In an instant, everything was bathed in a blindingly bright, unnatural light as a surge of Power rolled across the tournament grounds like a physical wave. Spectators cried out in alarm, many shielding their eyes from the glare. The jousting knights' mounts squealed in terror, nearly unseating their riders.
Without hesitation, Amriel flung herself in front of Niamh, arms spread wide as if her flesh could somehow shield her pregnant friend from the Power onslaught.
In those final seconds, the blast was diverted skyward, exploding above the crowd like a brilliant star in the night sky.
As quickly as it had appeared, the light collapsed back into Irina, who crumpled into the Coven Leader's arms. The roots into the Power that had held the princess in place vanished. Kortana, looking on the verge of collapsing herself, quickly led the princess away.
Around them, spectators slowly untangled themselves from defensive crouches, parents still shielding children with trembling arms while others remained frozen in half-ducked positions, as if unsure whether the danger had truly passed. A silence fell over the tournament grounds, all eyes turned to the royal box.
Without hesitation, Queen Elara glided forward, raising her hands with such commanding presence that the stunned crowd instinctively began to applaud.
"My dear people of Vraycia," she called out, her voice silvery and strong, laced with a smooth An'Shar accent. "What a magnificent demonstration from Princess Irina! Only recently, her gift awakened with extraordinary potency, and she wished to honor you and this engagement with a wonderful display! I could not be more proud of my second born child."
Nervous glances rippled through the stands like wind through wheat.
The Queen's face remained serene as she spun the near-disaster into a celebration. "Such raw power requires tremendous discipline to master—what you've seen today is merely the first blossom of what will become a formidable talent serving, and protecting, our kingdom. Please, honor Princess Irina's gift by enjoying these celebrations—today we not only join two great kingdoms, but also welcome a new Witch into our royal line!"
A breathless pause stretched over the crowd before scattered applause began, slowly building to something that almost sounded genuine. To Amriel, it rang false as coin.
"Let the tournament continue!" the King's voice boomed across the arena.
Below, knights charged and lances shattered in displays of skill and bravery. But Amriel could no longer appreciate the pageantry. The crowd's mood had curdled. Gone was the awe, soured into something ugly. Whispered accusations spread like infection.
"Just like the incident in Myrragos—" "Different Witch, same problem." "The princess is too powerful for her own good—" "Something must be done. It's not safe—"
Amriel's gaze found Niamh, whose face had drained of color, hands instinctively shielding her belly as if the growing hostility might harm what lay within.
"I think it might be time for us to leave," Amriel murmured, her voice barely audible above the crowd's false cheer.
Mara and Niamh exchanged a swift glance—they'd felt the shift too. Without a word, all three women rose from their seats.
The clash of jousting riders faded behind them as the three women slipped through the city crowd. Nervous whispers chased them down Khymar's winding streets, the capital's usual bustle now charged with unease.
Niamh waited until they reached the shadow of the Tower of Illumination before breaking their silence. "All right, we're all thinking it, so I'm just going to go ahead and say it…that wasn't a planned display of Power, was it?" Her hands drifted to her swollen belly, the pale green fabric of her robe stretching across its curve.
"I suspect not," Mara said, turning to Amriel. "But Riel would know better than either of us."
Amriel hesitated for a moment, her dark, cobalt eyes flickering between her friends, before she admitted "Yes, that was a complete loss of control. The Princess couldn't contain her Power. If the Coven Leader hadn't redirected it..."
"We'd all be dead," Mara finished bluntly.
"By the Daeude," Niamh whispered.
The implication settled heavily between the women.
The tower loomed above them, its weathered gargoyles peering down with frozen grimaces. Beyond it rose the gleaming white marble of the Coven Tower, brilliant even under a dull grey sky. Here, as they stood in silence, Amriel felt the tome's pull like a physical tug behind her breastbone. Should I go look once more? Prove to myself that what I saw this morning was just a hallucination brought on by exhaustion?
"I think the Queen tried to manage the crowd's fear as best as she could," Mara's observation cut through her thoughts, bringing her back to the moment. "But I am unsure if the people trust her."
"Why would they?" Niamh's voice dropped to a barely audible murmur. "She's a princess of An'Shar. The old blood of the God Kings. And the king…well, the people haven't exactly been thrilled since he was the one to choose the match."
Mara frowned. "Toltaria fell three centuries ago. An'Shar's been part of the Eight Kingdoms ever since, just like us."
"You can recite history all day," Niamh said, waving a hand in dismissal. "That won't change how people feel. The scars left by Toltaria are from wounds that ran deep."
"Perhaps, but the royal family of An'Shar are figureheads now," Mara insisted. "They have no real power. I fear the issue lies more in that she's a Witch, and the people's faith in their kind has waned in recent years. And these 'displays', like we just witnessed, are doing nothing to reassure people."
To that, Niamh nodded grimly. "That makes three major uncontrolled Power incidents in recent years alone." She paused, her expression darkening. "The Myrragos incident five months ago left so many dead or permanently maimed."
"Fourth, I believe," Mara corrected. "Regardless, it would seem the people are growing fearful, and, perhaps, rightfully so. If Kortana hadn't intervened..." She shook her head. "The Harbingers would have had many souls to sing to tonight. Including ours."
She cleared her throat softly before she continued. "Lately, there's been talk among the Archivists, of bringing back Collars."
Nimah recoiled slightly. "Collars? I thought that practice died with the God Kings?"
"Did it?" Mara asked. "It's said to be alive and well on the Isles of Draci."
Niamh's hand circled her belly protectively, her voice low. "Well, after what we just saw with the princess, I guess you can't really blame them, can you? How long before she, or another Power wielder, loses control again?"
In the silence that followed, the tome made its presence known once more. The ancient book called to her as the words of the prophecy echoed inside her mind. Once more Mara took notice of Amriel's distraction, but before the acolyte could read any deeper into it, Amriel said, "I should head back to check on my patient. That fever should have broken by now."
That was a lie. The boy's fever had broken in the early morning hours, before the sun graced the sky. But she wasn't ready to answer the questions she knew Mara would ask. Not yet.
"All right," Mara said, her eyes filled with concern as much as they did with unasked questions. "Know that I am here if you need to talk."
Niamh raised an eyebrow at Mara's cryptic words but shrugged and fell into step beside her as they turned away from the tower. Neither spoke as they made their way toward the city gates, the day's events hanging heavy in the air between them.
The bustling noise of Khymar gradually faded as they passed through the eastern gates and left the city behind. Out here, the harsh sounds of urban life gave way to something gentler—evening birds calling to each other across the fields and the soft whisper of wind moving through growing wheat.
Their homes stood in stark contrast: Amriel's modest cottage perched at the forest's edge, while Niamh's larger homestead sat surrounded by Simon's family fields.
A figure hurried toward them at the fork in the path, gray hair escaping from what had once been a neat bun.
"Amriel!" The woman waved frantically. "Thank the gods!"
"Mirna?" Amriel recognized the Eastbrook healer instantly. "What's happened?"
Mirna Teller caught her breath, hands braced against her knees. "It's the Reed boy. I have to take the arm."
Amriel's stomach dropped. She'd heard about the accident three days ago—Tomas Reed had gotten his arm caught in some farm equipment. His parents had refused to let Mirna operate immediately, hoping traditional healing would be enough.
It wasn't.
"And you need Gentle Sleep," Amriel finished quietly.
Mirna nodded grimly. "Used my last dose yesterday to help with Farmer Holt's, poor old man got himself badly gored by one of his bulls. Unsavable. It would have been a terrible end without the Gentle Sleep."
"The city apothecaries—" Amriel began.
"Want five silver marks a dose," Mirna cut in with a helpless gesture. "After the drought killed their harvest last summer? The family hasn't got two coppers to rub together."
"Five marks?" Niamh's eyes widened. "That's robbery!"
"That same drought killed half the Horissa Vharia last summer," Amriel said grimly. Her own foraging for the plant needed to make the Gentle Sleep had been poorly rewarded at best, and her own supply had recently been depleted as well. "What's left now costs a fortune."
"You mean so only the ones who can afford it are those who don't really need it, since, at that price, they can pay for a Witch Healer," Niamh said.
Amriel had kept her prices the same for those in the village, but she couldn't control what the inner city apothecaries did. Her mind raced, calculating the daylight hours remaining. "I'll go into Vhengal Forest now. There might be early growth springs."
The timing was early for Gentle Sleep to be blooming, but she had to try. The thought of what the boy would endure if she didn't was unthinkable.
After bidding Mirna goodbye with promises to deliver the herb as soon as she could, Amriel turned toward home with Niamh hurrying to catch up.
"Riel, wait up." Niamh's voice carried a note of concern as she finally drew alongside. "I don't think it's wise to go into the forest alone, especially with all the visitors in town for the royal celebrations. You never know who, or what, might be lurking out there."
Amriel glanced back and immediately slowed her pace when she saw her friend's flushed face, one hand pressed protectively over her rounded belly. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking." She gestured toward the village behind them. "But that little boy can't endure the procedure awake, Niamh. The pain would be unbearable. I have to at least try."
"Then I'm coming with you." Niamh tilted her eyes toward the darkening sky, where heavy clouds gathered, turned dark grey with their burden. "There's definitely a storm rolling in—look at those clouds. Two pairs of eyes will spot the herb faster, and hopefully we can get back before the rain hits."
A sharp laugh escaped Amriel before she could stop it. "Absolutely not," she said, shaking her head so firmly that her dark braid swayed across her back. "You're not stumbling through the woods in your condition, especially not with that storm looming. We both know, Simon would kill me if you even so much as stub your toe." She attempted a reassuring smile, though worry still creased her brow. "Besides, I won't truly be alone. Meeko will insist on coming."
Her forest cat—solid muscle packed into a frame the size of a medium hound—had a reputation for deterring most threats, whether they walked on two legs or four. And I have claws of my own for protection, she thought as her fingers curled around the hilt of her bone blade. If her mother had left her with one thing, it was the ability to defend herself.
"I've been gathering herbs in Vhengal since before I could walk," Amriel reminded her. "I'll be fine."
"Just promise me you'll be safe. Don't take any risks you don't need to," Niamh said, her pale green eyes serious.
"Of course," Amriel smiled. "I always am."
"If that were true," Niamh countered with a rueful smile, "I wouldn't worry about you half as much."