Page 6 of Their Witch Bride

The whispers weave through my thoughts. “This blade will make the user feel brave whenever they hold it. The kind of brave that will make a man or woman unstoppable.”

He dips the sword into the water. The loud sizzle of the heat hitting the water jolts me back to reality, back to this world. I’d been lost in the quiet whispers of the sword, something that seemed to happen to me every time I used my Metal Magic.

I sigh and replay what happened at the lake in my mind, wincing as I recall what Edna called me. Usually, I’m pretty good at keeping a positive outlook, no matter how much shit I step in. Baldemar once told me that he’d never seen a kid fall so many times when trying to learn how to walk, but I got up every time. And after realizing no one was going to pick me up when I cried, I stopped crying too. Yet with my mother returning, I’m having a hard time not letting my nerves and my disappointing handle on magic get me down.

Everyone is right. I suck. I bite my bottom lip and think about what it would be like if I could wield my magic the way everyone else can. Would that change how my mother sees me or how she treats me? Or would someone always be better than me? I’m sure she wishes Edna was her heir instead of me.

“Your magic isn’t any worse or better than it was before. What brought you to feeling like this?” Baldemar asks, drinking from his glass and studying me with his dark, intelligent eyes.

Might as well just tell him.

“I fucked up magic again recently. With an audience.” I cringe as the scene plays again and again in my mind.

The embarrassment of not being able to master magic like everyone else washes over me again as I remember Edna towering over me with a smug expression on her face. It’s almost like something is blocking my magic - like there’s an invisible barrier between myself and my powers. But the healers have tested me for any curses or abnormalities, and I was given a clean bill of health.

So, what’s wrong with me?

“Not every witch is good at every magic. I’m sure not even the Queen is perfect at all of them.” His eyes are gentle as they find mine, and he gives a little smile that warms my heart. “Besides, you’re the best there is with metal and weapons. The best I’ve seen in all my years as a blacksmith.”

Yeah, freaking wonderful.

I snort. “So, I’m good at the only magic that does our coven no good? Witches don’t need weapons. They have magic. Weapons are for humans and shifters. My ‘gift’ is useless.”

Baldemar shakes his head and places the sword I made on the nearby table. “Don’t say that, Princess. Magic isn’t the only force in this world. Weapons are a part of life too, and they can be used to protect those who need them the most. I mean, think about the human men who stand by the witches while they cast spells. They use weapons to ensure the witches don’t get hurt. That’s useful!”

“Maybe.” Or maybe he’s the only one who feels that way.

He lifts up the sword I made and spins it, so I can take it in. “You created this sword with your magic, not only to be something beautiful, but also to be a tool to defend the user. That’s a worthy kind of magic.”

Not to my people.

“My mother is a Warrior Witch,” I say, emphasizing each word. “She expected me to be one too.”

He smiles at me reassuringly, tracing his fingers over the symbols my magic engraved. “You should never think you’re any less than anyone else because of your magic and what you can or can’t do with it. You have power within you even if others don’t see it yet.”

My body relaxes a bit at his words. He’s right, but I don’t live in his world, and he doesn't live in mine. As a man, he has no idea of the hierarchy in place in our coven. He doesn't understand that being good at Metal Magic is like being really good at catching stars, when stars have no purpose. He doesn’t understand that as the daughter to a powerful woman, I’m expected to be powerful too. The fact that I’m not is shameful, and no one wants to be associated with someone like me.

He takes another drink from his glass. I don’t blame him. It’s sweltering in here. Sweat drips down my back and pools uncomfortably in every crease and crevice of my body. I don’t know how he works here each day without falling over.

Going to a bucket of water, he fills up his cup again and goes to have another drink.

“Wait!” I hurry over to him. “Cold,” I whisper and touch the glass. It immediately turns frosty.

Of course, it works. Now. My magic usually works well with the blacksmith, for reasons I don’t understand. If only they could work this well with the other witches…

He grins, drawing my gaze back to him. “Thanks!” Then downs the whole glass in a few gulps. He heads back to his forge and pulls out another long piece of metal that’s now glowing yellow, then takes his hammer to it.

When he’s done, he holds the sword out to me. Again, I stretch and shape it as the blade whispers. Pictures form in my mind of symbols and designs. The blade’s request. I respond, moving quickly to bring the image to life.

“The wielder of this sword will heal quickly and come back even stronger,” I tell Baldemar as I inscribe the sword with a flourish of my hand.

But when I’m done, that aching feeling is back in my chest. My mom will be back tonight. The ceremony will take place, and my fate will be sealed. What the hell am I supposed to do?

Baldemar cools the sword in water, then admires it, smiling. He turns to me, his smile morphing into a concerned look as he takes me in. “Are you just nervous about tonight?”

He doesn’t say what tonight is. Everyone knows. Tonight is the coven’s ceremony where each young witch is assigned her role in the community. I don’t get to make the choice for myself based on what I like or what I’m good at. I have to accept whatever role the Queen assigns me.

Nerves flutter in my stomach. If I’m given a crappy role, I can never escape it, or my shame, again. If I’m given a good role, I won’t be able to do it properly, and I’ll spend my life as an embarrassment. Is there any way this will end well for me? I just need to know, so I can prepare myself emotionally.