The Rampion Child

By Minerva Hart

High in the mountains, Lorelai lives a quiet life with her mother, Breanne. Sometimes, Breanne is rougher than she intends to be, leaving bruises and scratches on her daughter's soft skin, but that is only because her love for Lorelai is as great as her fear of the outside world. It is rife with monsters, Red Hoods, treacherous folk of both mundane and magical abilities, and - worst of all - the True Faith, who rule Shipbreaker Shore with an iron fist. They dominate all who live on the isle, and execute those who don't obey their holy laws. Even the royal family is terrified of them.

 

Mother and daughter live a life of seclusion to hide from such perils. While Lorelai is curious about the world beyond their tiny hut, Breanne insists they have all they need because they have each other.

 

Lorelai's life is sheltered and lonely... until she meets and befriends Odele, a young Red Hood with a difficult past.

 

Lorelai is happier than she's ever been. Little does she know that her mother is afraid of something far more tangible than dragons, ghouls, or even the True Faith: Time. Lorelai is twelve, on the cusp of womanhood, and Breanne will do the unspeakable to keep the girl from leaving her.

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Minerva Hart
• Release date: Nov 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223978213

Minerva Hart

Minerva Hart is a millennial author currently living in Italy with her husband. She is a John Cabot University alumni with a degree in English Literature. Minerva is also a self-confessed bibliophile. 

Book preview

Prologue

The Seventeenth Year of the True King Andrew’s Reign

To the mundies of Shipbreaker Shore, Imbolc wasn’t a holiday. Chances were, they didn’t even know what it was. It’d been many years and many hangings since they’d celebrated it. Tonight, there may have been the occasional toast or two among them, but only because the True King’s son had been crowned mere days ago. They had no idea what tonight truly meant, aside from the obvious weather forecast. But the witches of the island, Imbolc was alive and well.

The high hills, covered with snow for a little longer still, were each crowned with blazing bonfires. Flames as tall as adult men burned mint-green, royal purple, oxblood, indigo, and countless others—reflecting the moods of the witches tending to it. Couples young and old danced to the music of flutes, drums, strings, and ancient songs. Poems were read aloud. Old folk warmed their bones and sipped mulled wine. Witches from different lands swapped potion recipes and charms, as they had for generations. Hungry witches filled their bellies, with some griping about the rosemary found in every plate. The more meticulous of the witches ensured that certain traditions were upheld. Snow was collected in grail. Everywhere they stepped, chanting lowly, white flowers bloomed. Children played.

Breanne of the Salty Shore observed her own child over the brim of her mug. Little Lorelai was easy enough to spot: Five years old, thin and olive-skinned, with two elbow-long braids that twisted with every elated movement. As quick as a squirrel, she chased the other kids around the bonfire, screaming, I’m gonna get you! The other children squealed with delight, running as quickly as their stumpy legs could carry them.

Breanne shifted on the stump she was sitting on. She’d had her doubts about bringing Lorelai along this evening, given the past three hundred years. But the more Lorelai smiled, the more she laughed and played, the more she convinced her mother she’d made the right choice.

Still, children could be cruel. Breanne herself had learned that in her youth. That was why, even as she rose to pile her plate with roasted eggplants stuffed with saffron rice, bannocks, and pig’s ears, she kept a close watch on her daughter. Ready to swoop in to save her should one of her playmates turn on her.

Lorelai tackled a little Jadean boy to the ground. "Gotcha! They rolled in the snow like bear cubs, giggling uncontrollably. Then, just as quickly as they’d gone down, they got back up again. As she fled, Lorelai shrieked, Ki-taek is it! Ki-taek is it!"

That’s right! The boy roared. Seizing a stick, he waved it around like a drunken knight. I’m a Guardian! Fear me!

Breanne flinched. All around her, she sensed some of the cheer bleeding away. She could almost see the images passing through their heads. Some had come from stories and rumors. Others, painted in screaming colors, had been born from first-hand experience.

Only the children screamed and laughed as they played, blissfully ignorant. They knew the world they lived in, and the role they played in it. But they had yet to learn how brutal things could be for their kind.

None of the adults stepped forward to change that. They, too, had once been young and innocent. They, too, had lived in a bubble. Let their children and wards enjoy their time there for a little while longer. Sooner or later, the bubble would pop.

The old crones began to beat their canes into the earth, adopting the rhythm of a steadily-beating heart. While they didn’t go about it loudly, they went about it until the instruments stopped, the songs died down, the couples stopped dancing, and the children stopped playing. The colors of the bonfire dimmed, as if the hearth were humbling itself before the elder witches.

In the silence that followed, the gelid wind—the last they’d feel Samhain—was as loud as a dragon’s roar. Nobody dared break it. They chose, instead, to give the crones their full attention. Witches who’d lived this long, in these times, deserved the utmost respect. Witches had never had kings or lords, but they’d always respected their elders. Now, even more so.

Biting her lip, Breanne met Lorelai’s eyes. Icy-blue met hazel. Mute, Breanne gestured for her child to join her. Lorelai obeyed, as she always did. Only when her daughter had climbed into her lap, secured there by loving arms, did Breanne allow herself to relax.

The quietude stretched on for another full minute. Above them all, amidst the carpet of glittering stars, the full moon was pale and mournful. The True Faith insisted that it was All-Mother peering down from above. They said She watched over Her children and granted special attention to those who honored her: Wives, matrons, and the Silent Sisters. Such nonsense.

Finally, one of the crones rose with no small amount of difficulty. Even from a distance, Breanne could see she was of Libunese descent. Like all the women who hailed from the continent of Libu, she wore an intricately-wrapped scarf atop her head. Her dress was as bright as a peacock’s tail, and her skin was polished ebony. Her woolen sleeves slid down her bony arms, revealing the tattoos that enabled witches to use magic. From shoulder to wrist were runes of every tongue, the ink as black as the day they’d been applied. Now, some of the runes began to glow like flares.

When the crone spoke, her voice was impossibly loud. Fellow witches, she said in a lightly accented voice, the time is drawing near. Soon, winter will give way to spring. We trust you have partaken in the other ceremonies prior to this. It is important we maintain our traditions.

There were no murmurs, but many nodded their heads in agreement. Some displayed the crystals woven into their hair, adorning their necks, and hanging from their wrists and ankles. The gems gleamed in the multicolored firelight.

Breanne herself had done what any respectable witch would do for Imbolc. She’d cleaned the cottage she and Lorelai shared from top to bottom, with her adorable little daughter helping whenever she was permitted to. She’d made handcrafted gifts, which she’d handed out when she and Lorelai had sublimed here. She and Lorelai both wore crystals, as did everyone else here. Breanne had bloodstones woven into her mousy-brown tresses, symbolizing health, intuition, and mental clarity. Lorelai’s neck was embellished with moonstones, representing transition and rebirth.

Satisfied, the crone sat down.

Another rose in her stead. Like her predecessor, the witch’s runes began to glow as she magically enhanced her voice. Unlike her predecessor, this woman’s hijab marked her as Sinari. Her headscarf, traditionally meant to render her humble before the God of Sand and Sky, was the color of new leaves.

Like with Libunese women, the True Faith let Sinari women cover their heads—even if it couldn’t be for a false god anymore. Devout women covered their heads. That was the Divine Law. Hence why den mothers didn’t. Most of these devout women, however, weren’t lucky enough to have their men join them in covering their heads.

Mothers, the Sinari woman said through her veil, if you have not imbued your children with their first runes, you may do so now. The change will soon be upon us.

Some mothers sighed, inclining their heads to the crones before going about completing their tasks. Breanne, among other mothers, clucked her tongue at them. Tradition stated that witch children be marked with their first rune—just below the collarbone—at age five at the latest. By that point, whatever magical ability the child might have would reveal itself. Lorelai had revealed her powers at eighteen moons, when a bad nightmare had made the entire house shake. Breanne still remembered the shingles sliding off the roof and deep cracks snaking across the walls. For a few, terrible moments, she’d genuinely believed the house would fall.

As Breanne waited for the other mothers to do their duty, she suddenly got a tug on her hair. Looking down, she saw Lorelai’s little face staring up at her. She looked so much like Parvana that it ached. Mama, Lorelai whispered, does it hurt them?

For a minute, Breanne was confused. Then, she realized what her child meant. No, my dove. She kissed the crown of Lorelai’s head to further soothe her. It didn’t hurt when I gave you your rune, did it?

Pensively, Lorelai rubbed a finger against the rune below her collarbone. ‘Grá’, the Old Shorespeak word for ‘love’. Finally, she shook her head. A few fine wisps tickled her cheeks. No, Mama.

Then if these mothers love their children half as much as I love you, which Breanne doubted, they’ll make it as painless as I did.

Lorelai nibbled her bottom lip, nodded, and settled down once more. Stroking her daughter’s hair, tucking loose strands back into her braids, Breanne looked to the mothers who’d been foolish enough to wait until the last minute. Native or Jadean, Libunese or Sinari, mixed-blooded or full, they followed the custom that’d been decided many eons ago. A custom born of so many different lands and cultures, all bound by magic. Incantations were whispered. Runes glowed. Fingertips spelled out the runes upon children’s flesh. Wishes for their sons and daughters. Health. Love. Happiness. Fulfillment. Wealth. Longevity.

Before too long, all the children five or older had been marked. Officially initiated into witchy society. Babies and toddlers fussed and whined, perhaps out of jealousy. But if their luck held, and the True Faith’s eye passed over them, they’d be marked before long.

The Sinari witch, satisfied, bowed her head and sat back down. She practically slumped in her seat. A young man—perhaps her son, from the way he fussed over her—brought her a jug of fermented goat’s milk. She drank it all, sighing when she was done. Her hand clasped her son’s, squeezing it in thanks.

A third crone—this one native like Breanne, pale and light-eyed—rose from the stone she’d been sitting on. She raised her cane and pointed it to the sky. Behold! She cried. The change is upon us!

Heads covered and bare, dark-haired and light, small and large, turned toward the sky. The stars winked out. First one by one, then in huge masses. Children whimpered and whined, frightened by the sight. Breanne felt Lorelai huddle into her. Hiding her face in Breanne’s dress, the child wrapped her gangly limbs around her torso with shocking strength. The need in the child’s grip felt good. Smiling, she patted Lorelai’s head. It’s all right, sweetheart, Breanne whispered. It’s just part of the process. Look, they’re already coming back, brighter than before.

Lorelai dared a peek. In the flash of starlight, Breanne saw terror turn to delight. For a brief moment, night turned to day. All the while, the air began to hum all around them. Looking at her arms, Breanne spied the hairs standing on end. Lorelai’s did as well, and she gasped at the marvel. The magic was palpable in the air, electric as it rolled over the crowd in waves. And then, like a breath being released, the magic unfurled in a rush.

Before everyone’s eyes, the snow melted. New, green grass and wildflowers took its place. The air’s sharp edge was sloughed away, leaving only warmth that grew more perfumed with every growing blossom. The Spine, so akin to an actual giant’s vertebrae a moment before, turned to sharp but lush mountains. Unable to resist, Breanne closed her two eyes and opened her third. Sweeping over the island, she saw it shed its wintry cloak. Icicles melted. Rivers thawed. Lakes cracked open. More snow receded, revealing standing stones engraved with runes and pine-cones that’d fallen last autumn. In all the places people never dwelt, monsters awoke from hibernation and emerged from their homes, sniffing the sweetening air.

And on every hill crowned with rainbow-colored fire, millions of white flowers bloomed.

Breanne had seen magical transitions countless times before. She’d seen its confident hand turn the loom upon which all the seasons rested, coming and going in perfect succession. And yet, she was moved every time.

Lorelai was practically bouncing in her lap. Breanne retrieved her third eye, using her original two to glance down at her child. Tugging at her hair again, Lorelai kept whispering, "Look, Mama! Look!"

I know, my little rampion child, Breanne held Lorelai close. Magic is the lifeblood of the world. It chooses who wields it, and it chose us.

Lorelai looked up at her. Will I do stuff like this someday?

Breanne chuckled. Only time will tell, darling. If that first instance of magic was any indication, then Lorelai would be mighty indeed. Probably not enough to change the seasons—such things were beyond even the strongest witch’s power—but definitely enough to put the fear of the gods in mundies.

Lorelai grinned, revealing the twin gaps that her front teeth had yet to occupy. The sight of it filled Breanne with a painful sort of love. One that made her embrace her daughter as tightly as she dared.

She could’ve stayed like that all night. But as winter retreated entirely, the crowd grew taciturn. Not with awe, Breanne sensed, but with fear. She felt it like she’d felt the tightening of her corset. Some looked like her: Startled by something, but unsure of what, exactly. Others were stiff and sallow-faced with terror, some tilting their heads toward a sound. They knew precisely what to be afraid of.

For a moment, she hoped she was wrong.

Then, a witch beside her whispered, The banshee. She’s screaming.

Breanne’s mind didn’t have time to process anything else.

In the next instant, there came the sound of someone subliming. Going from vapor to solid, transporting themselves across space through magic. It sounded like rich fabric ripping close to Breanne’s ears. Then, it happened again. And again. And yet again. An army’s worth.

Other witches turned and saw the cause before Breanne did. Their screams resounded as Breanne at last faced the ruckus. Her bones turned to ice.

Running up the hill, waving their swords and axes, were men in gilded steel. The warm wind carried their furious battle cries. Their long cloaks flowed behind them, as white as the flowers dying beneath their boots. Engraved upon their chests was a sigil witches had loathed and feared for the last three centuries: A jeweled crown lined with Scripture.

Breanne’s breath stuttered as she tried to comprehend what she was seeing. The Guardians, the hunting hounds the True Faith unleashed from time to time, had found them. Somehow, they’d sublimed here. And there were dozens of them, maybe even a hundred.

Get the hag-seeds! A man who could only be the commander yelled. Kill every last one of them! Leave not one of them standing!

The witches were already scattering. Knocking over tables and ramming into each other, they grabbed their loved ones and sublimed out of sight. A third of them were gone before the Guardians even reached the top of the hill. Breanne was too shocked to follow them.

Mama! Lorelai’s voice, high-pitched with fear, jerked Breanne back to reality. Looking down, she saw her child crying and clinging to her like a lifeline. Mama, I wanna go home!

Breanne was about to comply when someone behind her screamed, Look out!

Raising her gaze, Breanne gasped. A storm of arrows descended upon the crowd. As they fell, they hit their marks. Men, women, and children screamed as they bled. Some were dead on impact. The others were merely wounded, dizzy with pain and panic. But the past three hundred years had toughened the witches. Snarling and cursing, they raised their arms and cast their spells.

Holding her child close, Breanne turned on her heel and ran into the chaos. Upon her heels were the Guardians, howling and swiping with righteous abandon. Steel cut through skin, bone, and muscle with ease. Blood poured onto the new grass, staining the white flowers. Breanne dove and bolted past the dead and the dying, nearly slipping in warm puddles of blood more than once.

All the while, she struggled to sublime herself and Lorelai back home. But she couldn’t. It was like lighting a fire with damp rocks. She had to be calm, her mind cleared save for her destination, in order for the spell to work. In that moment, as she ran like a hare from a den of foxes, all she could think about was protection. Protection for her daughter, and for herself.

But where? How? Frantically, Breanne spun around. Looking for somewhere, anywhere, that could be safe. Everywhere she looked, she saw horrors.

One male witch lifted a burning log from the now blood-red bonfire without so much as moving a finger. With a hiss, he sent the brightly-veined bole directly into a Guardian. The first impact knocked the knight on his back. The next smashed his face in like a rotting pumpkin.

A Guardian shoved a witch woman to the ground, snatched her screaming baby from her hands, and threw him directly into the bonfire. The infant’s shrieks went terribly high, mixing with the sounds of his bones popping and his flesh melting, before he finally went silent. As he died, the Guardian beheaded his mother and tied his dripping trophy to his belt.

A young witch, barely a maiden, transformed herself into a bear. Roaring, she pounced on a Guardian and pinned him down. Her claws cut through his armor as though it were silk. Soon, his guts were spilling out. Greedily, the witch drove her snout into the Guardian’s intestines and began chewing away. The Guardian cried for his mother with his final breaths.

A Guardian and a male witch dueled. One had a sword, the other a sickle. Limbs were shorn like deadheads. Both had their blades deep in each other’s chests when they finally died.

And on and on it went.

Holding a hysterical Lorelai to her, desperately trying to hush her, Breanne finally found salvation in an upright table. Most of the food and drinks had been spilled and spoiled by the carnage. Several corpses—and parts of others—lay next to the empty cups and slabs of meat, some still twitching grotesquely.

Breanne ducked under the table, huddling close to one of its thick legs. Lorelai continued to sob, soaking through Breanne’s dress. Breanne tried to hush her, but it was no use. As she watched both sides bleed and die, she quietly whispered a spell. One that Libunese hunters used in order to encroach upon their prey, and that rebellious Sinari women used to sneak out of their homes without a male escort.

"Steek ons weg. Breanne whispered first in Libunese, then in Sinari. Akhfina."

As the witches and the Guardians traded steel for spells, Breanne’s runes glowed. At the same time, her skin and clothes became transparent. Then, her muscles. Finally, her bones. Looking down at little Lorelai, Breanne saw her daughter staring up at her with the utmost trust. Even as their people died all around them, the child trusted that she’d be safe. That she’d be taken care of.

Breanne clutched Lorelai to her chest, covering her face with her hand. Close your eyes, she whispered. Close your eyes, baby. It’s just a bad dream. Close your eyes.

She felt Lorelai close her eyes. But she never went lax with sleep. Instead, she remained so firmly attached to Breanne that nothing short of murder would’ve separated them.

Mother and daughter cowered beneath the table, silent and unmoving, as the earth grew soaked with blood and the screams of the dying rolled down the hill. Little by little, the bonfire died. Its crimson hue turned maroon, then gray, and finally died with an angry hiss.

Breanne wasn’t sure how long it actually took for the battle to end. It could’ve been minutes. It could’ve been hours. All she knew was that by the time the last witch fell and the remaining Guardians cheered, dawn hadn’t lit the east yet.

Curling her body around Lorelai’s tinier frame, Breanne peered out from under the table. Sweating and panting, the Guardians lounged among their victims. Drinking what remained of the witches’ mulled wine, ale, and fermented milk. Some ate whatever food hadn’t been doused in blood, complaining about the abundance of rosemary. Some Guardians shed their armor and searched for beautiful corpses to have their way with. Others were skulking through the battlefield with burlap sacks in their hands, searching for heads to drop inside them.

How easily Breanne’s head could’ve joined them in those dirty bags. How easily Lorelai’s could’ve, her honey-blonde braids stained crimson.

Breanne watched them, hating them with every breath she took.

Mama, Lorelai whispered urgently, is Ki-taek all right?

Breanne frowned, momentarily at a loss. Who?

Ki-taek, Lorelai repeated. Is he all right?

It dawned on Breanne, who glanced at the gore just beyond their hiding spot. Headless corpses lying every which way. Hacked-off limbs. Mounds of steaming guts. Pools of blood, already congealing. In the field of crimson flowers, their pedaled heads drooped like mourners. Guardians collecting their bounty, as callous to the witches’ suffering as their masters were. Wincing, Breanne shook her head. I don’t think so, darling.

Can we check after they leave? Lorelai whispered. Please?

Breanne shook her head.

Lorelai started. But—but—

Blindly, Breanne placed her hand over her daughter’s mouth. Lorelai instantly grew silent. Warm droplets streamed down the back of Breanne’s hand, but she steeled her heart. Lorelai was the child, and Breanne was the parent. She had to be responsible.

Remember, lads! The commander’s voice made Breanne jump. Collect the heads of the hag-seeds you felled. No proof, no coin!

How much was it again? One soldier whispered to another as they walked side by side, collecting heads as casually as one might collect ripe melons.

Twenty silver coins per head, his companion replied, and twenty-five for each child’s head. You know, nipping evil in the bud and all that.

Breanne tightened her grip on her own child. If they tried to touch her, if they fucking dared...

Our little sleuth can keep his, of course, the commander stated. Such is the decree of the Father of the Faithful himself.

Breanne had to slap a hand over her own mouth lest she give them both away. ‘Sleuth’? What? No, it couldn’t...

Slowly, the pieces came together. The picture they formed was too horrid for Breanne to consider. Too risky for her daughter.

I still find it stupid we have to prove we killed these heathens! A soldier on the other side of the smoking bonfire cried out, interrupting Breanne’s thoughts. I mean, what are we? Red Hoods?

A soldier directly to Breanne’s left spat. "That waste stock? Are you joking? We were chosen by the gods to root out evil, while they’re bastards, orphans, and juveniles cared for by unwomen. Comparing us to them is like comparing a mountain spring to a latrine."

Aye! Another Guardian chimed in. My aunt’s an unwoman. Helps her forget she failed her biological destiny.

Breanne’s teeth clenched. She couldn’t tell who she hated more in that moment: The spy, or the people he’d betrayed their kind to.

Another Guardian laughed. It was a horrible sound. Better an unwoman than these sinners. He gave a headless woman’s corpse a good, hard kick. They’ll make pathetic monsters in their next life.

I wish I had the power to strike you all down, Breanne thought, glaring at each of the Guardians from under the table. I wish I had a potion to slip into your drinks. I’d gladly go to prison if it meant watching you swallow it. Right after I force the traitor to drink an entire flask of it!

‘Flask’. That word sent a gelid ripple coiling through her. Resurrecting what she’d buried. A hidden flask. A cup of blackberry wine. A bed slick with sweat and blood. Shaking her head to clear it, Breanne reverted her gaze to the enemy. All the while, cold sweats broke out across her body. Lorelai, sensing her mother’s stiffening posture, tried to stroke her hair in a soothing fashion. Breanne held her close, all the while keeping her eyes trained on her main foe. The one in charge of this horror.

The commander looked to the moon. Even from this angle, Breanne could see the gears turning in his head. He was so doused with blood, even with his helmet off, that she couldn’t have guessed his ethnicity if her life had depended on it. Not that it really mattered. He didn’t see her as human, so why should she see him as anything but a monster?

Get your proof posthaste, the commander barked. We must leave now. The Midnight Prayer will be starting soon. Hag-seed cleansing or not, we can’t miss it.

Like a sheep dog’s bark gets the herd back in line, the commander’s reminder of their final daily prayers quickened the Guardians’ pace. They claimed the last of the heads, bound the bags shut, and sheathed their weapons. Then, after saluting their commander—who saluted them back, stone-faced—they recited a quick section of the Good Book. Specifically, that of the gods delivering Their children from evil. Then, in unison, they marched down the hill. Their armor clanked as they moved, growing fainter as they moved further away.

Breanne strained her ears. When she could hear them no more, she once again closed her two eyes and opened her third. It followed them down the meadow, across Blue Ribbon. It’d been frozen less than two hours ago. Now, it was gurgling with sweet water and lined with reeds. They then came upon a small and unpaved road, with not a soul in sight except for an Asp, a cobra the length of a horse. Hissing and snarling, it feasted on the vagrant who’d been too foolish—or perhaps too desperate—to see it coming. The Guardians skirted around the snake, slowing down only when they could no longer see it curled around its paralyzed prey. Still walking in perfect formation, they trekked the road. At the end of it, Breanne saw, was the small town of Old Oak, named after the massive tree in the commune’s heart.

Breanne closed her third eye. Her remaining two opened. Sighing, Breanne undid the spell with a wave of her hand, a gleam of her runes, and a whispered word. The hand in question became visible again, as did the rest of her. Lorelai was once again seeable. In her eyes was a grief and fear that no five-year-old should ever have to endure.

Oh, honey. Breanne held Lorelai close as she sobbed, dampening the front of her dress. Mother and daughter rocked from side to side, all the while Breanne tried in vain to calm her. The air was clear and still. Bodies lay on the ground, headless and silent.

As she took it all in, Breanne felt a surge of indignity. Of anger, even. Tonight had been Lorelai’s first time partaking in a witchy ceremony. A time when spring brings color and life back into the world. It should’ve been wonderful.

But maybe Breanne had been naive.

Lorelai’s wails reclaimed her mother’s attention. Holding her close, Breanne began to hum a familiar tune. Her daughter sniffled. Still crying, but a little less intensely. Encouraged, Breanne began to softly sing. It was a lullaby every witch parent sang to their child, who would then grow up to sing it to their own offspring. An endless succession of witches, trying to warn the next generation through song.

"Mundies are sleeping in their homes,

Letting their worries leak out of their domes.

But witches lie in the dark, anxious and silent,

Fearing no ghouls, dragons, or beasts so violent.

The True Faith, their eyes far and wide,

Their hearts are cold, their holiness snide.

Their golden sword, it comes and goes,

Leaving nothing behind but food for crows."

With every line, Lorelai’s sobs grew a little quieter. Sniffling, she wiped her face and snuffled against Breanne. Together, they sang the last part together. Their voices were the only sounds to be heard on the hill.

"My sweet little love, close your eyes,

Stiffen your body, silence your sighs.

Pray the True Faith thinks you dead,

And leaves your body with a head."

As the last notes drifted away like dandelion seeds, mother and daughter remained in their hiding place. Sitting in silence. Processing all that had happened.

Breanne felt Lorelai detach herself a bit from her bodice. "They’re all... gone." Her voice, already raspy from crying, was heavy with despair.

Maybe, Breanne thought. But you’re not. You, my precious child. You, who I’ve wanted so much for so long. You, who I almost lost. She kissed the top of Lorelai’s head. No. She rested her cheek against Lorelai’s hair. I’m here. Lorelai sniffled, saying nothing.

Breanne gently cupped Lorelai’s chin, forcing the girl to meet her gaze. Softly, she dried her daughter’s tears with her sleeve. My little rampion child, Breanne said, "listen to me. I know I’ve always told you how dangerous the world is, but this, she gestured to the bloodshed beyond their spot, confirms it."

Thankfully, Lorelai didn’t turn to look at it. Is that why we only go to town once every nine moons?

Breanne nodded. The world we live in belongs to the enemy. We have to maintain our traditions, yes, but do it cautiously. She felt her teeth clench once more, but she kept her voice in check. And that means being wary of who to trust.

Lorelai frowned, not understanding.

Breanne took a deep breath, brushing a loose strand from Lorelai’s face. Normally, we enchant these hills so that no one can see what we do here during our holidays. But someone told the True Faith about tonight. They probably sublimed the Guardians. She paused. "It was one of us." And soon, she knew, they would get what they deserved. They always did.

Lorelai gasped, devastated. Her hazel eyes grew to the size of saucers. "Who?"

I don’t know, Breanne shook her head. But I want you to understand this: It could’ve been anyone. It could’ve been one of the mothers giving their children their first rune. It could’ve been one of the people reading poetry aloud. It could’ve been one of the crones, for all I know. She raised her brows. Do you see?

Lorelai did. Even before she said it, Breanne saw the reply in that furrowed brow. Anyone could be the enemy.

That’s right. Breanne pulled Lorelai closer. Let this be a lesson to both of us, eh? Anyone except us is an enemy.

Part One: The Sleep of the Curious

1

The Second Year of the True King Matthew’s Reign

The Spine was a mountain range that ran down Shipbreaker Shore’s middle, much as its namesake would in any other body. It went on and on, its peaks as sharp as spears, from the Ice Quarry in the far north, to the Sea of Sand in the deep south. The very tops were dry and barren, home to Rocs, griffins, two-headed Gandaberundas. More than a hundred villages and towns occupied the lower halves of the sierras, but few went as far up as Mama and Lorelai. This high up, their mountaintop close enough to touch, they were in their own world. A world of forests and freedom, of solitude and beauty. And Lorelai did love it.

Especially in the summer.

Warm grass tickled the soles of Lorelai’s bare feet. A gentle wind played with her braids, which tickled the backs of her knees, as well as her linen dress. Slowly, almost leisurely, the seven-year-old roamed through the thicket. Breathing in, she tasted the woods: Sun-warmed leaves, clinging ivy, rich soil, sweet rivers, and millions of flowers.

With every step, Lorelai listened to the faeries. To their chitters and whispers, almost too quiet to hear. She was relieved they’d noticed her red dress and the iron clasps in her braids. Faeries didn’t attack humans who abode by their rules. After all, she needed to collect ingredients for Mama’s potions. But oh, it was so easy to get distracted. No wonder the faeries never left their lands.

Lorelai started, cursing herself for almost forgetting. Reaching into her satchel, she produced a hollowed-out pumpkin that she’d carefully sealed shut that morning. Inside was enough faerie porridge to feed a fey village. Oats, honey, wild berries, and fresh mint leaves. Removing the covering, Lorelai bowed her head and held up the pumpkin. All around her, she could hear the fey chittering excitedly. Hiding her smile, she said, Happy Litha. Then, she placed the pumpkin down and continued on her way. Fae didn’t like to be watched while they ate.

Trees towered over Lorelai, thick and gnarly and powerful. Their canopies merged, shrouding her from the harshest of the summer light. Dapples of brightness fell upon the ground like spots on a fawn’s coat. Glossy ivy ran up the tree trunks, reaching for the light. Birds twittered. Distantly, monsters roared. Lorelai spun in a circle more often than not, determined to see everything. She might’ve known these woods well, but she never got tired of them.

If only Lorelai had brought one of her books. Reading in the forest was the most wonderful thing.

But right now, she had a job to do.

Something yellow caught Lorelai’s eye. Looking toward it, she grinned with excitement. There, less than a yard away from where she stood, was a cluster of dandelions. And it just so happened that Mama’s supply of dandelion root was running low.

Lorelai pumped the air with her fists, giving a small jump. Then, she got down on her knees and crawled toward her prize. Carefully, with experienced and nimble fingers, she dug out the roots and wiped away the dirt. They soon found their way in Lorelai’s satchel, alongside chunks of moss, some sparrow entrails—Lorelai had buried the poor thing afterwards, hoping its death had been swift—and a few tadpoles from the Crooked River.

And with that, Lorelai’s task was done.

Oh, she crooned, hugging the satchel, Mama’s gonna be so happy! Giggling, she rolled in the grass, still clutching the bag. Lying on her back, she stared up at the canopy. While the area was well-shaded, generous blotches of sunlight caressed her lovingly. Giant trees shimmied in the wind, their leaves whispering as they did so. Nothing’s going to hurt you here, they seemed to say. And she believed them. Even the recent news of a manticore prowling the mountain couldn’t disrupt Lorelai’s nearly daily ritual. It was the only time she truly felt free.

Sighing, Lorelai picked a nearby daisy. After a curious sniff, she tucked it behind her ear. Then, she stretched out like a cat, enjoying the feel of grass on her bare skin. Her braids splayed out behind her, twisting like vines. Mama would scold her later for dirtying them with blades of grass and leaves, but Lorelai didn’t care. Smiling, she closed her eyes and let herself vanish. Let her mind go quiet. Let herself become one with the sun, the trees, and the ground. That was what Litha was all about.

There came a tickling sensation on Lorelai’s hand. Holding it up, she marveled as a ladybug scurried along her knuckles and the back of her hand, climbing over the blue veins there. Each touch of those tiny legs made Lorelai giggle as she watched.

Let the mundies keep their True Faith. Let them keep their arrogant Faith Keepers and their weak, submissive Silent Sisters. Let them keep their disciples, destined to one day become Guardians. Let them keep their parishes and their Good Book. Let them keep their false gods, whom they never heard from.

Lying there, bathed in warmth and cocooned in grass, watching the ladybug move along her arm, Lorelai felt almost pious.

It was a shame, though, that Lorelai couldn’t celebrate Litha in other ways. Celebrate her father, whom she’d never met and whom Mama hated. Or attend a Midsummer Sun Ritual. Only Mama could go there, or to any other witchy festival. Anyone there could be a spy, selling their kind to the True Faith to save their own lives.

As it reached her elbow, the ladybug at last unfurled its wings and took off. Lorelai smiled as it left, sad of its departure but delighted by its presence. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the summer, and closed her eyes.

Lorelai was almost asleep when the faeries’ whispers grew louder. They spoke in rhyme, as they always did.

"The Red Hoods come,

Four in all,

A mother and four sons.

Two will soon fall."

––––––––

Lorelai’s eyes snapped open. Red Hoods weren’t the worst threat to witches, but they had hunted them down when they couldn’t find other monsters to kill for pay.

Scrambling to her feet, Lorelai bolted toward the nearest tree. An ash, easily fifteen meters tall. Years of climbing trees gave her easy access to the grooves and cracks she could use until the first branches were in reach. Still Lorelai climbed, as agile as a monkey, until a healthy layer of foliage hid her from sight. Crouching down on her perch, she watched. Waited.

Footsteps. Closer. Closer. Closer, still. Lorelai curled her fingers around the branch, barely daring to breathe.

Finally, a hooded figure emerged from the shrubbery. It was rather tall, and its large muscles were evident even in its boiled leather. Their hooded cloak, the color of fresh blood, was a stark contrast to the vibrant greens all around them. Secured to the figure’s back was a large cage filled with their people’s signature red ravens. The birds within cawed impatiently from their perches, clearly eager to be let out.

Pausing for breath, the figure wiped their brow and took a drink from the hollow gourd hanging from their hip. Still panting, they lowered their hood. Underneath it was an unwoman with caramel skin and a black braid that tickled her elbows. Her eyes were the darkest brown, and her lightly-lined face was gentle. A contrast to the rest of her, which reminded Lorelai of strong knights she’d read about in stories.

Lorelai tilted her head. The faeries had spoken of multiple Red Hoods, not just one. Still, Lorelai could give her a bit of a scare. Chuckling deviously, she held her hand out to the unwoman. The runes running around her wrist began to glow.

But before she could do much else, the unwoman called over her shoulder, Come now, boys! You’re moving like molasses!

Lorelai tilted her head, recognizing the accent. Jadean. Or, rather, the subcontinent. The Land of Many Gods. Mama knew some of their spells. But for the life of her, Lorelai couldn’t pronounce the words.

There came a chorus of groans. An instant later, three boys stepped into view. They, too, wore red cloaks. As they shed them, Lorelai saw that was all they had in common.

One was nearly a man, tall and dark-skinned. Facial markings decorated his oblong visage. He had the full lips and broad nostrils of the Libunese, and he wore them with a laid-back confidence.

The second was a few years younger and several centimeters shorter, with a mop of rust-colored hair that ruffled in the wind.

The last was around Lorelai’s age, with coffee-brown skin and auburn dreadlocks that tickled his angular hips. He had the same Libunese features as the older boy, but no one would’ve mistaken them for brothers. His nose was smaller, for one, and his face was more square than oblong. Like the rest of his people, he’d undergone scarification. A way to prepare a child, through physical distress, for the hardships of adulthood. In this boy’s case, there were four short, horizontal markings: Two for each cheek.

The unwoman—the boys’ den mother, Lorelai realized—tutted her tongue at them, her calloused hands on her hips. If we want to catch that manticore before it strikes again, you’re going to have to move quickly.

The tall one sighed, muttering something in Libunese. Sita, we’ve gone over the plan a dozen times!

Aye! The fluffy-haired boy chimed in. You always say that luck favors the prepared!

Ah, Sita waved her finger, "but luck isn’t infallible. So, I say we discuss the plan again as we keep walking."

The boys groaned again, their bodies slumping like damp, old socks.

No! The youngest cried. Have mercy! The older boys chimed in, clasping their hands together as if in prayer.

Sita laughed cheerily, silencing them with raised hands. All right, all right, I won’t make you beg. She gestured to the small clearing that Lorelai had occupied just moments before. We’ll have a short recess. Looking up—unknowingly making Lorelai curl up within herself like a startled turtle—the den mother read the sky. Humming, she said, The manticore attacked this morning. Ate half a herd of goats. So, it’s full. And its den, Roc’s Roost, is still a couple hours’ hike from here. The den mother removed the cage from her back. So, we have an hour.

Her wards’ relief was palpable.

Smiling, Sita opened the cage door. Not an instant later, the red ravens flooded out. Their sleek bodies—crimson, burgundy, cordovan, and a dozen other shades of red—dove through the trees and climbed into the air, excited to stretch their wings. Lorelai gaped at sight of them. She’d never seen any so close, despite having read about them. Bred and imprinted on by Red Hoods, they were smarter and swifter than the pigeons the rest of the isle used.

One landed on Lorelai’s branch. Right in front of her, in fact. It was young, Lorelai guessed, with glossy feathers that were the exact shade of rosewood. Its dark eyes met hers, tilting its head as it crooned curiously.

Lorelai, in spite of herself, grinned at it. Hello, she whispered. Reaching into her pocket, she produced a small seed cake she’d brought along on the hike. Breaking off a generous corner, she held it out to the bird. The bird considered the offer before lunging forward. In seconds, the seed cake fragment was gone, and the raven was croaking softly.

Lorelai giggled. I’m glad you liked it. Hesitantly, she reached out and stroked the bird’s feathers. Because really, when would she get another chance? The feathers were even softer than they looked. Trilling, the bird allowed itself to be petted.

Then, to Lorelai’s unending delight, the raven hopped on her arm. Its needle-like talons kept a grip firm enough to maintain balance, but not deep enough to prick the skin. Lorelai would’ve squealed with joy if it hadn’t been for the mundies below. Red Hoods were unusual mundies, no doubt. Living on the outskirts of mundie society, tolerated only for the service they provided and the unwanted children they claimed. But they were mundies all the same.

A sigh had Lorelai looking down again.

It’d been the dark-skinned boy, who was sitting on the grass and unsheathing his weapon. An axe, Lorelai saw, as long as she was tall. The blade looked sharp enough to cut through time itself. That’s good. The boy stroked his blade’s handle lovingly. It’ll give me time to boil some linseed oil and clean Guinevere.

The youngest boy snorted as he sat on a small rock. I still can’t believe that’s what you named it!

Oi! The older boy snapped. All great weapons have names!

Then name it something intimidating, or noble! The boy argued as he shed his pack. Like Widow’s Wail, or Thirst, or Swift Justice!

Like that toothpick you carry around? The older boy chuckled as he began to build a fire. "One day, you’ll have a real weapon, Odele. And then, you can name it whatever you please. You leave me to mine, aye?"

Odele’s cheeks burned. "It is not a toothpick!" He shouted, indignant.

The older boy grinned, delighted to have struck a nerve. That piece of charcoal you use for your little drawings would make a better weapon!

The red-haired boy, who had since summoned a lute from his own bag, laughed as he tuned it. Clearly, this was a common occurrence in their group.

Odele jumped to his feet. That’s it! He began to march toward his older brother-in-arms. I’ve had enough of your japes, Wunmi!

Ooh! Wunmi rose. "I’m so scared!"

But at that point, Sita—who’d been laying out an ensemble of beer bread, ale, and slabs of roasted meat—made her way between her two wards. Her hands rested on each boy’s chest. Enough! She didn’t shout, exactly, but her tone was not to be argued with. The two boys stilled, humbled by her stern expression. First, she turned that look toward Wunmi. That was needless. Please, apologize to your brother-in-arms.

Wunmi looked like he was about to protest. Then, he caught himself, looked at Odele, and then sighed. Very well. He inclined his head at the younger boy. I’m sorry.

Odele grumbled. Turning his back on his brother-in-arms, he crossed his arms. Frankly, Lorelai agreed. If someone had insulted her like that, she’d have hexed his teeth to drop from his mouth like overripe fruit.

Sita gave the boy a look that was equal parts sympathetic and reproachful. Lightly, almost playfully, she tapped his shoulder. Odele, too, sighed. He glanced over his shoulder, examining Wunmi for a long moment before shrugging. Fine.

"And you, Sita tapped his shoulder again, need to take a little light ribbing. Wunmi may have gone a bit far, but he meant no harm. Don’t take his jokes so personally, all right?"

Odele looked to Sita. But—!

Sita raised her eyebrows.

Odele grumbled again. Aye, Sita.

Good boys. With seemingly no effort, she pulled her wards in a short but tender hug. Lorelai found herself smiling. They were supposed to be the enemy. Everyone but her and Mama was an enemy. But still...

Now, Sita patted Wunmi’s back, clean Guinevere, yes? She’ll need to be in perfect shape for later.

Yes, Sita. Wunmi nodded before returning to his spot. Sitting down, he fetched two rocks from his pack and struck them together. Bright sparks burst forward, attacking the wood like hungry predators. As he set his linseed oil to boil, Lorelai looked away. More interested in Odele, who sulked on his rock while Sita kneeled before him.

Oi, she said softly, rubbing his knee, are you all right?

Odele shrugged, extracting a booklet and a charcoal quill from his bag.

He didn’t mean any harm, Sita continued, and I know he respects your skills. We all do.

Odele humphed, clearly unconvinced.

Sita pursed her lips together. Reaching out, she cupped his chin and raised his gaze. Darling, she said, I know what you’ve been through. But believe me when I say that it’s over. We’re your family now, and we would never forsake you.

Lorelai tilted her head, curious. The raven, too, seemed enraptured by the events below. It leaned forward, cawing softly.

Odele stared at Sita for a long moment. Then, with a whimper, he pounced forward and embraced her. Sita chuckled warmly, returning the hug.

Once again, Lorelai smiled. She knew she should hate them all. But in moments like these, much like ones she saw on Town Days, she couldn’t help but have her doubts.

Sita gave Odele a gentle squeeze—impressive, considering her biceps were the size of squash—before releasing him. Now, she patted his cheek, go on and eat something, hmm? We’ll all need our strength later. Especially you.

Odele went rigid.

Sita saw it. Are you certain you want to do this? None of us will judge you if—

No! Odele shook his head firmly. "I want to do this. I do."

Do what? Lorelai wished her special gift was telepathy, instead of stupid hair growth. If she could read minds, every person’s brain would be a book for her to leaf through.

Sita looked hesitant, but smiled anyway. I know you do. She gave his cheek a light pinch. My brave boy. Leaning forward, she pecked his forehead. Now, go on. Your sketchpad will still be here later.

Odele slid off the rock, smiling faintly. Yes, Sita.

High up in the ash tree, Lorelai watched Odele. She knew that what she was doing was dangerous, not to mention against the rules. Mama permitted her explorations as long as she never interacted with anyone. Granted, she was hidden. But the longer she stayed, the higher the risk. Despite knowing this, Lorelai couldn’t bring herself to leave. She never got to observe people—mundies, witches, it mattered little—at such close range. And these people in particular seemed... nice. Friendly, even. And while Lorelai wouldn’t have actually talked to any of them, she wanted to watch them. If only for a little longer.

As Wunmi polished his axe as lovingly as a mother washing her baby, and the rust-haired boy strummed his lute, Odele made his way to the food. After a moment’s contemplation, he seized a piece of meat and took a bite.

Oi, everybody! The red-haired boy exclaimed. I think I’ve finished my song! Would you like to hear it?

If we say no, Odele asked between bites, would it make a difference?

No! The boy said brightly. Clearing his throat, he added, I call it ‘Instructions For All New Red Hoods’! Then, he began to play. In a sweet voice, his words coming out in rapid succession.

"Don our hood and you might stay alive,

Even though we won’t all survive.

Sharpen your blades, get ready to climb.

Powerful eyes watch all the time.

Collect your coins and stay out of sight.

Monsters have quite the appetite,

But the True Faith are the true blight!"

By the end of it, Wunmi and Odele were clapping and cheering. Sita was, too, although she spoke sternly when the boy put down the lute. Connor, you must never sing this around other people, do you understand?

Connor nodded, as though he’d been expecting this. I won’t, Sita.

Good, Sita sat down so that they were more or less at eye level. Because the True Faith don’t like being mocked. Even in a playful way like this.

I know. Connor gestured to them all. This was just for us, aye?

Sita relaxed a bit. All right. She reached out and patted his foot. Don’t forget to sharpen your arrows.

I won’t. Connor paused, grinning impishly. "Although I would like to play one more song before I do that."

Why am I not surprised? Sita rolled her eyes, but it was playful.

Beaming, Connor began to play another song. This one, Lorelai recognized. She’d heard bards sing it in Pebble on Town Days. ‘The Witch and the Knight Who Loved Her’. A tragedy that came with loving the unlovable. As Connor sang, his voice light and merry, Wunmi nodded along while Sita poured herself some ale. Odele tapped his feet as he ate the meat.

It was a lovely moment. Like Imbolc had been two years ago, before... Before...

Odele stepped on something, frowned, and looked down. Lorelai leaned forward, if only to distract herself from the ghosts behind her.

Stooping down, Odele collected something. When he rose again, he was holding a daisy in his hand.

Lorelai nearly gasped. Her free hand searched one ear, then the other. No daisy.

Just as she was trying to figure out her next move, Odele suddenly looked up. Their eyes locked. Hazel met cerulean. The rest of them froze with fear.

Odele? Connor asked, pausing in his playing. Are you well? What’s wrong?

I... Odele blinked hard, looking from Lorelai to Connor to Lorelai again. His lips formed words, but nothing came out. Finally, he managed to speak. I... Nothing. I thought I saw a dragon, that’s all.

Lorelai blinked down at him. Whatever she’d been expecting, it hadn’t been that.

Odele looked back to his troupe, smiling awkwardly. Nervously, he handed Sita the flower. For you.

Oh! Sita’s face lit up. Oh, sweetheart! She cupped his cheeks and kissed the crown of his head. Thank you.

Connor giggled. Switching to a more comfortable position, he began to sing a song about flowers. Wunmi rolled his eyes as he kept cleaning his axe.

Lorelai sat there for a moment, too stunned to do anything else. Then, realizing the chance she’d been given, she searched for a path among the tree branches. High up, hidden from unwanted eyes by a wall of leaves. It didn’t take her long to find one. Soon, the Red Hoods—and the danger they posed—disappeared behind her.

Nimble as a monkey, Lorelai leaped from one branch to another, heading straight home. No matter where she was on the mountain, she could always find her way back.

As she leaped and ran, however, one thought refused to leave her be. It sank into her flesh like a nettle, drawing blood.

If mundies are so bad, why did that one help me?

Maybe... Just maybe...

2

Lorelai leaped from the last branch, flying like some golden bird, and landed on the soft, green grass. As she caught her breath, Lorelai saw her home a handful of yards away. Two-storied, pale walls, and a thatched roof the pale yellow of butter.

Just behind it, Lorelai knew, was Mama’s garden. Taking a deep breath, she could spell the produce there. The scent made her stomach growl. Lorelai smiled contently. Home. As she rose, one of her long braids spilled over her shoulder. Like its twin, it was heavy with metal clasps engraved with protective runes.

The kitchen shutters—painted gray-pink, Lorelai’s favorite color—suddenly flew open. Mama was there, already dressed in the green, gold, and purple of Litha. Lorelai! She cried, her face tight with concern. "Where were you?" An instant later, she was storming out the front door. Eyes wide, nostrils flaring. Lorelai’s stomach tied into a knot. No, this wasn’t supposed to happen. No, no, no...

It’s almost midday! Mama was shouting as she kneeled before her. I was sick with worry!

Lorelai wilted. I-I’m sorry, Mama—

Sorry isn’t good enough, Lorelai! Mama seized Lorelai’s shoulders and began to shake her. Lorelai could feel her mother’s fingers digging painfully into her flesh. Her lower bottom began to tremble. She hated it when Mama was like this. Nice Mama was gone, and Bad Mama was here. The one that scared her, and bruised her. There’s a manticore out there, and Red Hoods! Mama was all but screaming now as she turned blurry. "You could’ve been killed, or captured! What in the world were you thinking?"

Lorelai didn’t mean to cry, but she did. Even when she tried to seal her lips, tears ran down her cheeks, and embarrassing whimpers made their way out. Mama kept staring at her, and her hands remained on her shoulders. She no longer looked angry, but she didn’t look happy, either. The uncertainty made Lorelai cry harder.

For a minute, she feared Mama would slap her. Instead, in a soft voice, Mama said, Come here. When Lorelai could only stand there, puzzled, Mama spoke again. Come here. Cautiously, Lorelai obeyed. Mama embraced her warmly, softly, like she always did. Yet the tears wouldn’t stop. Mama hushed her gently, placing one hand on the back of her head. Lorelai buried her face in Mama’s neck, joining her hands at the back of her neck. Right where Mama’s carefully-arranged braid was.

Mama rubbed Lorelai’s back. It’s all right, darling. Was it her imagination, or was Mama’s voice more fragile?

For some reason, that made Lorelai keen.

Come on, Mama said in that funny voice. Shh. She kissed Lorelai’s face, holding her tightly. That was when Lorelai realized, with equal parts shock and awe, that Mama was crying, too.

It’s all right, Mama whispered between shaky breaths. Come here. Effortlessly, she lifted Lorelai off her feet and cradled her close. Lorelai let her feet dangle there, still whimpering in her mother’s embrace. A part of her was still shaking. Another, greater part had never felt safer. Especially when Mama hushed her again, whispering, It’s all right. Mama’s got you.

I know, Lorelai thought through her tears. I know, Mama.

Mother and daughter stayed like that. Tightly intertwined, crying softly, while the puffy clouds passed overhead and the grass flattened beneath the wind. Somewhere in the distance, a manticore roared.

3

Witching holidays were what children thought parties should be like.

Each festivity took place on a hill adorned with standing stones, with a deep pit located in the center. There were as many as fifty scattered throughout Shipbreaker Shore, although the True Faith had found and destroyed a few of the sites. But most had survived. And as the midday sun blazed high above, they were alive in ways the parishes could never be.

On nightly galas, massive bonfires were lit before the sun had completely set. But today, there was no need for it. The sun had all the light and heat the witches could ever want. Drinks were in abundance. Fruits and vegetables, both native and foreign, were displayed on massive tables.

The True Faith had imposed a dress code not long after they’d established their dominance. Jadeans could wear the mineral from which their homeland had gotten its name, and the men could wear their hair as long as any woman’s. Libunese could scar their skin as much as they liked. Sinari women could wear their various head coverings. Only the Red Hoods were allowed the robes from which they got their name, and their den mothers didn’t have to cover their hair. Everyone else had four colors to choose from: Black, white, gray, and brown.

No such restrictions could be found here. Men, women, and children wore robes and dresses spun from the lightest cotton, dyed rich hues of purple, gold, and green. Honeysuckle, roses, and chamomile were woven into the hair of girls and unwed maidens. Married women wore cloths woven with the very same flowers—with Sinari couples donning matching head coverings. Amber, jade, obsidian, and emerald shone on necklaces, bangles, and earrings. Some had been purchased. Others had been passed down through the generations.

And, like always, the air was alive with music. Songs predating the True Faith’s rule. Songs that’d existed on Shipbreaker Shore for eons, and others that’d washed ashore alongside the newcomers. Songs that spoke of magic and beauty, of love and tradition, and of death and rebirth. There were Libunese drums, native bagpipes, Sinari ouds, and Jadean dan baus. The very clouds seemed to dance to the tunes.

As the festival wore on, many a witchy wedding unfolded. Those married in the eyes of the True Faith had to kneel before a Faith Keeper who made them spout oaths they didn’t write themselves, and forced them to kiss his ring-heavy hand. Here, things were simpler and quicker: Crones cupped the faces of the couple, asked them if they wanted to marry their partners, and then bound them together by the laws of magic. Each ceremony couldn’t have taken longer than ten minutes.

Breanne herself had never been married. She’d never had any interest to. All she’d ever wanted was a child, and she’d fought hard to get Lorelai. Someone to love and to hold, to teach and to have, just as Futaba had with her.

Breanne, already somber despite the jubilant atmosphere, felt her mood darken further as she thought of Lorelai. She’d worried after her child all morning, even as she’d gone about Litha’s traditions by watching the sunrise and leaving offerings of porridge to the fair folk. As the sun had traveled across the sky, Breanne’s concern had slowly turned to anxiety. Of course, she knew Lorelai