpleasant."
"I see. What about when you didn't kill one of them?"
Dark eyes pierced right through him. The woman's question made him
shiver with fear, and he answered in a trembling voice. "I felt relief…but I
also felt that I should've killed him."
"So honest," the woman fired back rudely, and Renart was shocked by
her tone. This didn't sound like an emotionless ice doll; Renart was
dumbfounded.
Paying her inferior no mind, the woman continued her aggressive line of
questioning. "So what will you do now? I can help you escape, if that's
what you want."
"…What?" Renart stammered, feeling like he'd misunderstood
something.
She stared back at him, as even as a cat. "You did what you came here to
do. There's no need for you to stick around here, is there?"
What did it mean for the king's favorite to be suggesting that a member
of his forces flee?
It didn't look like she was joking or teasing, however. Instinctively,
Renart swallowed a held breath.
The king's bride—a woman rumored to be a witch—was supposed to be
a cruel, heartless lady.
Renart thought those rumors wrong. Up close, she was vague and
elusive. She seemed set apart from humans but also completely human at
the same time.
Feeling that her dark eyes were focused on something beyond the room,
Renart couldn't help but ask, "What is your purpose here?"
Witches were always said to not involve themselves in mortal affairs.
Why then was this supposed witch taking such an active role in a war?
Her eyes widened. A faint grimace crossed her face.
Suddenly, her expression revealed itself. A very lonely-looking queen
admitted in a whisper, "I… I am here because of my own delusions. That's
all."
The bitter words didn't match her beautiful figure. Just as Renart was
marveling at how her inner demons were the same as his, the door swung
open violently.
"Lady Aeterna! How could you invite such a person in!"
A girl burst in with her shoulders hunched up angrily. Another woman
was right behind her.
The younger one in the front looked to be about sixteen years of age.
Her slightly curly hair was pinned up, and her eyes blazed with conviction.
The older one in the back couldn't have been more than twenty. She had
dark blond hair and a calm disposition. One glance revealed her to be a
fairly powerful mage.
The icy woman let out a sigh as she eyed the younger of the two
intruders. "It's my prerogative to speak to whoever I want."
"Who is this girl, a lady-in-waiting?" asked Renart.
"Who's a lady-in-waiting?! I'm a mage, too, you know! I'll definitely
get my revenge on the people who chased us out of town!" the girl snapped,
red-faced with anger. She certainly sounded serious, but her childish
phrasing sapped the word revenge of all its dark dignity. Renart observed all
this with a pained smile.
The girl noticed his expression, and her face turned purple. "What's your
problem? Got something to say, servant?!"
"Tris, hush," admonished the possible witch, and the girl instantly
clamped her mouth shut. While Tris looked displeased, the soon-to-be
queen continued, "I told you before that I won't deny you your revenge.
Carry it out as you see fit, whether that's punishing them by the proper
channels or exacting it directly. If you choose the latter, however—that act
and your own intentions will only lead back to the past. You must think
carefully about whether it's truly worth it to waste who you are now on that.
Is it really so important to lower yourself to nothing but a remnant of your
past…? If you're not prepared, all you'll succeed in doing is losing
yourself, even if you do get your revenge."
What she said hit Renart hard, for it was undoubtedly true for him as
well.
Ten years ago, he'd watched his mother burn to death. Every breath he'd
taken since had been to remember that moment. He was just the remnants
of that child gone mad with rage. Once that child's fury dissipated, there
was nothing left. That was why Renart felt utterly despondent, with no idea
where he should go.
Tris scowled, her face still red, but she said nothing further and stormed
out of the room. She slammed the door hard behind her, and the blond
woman gave a helpless smile. "I'm very sorry."
"I'm used to it," answered the future queen, getting to her feet and
letting out a little yawn. She looked at Renart and smiled. "So what's your
answer to my question? What will you do?"
Renart gazed back into her dark eyes.
He didn't know what lurked there. Nothing was reflected in her gaze; it
was as lifeless as a mirror.
Although her delusions had left her stranded, here she was, still
standing.
His life should have ended with his revenge, but she'd scooped him up.
So if he had to seek a path to go down from now on, it could only be—
Renart made up his mind and knelt before the ebony-eyed woman.
"I hereby pledge my loyalty to you."
Her eyes widened in surprise, but she quickly recovered and smiled.
"Strange man."
Her smile was terribly kind and human.
"Ugh! Why is Lady Aeterna so fond of lecturing?" Tris groused
indignantly, sipping tea in her antechamber. Across from her, the blond
woman smiled uncomfortably.
Her name was Pamyra; she and Tris were under orders to attend to the
witch and look after her needs. However, the one who required the most
looking after was actually Tris herself. She had an extremely high opinion
of herself, and she sat in her chair with pursed lips.
"She's not even that much older than me. I wish she'd stop her
meddling," muttered Tris.
What she said was so far off the mark that Pamyra gaped at her. "What?
Tris… Do you not know who Lady Aeterna is?"
"She's His Majesty's bride, isn't she? And a really strong spirit sorcerer,
too."
"More than a strong spirit sorcerer, she's the Witch of the Azure Moon."
When she heard that, Tris's face was a sight to behold. Her eyes bulged
out of their sockets, and her jaw dropped to the ground. She was frozen in
place for a while, and then all the blood drained from her face only to come
rushing back and turn her bright red. "Is that true?! The Witch of the Azure
Moon?! No way, I…I've admired her forever!"
"It's true. I'm surprised you didn't know," Pamyra replied curtly, while
Tris's eyes sparkled with interest.
And she's the last queen of the Magic Empire of Tuldarr, Pamyra
thought.
Pamyra was born and raised in an isolated village of spirit sorcerers
within the territory of Old Tuldarr.
Four hundred years ago, when Tuldarr was destroyed, its realm stretched
far and wide. That said, it may as well have been a city-state, as most only
dwelled within the palace city. There were those mages who lived quietly in
the wilds, however.
Pamyra was a descendant of those people. All her life, she'd heard the
same story—the tale of a girl who was to be queen of Tuldarr and became a
witch.
Over hundreds of years, various storytellers had embellished the fable
and spun it into a secret legend.
In the story, the witch was beautiful, fearsome, strong…and all alone.
As a young girl, Pamyra had worried and fretted that the witch lived a
lonely existence up in her tower. As she grew older, she came to understand
that the witch chose that for herself.
As she grew, so, too, did her memory of the fairy tale begin to fade. That
was when Lanak came to their village.
Tuldarr's prince spoke of restoring the country. While the others
disapproved of such a suspicious proposal, Pamyra alone accepted his
invitation. She had long desired to live in a place as wondrous as Tuldarr—
the powerful, mysterious nation whose city ran on magic, that researched
advanced technology, that cut off all relations with other nations.
A land ruled by the most powerful mages of the modern age. It
represented the highest achievement magic's power could accomplish in the
entire history of their land.
Legend had it that the regent of Tuldarr would take multiple highranking demons, known as mystical spirits, as personal familiars during the
coronation ceremony. Nowadays, the idea of humans subduing highranking demons—called gods by ancient people in rural lands—sounded
like a pipe dream.
Pamyra, however, dared to wonder if, perhaps, it was true.
She felt anticipation and hope swell up within her and left her village for
the first time in her life.
But when she came to Cuscull and spoke of her origins, all the other
mages sneered at her behind her back.
"I heard her parents are spirit sorcerers. Or, well, they used to be."
"Spirit sorcerers, but they decided to have a child…"
"They gave in to the desires of the flesh, huh? Won't she end up just like
them?"
For her, the humiliation was unbearable.
She didn't know how other spirit sorcerers had fared over the past four
centuries. In her village, everyone saw it as a happy thing when two people
in love got married and were blessed with children.
The idea that losing your spiritual magic would make you inferior as a
mage angered and frustrated Pamyra. She did her best to tolerate the
rumors, however, believing that everyone would stop talking once they saw
what she could do.
The harder Pamyra worked, the worse the gossip got, though. Just when
it seemed like too much and the longing to return home began to claw at her
mind…she arrived.
Lanak introduced her as "my bride and a girl who was raised alongside
me." That meant she was none other than the witch who was a potential heir
to the throne, just like him.
She had hair like black silk, skin like white porcelain, and true to the
story, her eyes were the color of darkness. Pamyra had always thought the
witch's beauty had been exaggerated over the years, but the woman's visage
left her stunned.
Pamyra hastily volunteered to be the witch's attendant and was certain
she'd never forget their first encounter.
The witch, standing by the window, had turned to look at her and said in
a tone that carried some amount of surprise, "You're a spirit sorcerer?"
"Yes, I am from the village of Dilenne, Princess."
"Don't call me princess…," the witch replied, uncomfortable. There was
a pause, but the witch quickly returned to the topic at hand. "I see—so
you're from that village… Is everyone doing well?"
"Yes, thanks to you."
When Tuldarr had been destroyed, much of the land surrounding the
castle had been contaminated by a forbidden curse. Pamyra's village was
unaffected because the one survivor of the disaster had purified the land
around the settlement.
The witch smiled faintly, as if she were remembering that, too. "That
was a long time ago. If you're a spirit sorcerer, does that mean there are
many still born in your little town?"
"Yes. My parents were spirit sorcerers, too, and I've inherited all their
techniques," Pamyra replied instinctually. She quickly froze, however,
afraid she might be mocked again.
Surprisingly, the witch gave a gentle smile. "You are very much loved.
That's a wonderful thing."
Affection and longing bled out of that gaze. She was as beautiful as the
legends said but much kinder than the old fairy tales would've had Pamyra
believe.
In an instant, Pamyra made up her mind. She imagined it must've been
quite similar to what a newborn chick felt upon seeing its mother for the
first time. Pamyra was struck by a deep, abiding certainty that this witch
was her master.
The blond woman knelt and bowed her head low. "As a mage, I pledge
myself to thee. Order me as thee will."
She used to worry if the witch was lonely living all alone in the tower.
Pamyra, however, would do her best to prevent the witch from feeling
lonely in this castle. She felt certain that was why she'd ended up here.