The Witch Collector Quotes

Something must always be lost if you’re ever to gain. Don’t fear this. You will never move forward if you never leave things behind.

In another life, I would’ve tried to know her. I would’ve admired her and read her poems written by my own hand. I would’ve walked with her through fields of stardrops, danced with her in the stream.

Fire of my heart, come that I may see you, warm my weary bones, be my place of rest.

It would be best if you didn’t look at me like that.” I lean closer and lick my lips. “Like what?” He gives me a piercing look. “Like you want me to kiss you. Because I will.

How do you feel, Raina? Listen to your misery. Listen to your rage. If you’re angry, let it boil. If you’re heartbroken, let your heart shatter.” His lips graze my ear, sending a rogue chill down my spine. “And if you hate, hate with the fire of a thousand suns.

I have trouble controlling my base emotions when the moon is full, but anger is the hardest for me. If I'm mad, I turn into the Hulk. Except I'm not green.

It’s hard to despise someone who lights up the world when they smile.

There is no love without fear, but no one told me that fear feasts on those with something to lose.

I fight fine in a dress.

There is no victory without sacrifice.

What are you scared of?” he asks, his voice so soft. “What is it you fear when it comes to me?” I look up at him, and a thousand answers chase through my mind. The truth boils down to one thing, though, a truth I can’t hold inside anymore. “That I will never let myself know what it is to be yours. That I will deny myself this. Deny myself you. Out of fear.” I pat his chest before continuing. “Because I am so scared of losing anyone else.

There is no love without fear, but no one told me that feat feasts on those with something to lose.

And if you hate, hate with the fire of a thousand suns.

Unfailing. When I’m grieving, he provides comfort. When I’m angry, he lets me rage but tempers my fury. When I’m frightened, he’s right there beside me, facing whatever comes my way. And sometimes tossing pebbles to scare me.

To the right collector, the Witchfinder Army’s library would have been worth millions. The right collector would have to have been very rich, and not have minded gravy stains, cigarette burns, marginal notations, or the late Witchfinder Lance Corporal Wotling’s passion for drawing mustaches

To say it was a dark and stormy night would be a gross understatement. It was colder than witch's kiss, wetter than a spring swamp, and blacker than a tax collector's heart. A sane man would have been curled up in front of a fire with a cup of mulled wine and a good boo-, ah, a willing wench.

He couldn't stop staring at her cleavage... The vee in between beckoned him like a bee to nectar.

it

You will never move forward if you never leave things behind.

How about you ask me something like, "What do you want more than anything?" and I reply with, "A hellhound in my bed"?

Neve, you're wicked," he groaned as she rocked up against him even harder. "I hope that's not a problem for you," she panted.

Elias Ashmole, a seventeenth-century book collector and alchemist whose books and papers had come to the Bodleian from the Ashmolean Museum in the nineteenth century, along with the number 782.

The moment this is over, you're mind," Diesel all but groaned, keeping his eyes on the road so he wouldn't pull over and take her right there. "No, wolf, you're mine." the look on his face went immediately from lust to yearning. "That's right," she said with a sigh. "We're going to finish what we started. And then do it all over again.

The moment this is over, you're mine," Diesel all but groaned, keeping his eyes on the road so he wouldn't pull over and take her right there. "No, wolf, you're mine." the look on his face went immediately from lust to yearning. "That's right," she said with a sigh. "We're going to finish what we started. And then do it all over again.

She couldn't take her eyes off him. He had sandy-blond hair and piercingly green eyes. Today he wore a deep-red T-shirt with the word BOUNCER printed across the back. The material pulled tightly over his muscular chest. He was a specimen. But the most striking feature about him was his smile. The man was bewitching, and Sofia knew a thing or two about bewitching.

Diesel had gotten his nickname because he was built like a Mack truck. .... He stood six feet, six inches tall and his muscles had muscles.

Luke picked up a piece of paper lying on the seat. "Camden Hills Avenue in the Badlands Golf Club." Luke chuckled. "Going to find a criminal in the Badlands. It kind of has an ironic ring to it.

Diesel," she moaned, "you are so damn sexy." He paused, breaking the kiss, his eyes filled with wanting as he gazed down on her. Then his mouth went up at an angle. "No, that would be you, Sofia. You are unbelievable. I don't think I've ever seen anyone who hold a candle to you.

Diesel" - his name sounded sweet coming out of her mouth --"I want you, and I mean I really, really want you. Please. Let's go back to my room.

Finn has been my first everything. My first friend. My first fight. My first kiss. My first lover. My first heartbreak.

Finn and I aren’t together anymore, not in the way we once were, but he’s still my comfort, even when he’s impossible. I don’t know how to live life without him, but I fear I’ll have to. When the moment arrives today, I’ll still give him—and his family—a choice, but if I’m honest with myself, he made that decision three years ago.

You have fire in you. I don’t despise it.

That is the only positive thing about our current situation. Well, that and neither of us is dead yet.

She labeled me well enough, calling me an idealist with volatile tendencies and someone who struggles with a mundane existence. She called me impulsive, impatient, and imaginative, a restless being who needs freedom to flourish and love to thrive.

When I’m grieving, he provides comfort. When I’m angry, he lets me rage but tempers my fury. When I’m frightened, he’s right there beside me, facing whatever comes my way. And sometimes tossing pebbles to scare me.

You’re doing it again,” he says, the smallest of smiles tipping one corner of his mouth. I frown. “Doing what?” “Looking at me like you want me to kiss you.” I sign nothing. Instead, I slip my arms around his neck and thread my fingers through his hair once more. If I’m obvious, so be it.

There is no love without fear, but no one told me that fear feasts on those with something to lose. That’s been my problem all along, and though everything looks very different now when I gaze at my life, that part remains steadfast and true.

another life, I would’ve tried to know her. I would’ve admired her and read her poems written by my own hand. I would’ve walked with her through fields of stardrops, danced with her in the stream. This is not another life.

Imagine that, surrounded by your loved ones, you and your disease-riddled body have finally just breathed your last. No, scratch that. It’s really much more vile than that, because, even though you still had much life left in you, you’ve just been put to death, and not just in the most painful of ways, but, treacherously, by those whom you thought truly loved you, or, if not that, then, at the least, valued and respected you! Fortunately, or unfortunately, you disappear into the mists of time, and that means neither you nor your beloved face will ever be seen again. That one of those who had so cruelly abused you might ever try to track you down, or even be able to, is not possible, right? No, of course not, because, as we all know, birth is the beginning and death is the end of all that ever accidently took place in between. Whether birth is the beginning and death actually the end, it certainly is how the badly disfigured, yet somehow still disturbingly alluring, Virginia Finsterwald thinks. So, when a dying lady shows up at her door - with a duplicate version of her own previously perfect face - it would be impossible for the former spy, now private detective, to take this event as anything more than mere Happenstance. Meanwhile, just a couple of blocks up the way, Virginia’s principal patron is confronted by a woman who, inexplicably, has the exact face of his aunt, only, she had been lynched when he was a child! As a highly educated man who believes only in materials and reason, the only way Alistair Alligood, the a multi-zillionaire collector of gender-dysphorick pubescent boys, can prevent being undone by this unsettling matter is by writing it off, and yet:------does he really believe that such an occurrance is mere Happenstance? Maybe so, but, what is not mere Happenstance are the church exorcists, psychicks, mesmerists, physicians, psychologists, and mediums who, when Alistair Alligood falls gravely ill, war with each other over whether he is bodily ill, suffering from past-life trauma, under a witch’s spell, and or is it that he has become demon possessed? What unravels behind the curtain of Alistair’s malady is a centuries’long tale of Poisonings, Duels, Rape, Revenge, Possession, the Black Arts, and Taboo Familial Doings, the seeds of which will miscegenize and explode in ’Beyond The Last Breath’.

I also know that he fled a life he didn’t want, duty he did not choose, all to make a better path for himself and his family. And I, better than anyone, understand that. Sliding my hands over his shoulders and up his neck into his hair, I lean closer. I don’t want to talk anymore.

It gets worse,” he says,

You’re thinking too hard.” He taps his chest. “Magick can be created from a song, but it isn’t required. In truth, the most powerful magick is conjured from the deepest parts of our souls, not with voices or hands or anything else. But, no matter how a conjurer builds their magickal constructs, it must come from the heart. You know this, yes? Born of emotion, love, hope, sadness, desperation, all tied to ancient commandments of the old gods. The words are easy. Reaching for the emotion is what’s hard.

There is no love without fear and no victory without sacrifice.

The strangest part of healing a life so close to its end is that the stolen death coils inside me like a shadow. I only have a handful of deaths tucked away, but I feel the tiny darkness of each one.

We live in a world where wars simmer between two of Tiressia’s continental breaks—the Eastland territories and the Summerlands to the south. For centuries, every eastern ruler has tried to conquer the southern lands, longing to claim the City of Ruin—a citadel believed to hold the Grove of the Gods, and the burial ground of Tiressia’s deities.

she watches over my shoulder as I position Father’s whetstone on a piece of oiled cloth. She says the knife isn’t made of bone. What bone is black as night and cold as ice? But it’s bone. God bone. Not flint or steel. I’m so sure of it. Something deep inside that old marrow vibrates with every pass, as though I’m bringing it back to life.

Something tells me she wouldn’t be too keen to learn that her daughter means to kidnap the Witch Collector today at knifepoint.

Finn and I aren’t together anymore, not in the way we once were, but he’s still my comfort, even when he’s impossible. I don’t know how to live life without him, but I fear I’ll have to. When the moment arrives today, I’ll still give him—and his family—a choice, but if I’m honest with myself, he made that decision three years ago. He presses a tender kiss to my forehead. “Don’t thank me, Raina,” he whispers. “Just don’t make me regret this.

His words sound so assured, but they’re lies. The truth that Colden won’t admit is that the Prince of the East scares him. The prince is said to bear the stains of walking in the Shadow World—another rumor, and one I don’t believe. It’s been centuries since someone crossed the Shadow World’s dark shores. He was no mere man and wouldn’t have survived otherwise.

We’ll meet again, Keeper,” he mutters. “And when we do, I’m going to drive that knife into your heart and inhale your pathetic little soul.” He won’t if he’s dead. I thrust the blade toward his heart, but again he transforms into curling tendrils of darkness and fades away.

Because of this, Penrith is prepared, though barely, when the Eastlanders breach the boundaries of their lands. It’s not enough. The Eastlanders’ arrows—and their ruinous crows—penetrate the Witch Walkers’ veil of magick like it isn’t even there. The people, at the sides of their wardens, must fight. It’s a valiant effort, one that cuts the enemy’s numbers, and for a short time, I have faith that we might survive. But soon, I’m riding with a band of villagers toward Littledenn—Eastlanders and that flying flock of death on our heels, Penrith burning in our wake.

Un Drallag.” He spells the word with his hands. “Do you know what that name means?” “No,” I tell him. I’m not sure my father even knew what it meant. “It means The Gatherer. Under King Gherahn’s order, I was forced to roam the Eastern Territory and gather sorcerers for the king’s service during the Land Wars. Those who refused…” He casts his gaze toward the fire. “Those who refused died. At my command.

And how did he become the dreaded Frost King?” Alexus gives me a half-smile that quickly fades to seriousness. “He and a small army were sent to guard the Summerland queen’s gates during the war. Toward the end, when a small front to the north had been conquered, they found themselves battling a retinue of Eastlanders attempting a sneak attack. Colden and his warriors were outnumbered, but Colden is a fury and a leader. His small northern band destroyed the enemy outside the queen’s gates. When it was over, the queen sent for those who remained, to thank them.” He studies his clasped hands. “It did not end well.” “What happened?” “Everything,” he replies. “You see, the Land Wars were never about the lands. They were about the jealousy, lust, and bitterness of the gods. Neri wanted Asha. And Thamaos, God of the East, wanted Asha’s beloved Summerlands. Neri offered his army to Asha and her queen, but at a cost. Not only did he make a devout enemy of Thamaos, but in exchange for his aid, he wanted Asha’s heart. She agreed because Neri was strong and handsome, and even though he had no earthly queen or king to rule his northern warriors, they served him anyway. Worshipped him, even.

When the god battle was over,” Alexus continues, “King Gherahn demanded that Un Drallag travel to the Summerlands and retrieve the God Knife. It was said to be lost in the Jade River or in the sands where it might never be found again. The sorcerer went to the coast, but in truth, he was tired. He had a wife by then, a child on the way. He wanted a life that was more than the one he lived under the king’s thumb as a spy, an assassin, a weapon. So he abandoned the only home he had ever known and fled to the northland valley where he’d been a spy once upon a time. The God Knife was never located, but Un Drallag could feel it calling to him. There is such power in this knife, Raina.” He touches it. “It would be better if it didn’t exist, but there are no gods left to destroy it.” Dread pools in my stomach. “My father said that the blade harkens to the one from whose body it was made. Is the blade calling to Thamaos now?” That thought terrifies me, that I might’ve been carrying around a relic that summons a dead and dangerous god. “No, that isn’t true,” he replies, tilting his head, looking at me like he needs his next words to sink

He trails his fingertips along my jaw. “It would be best if you didn’t look at me like that.” I lean closer and lick my lips. “Like what?” He gives me a piercing look. “Like you want me to kiss you. Because I will.

Raina lies in my arms. The prince almost took her from me, but a clever sorcerer marks what’s his. Raina Bloodgood now bears my rune. My power. My seal. My name. Alexi of Ghent. Shared with her.

I look at the blade. Really look at it. There’s no blood covering it now. No lovely hand wrapped around its hilt. No stunning woman hiding it from my sight. My magick, buried and held to task, wails like an animal in a trap. Shaking, I stare, breaking out in a chilled sweat. It’s been so long since I last held the knife, so long that I didn’t recognize it at first glance. I don’t sense it anymore. The blade is still black as midnight, and the Stone of Ghent still shines, but any bond I ever had with this creation feels broken—at least for me. “This is impossible.” Instinctively, I push away from her. My heart trips over itself, and I can hardly breathe. “There was only ever one God Knife, and it vanished many, many years ago.” I press my hand to my chest, feeling for power that I cannot reach. She blinks once, watching my reaction so closely. “But it is real,” she says. “You know what a God Knife is.” I have to fight not to scoff at that. “Yes, I know what the God Knife is.” I scrub my hand down my face, certain I’m frozen in a dream. “But you shouldn’t, and you certainly shouldn’t have it.

It shouldn’t have been possible for the prince to read the Summerlander enchantment on the blade. The magick of the magi is some of the most archaic conjuring in the world, dating back to Loria herself.” “The Eastlanders used it in the vale, though,” I sign. “With their arrows.” “Yes, and I still can’t sort out how. It’s one thing to harness fire threads. It’s an entirely different magick to cause fire to incinerate from the inside out. Only those with an intimate knowledge of ancient magick systems can read such archaic Summerland workings. They teach it, in the City of Ruin, but only to the very magickly gifted. But, I think, somehow, the prince saw the spell when he attacked you on the green and knew he couldn’t take the knife as long as it was in your possession. Otherwise, he would’ve tried harder than he did. Of course, later, the blade wasn’t in your possession because Helena somehow found it, so he used her to bring it to him. And even later, you hid the blade in the moss, severing any protection, and he sent his crow on a hunting expedition.

To the Frost King’s credit, I’ve never known war. The Northlands have remained neutral, but our citizens—whether protecting the coast, the mountains, the valley, the Iceland Plains, or the king himself—must live according to the Frost King’s wishes, guardians above all else. I believe I have the power to change that, to end his immortal life and make us a free land governed by its people, free to live as we choose. And that’s what I aim to do.

You try so hard to hide it,” she says, “yet a mother knows her child better than all else. Do not let your loathing lead you—or us—to trouble, Raina. If you’re going to promise me anything, promise me that.” Her sharp, indigo eyes dart to the bundled knife like she knows my every intention, and guilt and shame squeeze my heart for what I’m about to do. What I must do. I lean in, kiss her soft cheek, and lie anyway. “I promise,” I sign, and slip into the cold, gray light of day.

Loria is the goddess of all creation, and though I can’t say that I believe the Ancient Ones listen anymore, Warek was my father’s closest friend, and so—impious as I might be—I will pray to our maker. Just not to Neri. Never to him. He’s the reason we must deal with the Frost King in the first place.

Sing me alive.” He glances toward my mother. “I saw you. Heard you. I know you can. D-don’t…let me die here. We can’t…let them…win. Sing me alive.” He watches me, a helpless plea hidden inside the fine lines fanning from the corners of his eyes. He’s the last person I should save, but he still carries the breath of life, and I’m surrounded by death, and I just want someone else to be with me when the sun rises. But this isn’t someone else. He’s the Witch Collector. And so, with a heart that feels hard as stone, I stand and turn to go.

I fear war is coming, the likes of which Northlanders have never seen. The Prince of the East has indeed walked inside the Shadow World. He also has power he should not have, a living amalgam of all the things people claim: shadows, souls, and sin. In truth, my death will weaken the Eastlanders’ chances of success at conquering the Summerlands, and I tell myself that I’m ready to sacrifice all. But it’s what I’ll leave behind that Tiressia must fear. I am salvation and damnation. There cannot be one without the other.

She’s the older version of Raina, though I see Nephele in her features too. The power emanating from her body is the one thing I don’t recognize. Her lips move with earnestness as she sings magick, her hands and eyes lifted in prayer. Dead birds drop at her feet, and the raging fires engulfing nearby cottages dim. The flying sparks fade, the smoke clears, and a rain cloud rumbles overhead. Gods’ teeth. She’s doing that. Her alone. In all my years, I’ve never sensed such power in this woman, just like I never sensed it in Raina, and only once in Nephele—the year I chose her. Now I think I understand why. Ophelia Bloodgood did the impossible. She hid her family’s power.

undeterred, “and that I am not running to the king’s rescue. You will find me kissing the Prince of the East right on his disgusting mouth before that happens.” I pause, stretch my fingers, and shake away the fact that I just brought that murderous bastard back to life in my mind. “I thank you for your help,” I add, “but consider your debt to me cleared. I will go my own way from here.” He assesses me, disbelief clouding his expression. “You are foolish. You will never find Winter Road without me. And know this. That is the only way you hold any chance of ever reaching Winterhold. Second…” He shakes his head on a laugh, peering at me from beneath the hood of those dark, feathery lashes. “If the Eastlanders take the king, who is about as pathetic and helpless as you, my dear, understand there’s a great chance that your Nephele, the Frost King’s high servant and paramour, will be found ever at his side. Lovers are often protective like that.

This can’t be right. His threads are…smoldering. Crumbling into flecks of ash and just as fragile. This is what I smelled on him earlier, but the distinct scents are clearer now. I still smell the septic yarrow—it’s overpowering—but beneath it hides the aroma of fire, of a sweltering day, of dust and earth. This is the scent of someone’s death, but the Prince of the East is very much alive. I look closer. The threads of his wound need to be entwined to heal, but they’re not just burning. They’re all wrong. There are two threads for every instance there should be one, coiled around one another tightly. I’m too curious not to look at his life threads as well. They’re not burning, but they’re not golden either. And again, there are two for every one. This time, it doesn’t look like any sort of weaving. One of the strands crawls up the other, clinging like a disease. Both bear the pallid colors of decay, but there’s something more. There are dozens of loose filaments floating around the main threads, whisper-thin as gossamer, like the dead husks of old strands. I swear I sense another person, some presence writhing to break free, but that’s impossible. Except—it’s not. Alexus’s threads had multiples, the residue of glimmering shadows. Because he contained the soul of a god.

A cheer erupts from the Eastlanders, but it takes several moments for my eyes to adjust and my mind to absorb what’s happening. What’s happened. The Prince of the East won. He made it to Winterhold—the Witch Walkers couldn’t hold out any longer.

Asha could never have Colden Moeshka,” he says, “and Colden Moeshka could not enter the City of Ruin, but who would stop Fia Drumera from leaving her throne and seeking the man of the north? So Neri made Asha a deal. If she gave him her heart once again, this time for eternity, he would do the thing she could not. He would make Fia Drumera immortal as well, but worse, he would cast within her the element of fire and in Colden Moeshka the element of frost, that they may never—for all their infinite days—come together again.” I sit back, saddened for these people I’ve never met. People who have lived only as legends to me. Does my sister know this story of her lover? And if so, does she not care that his heart once burned so brightly for another? That it might still? “The Eastlanders have learned this tale,” Alexus says. “It’s been kept secret for over three centuries. It’s the reason the gods destroyed themselves. Thanks to Thamaos’s influence, Neri and Asha were condemned and buried at Mount Ulra, where they might spend eternity together in their shame. After their deaths, Thamaos wanted to claim their lands, but the one decent god of Tiressia, Urdin of the Western Drifts, blamed Thamaos for everything. Thamaos knew Urdin would be a problem, so he did a thing that you and I may regret, even three centuries later.” “What? What did he do?

Thamaos, unlike Neri, was a believer in choosing a king or queen to rule his lands. He treated them like servants, their purpose to deal with the pathetic Tiressians in his way. He put a man named King Gherahn in power.” I’ve heard this name, again, from lore. “And King Gherahn,” Alexus continues, “employed the sorcerers of the land for the Land Wars. His pre-eminent sorcerer was a young man from the Tribe of Ghent. They called him Un Drallag.

Un Drallag.” I spell the name in Elikesh, though I never imagined him being a young man. “The sorcerer who created the God Knife,” I add. Alexus’s eyes light up. “Yes. You know this part?” I shrug. “Father told me a little. That Un Drallag fashioned the knife from the bone of a long-dead god. Thamaos?” “Yes, but Thamaos was very much alive when the knife was made. He cut himself open and tore out his own rib, offering it to Un Drallag for the creation of a weapon, so that he might defeat Urdin when the time came. But he failed. A battle ensued along the Jade River, close to Fia Drumera’s gates. Thamaos took Urdin from behind and drove the God Knife into his chest. But before Urdin died, he shoved the blade through his own body, driving it out his back and into Thamaos’s heart. The last two gods of Tiressia died that day. Summerlanders came, and the final deities of our lands were buried at the Grove of the Gods.” A gasp leaves me. “The Grove truly exists? I thought it was a myth. We all did.” Alexus runs a hand over his beard. “It’s a very real place. Ancient as Loria. Gods of other lands are even buried there. The Prince of the East knows this, as have other eastern rulers before him, but Fia Drumera has managed to keep the Eastlanders at bay. Now, however, they’ve learned that the queen’s greatest weakness might just be the isolated King of Winterhold, who will turn to nothing more than desert sand if they bring him across the Jade River. This is why I’m so selective about who I collect from the valley, and it’s why they don’t return home. They have a choice, but they know it’s best for all of Tiressia if they stay and learn and protect. After they’re told the importance of guarding Colden, they understand why we cannot tell the whole vale. Some secrets can change the world, and those we love most can be terribly tempting.

The God Knife calls to Un Drallag, Raina,” he whispers. “It’s been trying, all these years, to return to its maker’s hands. Its haven, its home.” A question flutters across my mind, chased by an answer I’m sure I already know. Heart racing, I ask anyway, my fingers faltering around my words. “And has it?” I sign. “Finally found home?” A lump builds in my throat and tension in my fingers as I wait for his reply. He lifts a hand to my cheek and traces the curve of my jaw, looking at me with those otherworldly eyes. “Yes.

interesting by the minute. What do all these lovely marks mean?” He shakes his head. “Never mind. I’ll have time to learn them later. For now, I thought I’d let you know that I figured out what kept pulling me back to your mind. It was something I didn’t know existed until I sensed it all over you, but it’s something I terribly need back where it belongs, and I intend to make that happen.” A laugh bellows out of him, a smoky, obscene sound. “This is goodbye, Keeper, for now. I hate to leave you in this terrible construct, but you’ll be safely trapped for when I’m ready for you. And you obviously know how to keep yourself entertained. It’s been lovely. And I do mean lovely. My sincerest thanks for the show.” He leans in and raises an evil brow. “But more importantly, thanks for the God Knife.

So you have the God Knife.” I keep my voice steady as I sort through my chaotic thoughts. “And the Prince of the East knows it exists.” She nods, brows pinched. “And he sent his crow here to retrieve it. Because he can see us?” Again, she nods.

Keeper. Now it’s beginning to make sense. Her father had no choice when it came to the God Knife. Someone cursed him with the task of keeping care of the blade, a curse that—though weak—has latched onto Raina. The prince didn’t take it because he couldn’t. Even now, when I peer into the ether around the knife, faint tendrils of magick cling to Raina’s lovely hand and wrist like claws. Which is why the prince sent the crow. Raina was distracted. She let her guard down. Put the knife aside. And he saw.

That struggle, and the fact that not a single witch’s mark lives on my skin, has made me invisible for the choosing. The chosen Witch Walkers help protect the northernmost borders and Winterhold itself. What would Colden Moeshka, the Frost King, want with an unskilled witch like me? A grin tempts my lips. If only he knew all that I can do.

More often than not, the chance to help passes me by. It’s safer if no one knows that I’m a Healer. I’ve never dared tell my parents or anyone else. Not even my friend Finn. Only my sister, Nephele, knows that I have this skill. She always said to be thankful that I have no witch’s marks, because the power living inside me makes me valuable. And valuable things get locked away.

it could, do you really think Rowan and Ophelia Bloodgood, of all people, would not have tried?” My chest tightens at the sound of my parents’ names. When they met in the Northland’s southernmost city of Malgros, my father was Head Sentry for the Northland Watch, a guard witch assigned to protect the port. My mother was also a guard, often stationed near my father’s territory. A short time after Mother became pregnant with Nephele, tensions between the southern queen, Fia Drumera, better known as the Fire Queen, and the East’s King Regner, created unrest. As the southern and eastern breaks prepared for war, the Northland peoples along the coast feared the conflict might finally spill across the sea to our shores. Then Fia Drumera killed Regner, and soon, in the east, a mystical prince with no name rose to power. My parents were granted leave to raise their family but were required to head north and help protect the vale. They were never loyal to the king. But they were loyal to their land and their people. “I cannot say why they never tried,” I tell Finn. “Only that I am not them.” I grab the knife and animal skin and set them in my lap. “Will you help me or not? I need the blade sharpened. That is all I ask.” “You want me to hone a killing blade.” He folds his muscled arms across his chest. “That is, at its essence, what you said when you walked in here. Something to cut through flesh and bone alike. And I know you do not mean wild deer.

I saved her. In the next heartbeat, a spear juts through her stomach from behind. Time stops. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. Her eyes meet mine, and she clutches the spear. An expression of confusion twists her beautiful features. “No,” is all she says as blood pours from her wound, staining the white gown we stitched together last summer. I read the single word on her lips, just before those lovely eyes of hers, with such bright light, go dark. Disbelief tears through me, hot and raw. When Mother slumps to the ground, the scent of her coming death carries across the space between us, and a flood of deepest sorrow fills me. My mother’s death smells like her. Cloves and fallen leaves and smoky coldness, tangled with the memory of sun and warm breezes.

The Witch Collector rides on the fringes of the green, fighting like a devil. He is but one man, though, and he’s wounded, right arm dangling as he struggles to hold off a giant Eastlander with a dagger. Did this happen to the other villages? Is that why the Witch Collector was late? Did all the valley’s people endure this brutality? In my gut, I know they did.

Witch’s marks—that I’ve never had before. Vaguely, I recall noticing them when the Prince of the East came after me. Gold for life magick, red for healing magick, silver for common magick—like the protective magick we build at the wood’s boundary. The violet must be for Sight. All I can do is stare, disbelieving. “It was your mother,” the Witch Collector says. “She was far more powerful than anyone knew. She hid your marks, as well as her own, but…” He pauses, and compassion fills his eyes as he takes my cold hand, folding it inside his warmer one. “When she passed, the magick fell apart, and your marks became visible. I watched them appear on the green, Raina.

The Eastlanders’ torches are everywhere, scattered across the valley, chasing us like a raging fire through a dry field.

Frostwater Wood will be left vulnerable. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it. With a racing heart, fury lights my blood, and I tighten my grip on the reins. Go or stay. Colden and Winterhold? Or the innocent people of the vale? I mutter a prayer to the Ancient Ones, hoping with every fiber of my being that Nephele and the others have done as Colden asked, and that it’s enough to prevent the Eastlanders from breaching the wood. I must believe they have. I know their power and determination. I know their hearts. And I know their magick.

Littledenn’s numbers are small in comparison to the other villages. Still, they hold their own, setting fire to any savage crows that dare cross their path. Highly skilled archers—perched atop cottages—shoot arrows into enemy hearts while others fight with swords, spears, and even reaping hooks. They edge up enough of an advantage that I glance eastward, Raina Bloodgood heavy on my mind. At this rate, the people of Littledenn might annihilate the remains of this army, but I can’t take the chance they won’t. The Eastlanders are here to kill, though they may also take prisoners, and the possibility that a Seer could fall into enemy hands is too dangerous a thought. The Prince of the East has larger plans of destruction than this. He must. I won’t make it easier for him.

Winter Road. Another part of my world that feels more like a myth than reality. It’s supposedly the only clear route between the valley and the king.

Your king is not my king,” I reply. “He never has been. He can rot in an Eastlander pit for all I care. I do not want to intercept anyone, certainly not someone who might have taken your pathetic, helpless king. I want to go to Winterhold to get my sister before they attack the castle and kill her like they killed my mother. There has to be a way to bypass the army. I aim to find it.” Something like anger flashes across Alexus’s face, and he dips his head low, ensnaring my gaze. “You shouldn’t be so quick to doom a man you’ve never met. You know little about him.” His words aren’t as sharp as mine but edged all the same. “I know he brought the Eastlanders to our door. I know I would not have spent the last eight years without my sister if not for him. My mother would still be alive. I would still have a home. If the Ancient Ones listen at all, I hope they let the Eastlanders have their way with him.

rope looped at my side before I realize that Raina is shaking her head, still pointing. I look down. Take a judicious half-step closer. A warrior’s face stares at us from beneath the ice. I glance around, only to see more faces and horses too. The Witch Walker magick created a tomb, all right. Eastlanders lurk beneath the surface, their last moments of fear forever frozen on their icebound faces. I pray to the Ancient Ones that this part of the construct swallowed the entirety of the prince’s army—him included. “Get off this patch of ice,” I tell Raina. “It’s too thin.

The Prince of the East stares at me, eyes narrowed in curious study. Nothing lies beyond him, only a scarlet halo of swirling shadows. The carved corners of his mouth turn in a deep scowl. “Hello, Keeper,” he says. “I see you.” I jerk awake, heart racing, and blink away the sight of him. Gods, that felt so real. His voice was so clear. But it was just a dream. Wasn’t it? I swallow hard, remembering something faint. Something distant. The prince called me Keeper after I cut him open. Surely dreaming of him is only my mind conjuring that same moment, reshaping it into a new torture.

But he also carries a soul. One who is an unwilling participant. One whose life and magick are being stolen. And if I had to guess, I’d say it’s the soul of a Summerlander in a dank cell overlooking the sea. The prince looks at me and smiles with one side of his mouth, an evil glint in his eyes. “See something you didn’t like?” My heart pounds in my ears. I’m shaken to my core. Those gossamer filaments—are those old souls he’s used up?

Call to your witches all you want, Collector.” The wraith wears a wicked grin. “Beg your ancient gods for help. But it’s the Prince of the East to whom Tiressia will eventually pray. He sees. He knows. Even your secrets are not safe.” With a glance toward the sky, sinking dread fills me. It is you, the wraith said when it tasted my blood. I close my eyes. If the wraith knows who I am, perhaps the prince knows too. I’m not sure what that means for Tiressia or me, but it can’t be good. The Prince of the East means to rule this empire, and he’s executing his plan—one I have yet to fully comprehend. And I have no idea how to stop him.

Hello, drallag,” the blade whispers.

When Alexus saw the God Knife—truly saw it—the green in his eyes turned black and liquid, that primal stare boring into my soul like he could enter me if he gazed long enough. Otherworldly, I’d called it before. It’s more than that, though. I just can’t define it. Yet.

I lost the Northland king and the God Knife to the enemy, Vexx fled the wood unscathed, and the Prince of the East and Neri are free. Matters could be worse. I have to keep reminding myself of that fact. The fight isn’t over.

I suppose not, but eternal life for me is very different, Raina. I’m bound to Colden’s immortality. The magi who created the spellwork between Colden and I are gone, and their unified magick is still strong. There is no undoing it. Are you understanding what I’m saying?” My chest tightens, and I feel sick, though the sudden flood of feelings attacking me makes no sense. It’s as though my body knows something my mind has yet to grasp. “No, I do not understand. You and I are bound—” “Yes, but the bond we share is only a connection. A link. If I lose my life, you do not lose yours. For Colden and me… We are two halves of the same whole, Raina. My immortality only goes so far as the king’s.

I do not want this,” I sign, and I don’t. I want him, but I don’t want to risk my heart more pain. “Wherever we go from here, it must be as friends and fellow fighters. Nothing more.

Neither of us asked for this,” he says, his stare intent. “Neither of us expected to find ourselves fighting desire at every turn. Yet I’ve battled my want of you since that night in your village.” He leans closer, so close I smell the lavender soap on his skin. He touches his mouth to my ear. “You can call me friend a thousand times, Raina, but I know you feel this.” This. This heat. This yearning. This longing.

The prince laughs and jerks Nephele’s head back. “I can’t do that because, you see, I need power. The mage who has fed me for quite some time is fading. I require a new source of life. It could’ve been one of my own.” He glares at Alexus again. “Un Drallag, the mighty Eastland sorcerer, would’ve provided enough power to make me something next to a god. Sadly, all that magick is dormant for now. Isn’t it, Alexi of Ghent?

He needs Nephele—not just later, but now. I peer into my sister’s soul. The threads of her life glimmer golden, but a bloody infection creeps along their edges. He’s siphoning her magick. He’s going to tangle the vibrant threads of her life with his poisoned, decaying tatters, use her up until she’s nothing but a shell chained to a stone table in a tower or a disregarded husk of spirit floating in the night sky. I cannot let that happen.

Once such a comfort to me, Hampstead Loch is being destroyed to ash—its people with it—while I head toward Penrith, carrying a weeping mother and child in my arms. Have I saved them? Or only extended their execution? As Mannus storms across the vale, I grow cold with knowing. This is the rumored attack. This is why Colden couldn’t look away from the fire. I’m in his nightmare. The Eastlanders did come, and they will not stop until they reach Winterhold.

Nephele taught me years ago, a way to pass time,” he signs, moving his hands with flawless precision. “And because she missed you. She made me swear I would never choose her sister on Collecting Day. Your mother needed at least one of her daughters to care for her with your father gone. I promised that Raina Bloodgood would never leave Silver Hollow. Not by my hand.” His words are a shock to my entire being. I’ve never been chosen—not due to my lack of skill and witch’s marks—but because my mother shielded me and my sister asked the Witch Collector to spare me. I can’t wrap my mind around any of it. The thought that Mother knew what I was capable of and that my sister could ask the Witch Collector for my protection and have her wish granted seems so very wrong.

The Eastlanders didn’t come to the vale to kill villagers and leave. It was never about us at all. We were only in the way. A deterrent to remove. A threat to silence. “They want to reach Winterhold,” I sign. “Why?” The muscles in the Witch Collector’s jaw tense, and his eyes turn hard as river-worn stones. “They want the Frost King. They are on their way to capture him now. They breached the forest last night.” Unsure which rising emotion to hold onto, I glance toward Frostwater Wood in the distance. In truth, I don’t care about the Frost King’s safety. But my sister, and all those Witch Walkers…they’re the strongest of the vale. Will their voices be enough against the Eastlanders? Or will they be cut down for protecting an unworthy king?