Page 5 of Wrath of the Never Queen

“Today, we are reading about dragons.” She stands and rifles through a pile of books behind her.

“Dragons? But we have covered so much of them,” I protest but search for some paper and ink regardless.

“Oh? Is there something else you would like to read about instead?”

“What about witches?” I grin at her. She gives me an unamused look.

“You have learned much about our kind,” she replies, pulling books out and putting them back again.

I glance at her wooden leg. She puts on a limp for show—the leg is enchanted. The beautiful lavender carvings are more than simple decoration. The wood moves as if it is her own limb, as it always has done, and it always will until Aunt Meena passes away or the wood is broken.

During my early studies, I once asked her why she did not enchant her other leg as well. She had laughed and told me witches cannot enchant living things. We have a great power over the inanimate, but even plants are immuneto our au’mana. After learning this, I abandoned any attempts at enchanting my father and began focussing on my collection of lost items instead.

“I stripped the rust off a bucket today,” I tell her.

“A small thing for someone like you,” she replies, finding a shiny book and pulling it free. “Once you are in the House of Learning, you will have many projects to work on, much larger than a bucket.”

“Like a library?” I smirk. One of the reasons the library stands so sturdy is because Aunt Meena enchanted the building long ago. More accurately, she enchanted a single plank of wood in the wall, allowing the whole building to fall under her spell.Hold fast, she told it. And so it shall.

“Exactly right. Though I imagine Frostalm has libraries much grander than this.” She smiles and pulls out a second book. “Regardless, we have done plenty on witches for now.”

“Alright, well, please, no more dragons?”

“How about dragonsandwitches?” she offers, hauling the two huge books over to my table. “You will need to brush up on reading the two languages. I am certain Frostalm’s linguistic exam will have questions about them.”

“I can already read them both.” I roll my eyes but turn to the dragon book regardless. I run my hand over the cover.

Dragons do not often write their storiesdown as they prefer to tell their tales verbally or through patterns and drawings. And so the few books they have written are works of art. The paper is bound by two thick slabs of sandsnake leather and carved with large, ornate designs. One word in dragon text is embossed on the cover.

“History,” I read it aloud. Aunt Meena nods approvingly before pointing to the other book.

Witch books are plentiful as we enjoy reading and passing information in written language. As our strength lies in the inanimate, even our plainest books give off an ethereal purple glow, turning them into something beautiful. The scent of au’mana, like salt, supposedly lingers around it. I sniff the air to try and catch it, but all I smell are the books themselves. A sprawling title in witch tongue is written across the cover.

“A short history on the art of enchanting building materials for the use of homes and other construction,” I read.

“Very good,” Aunt Meena compliments. “Many people mistake the two languages as one, but once you see the differences between them, it becomes rather obvious which is which.”

“And which is witch.” I beam. She rolls her eyes but the corners of her mouth tug up, betraying a smile.

“Let us open the books and begin reading,” she says and I oblige, turning the cover of thedragon book first.

We read until the last of the sun filters through the trees and the moss crickets start their evening chirp. By the time I leave, my head is full and buzzing with knowledge—it is exhilarating and exhausting all at once. Moonlight seeps through the canopy in thin sheets, casting tiny silver pools across the dark wooden platforms. In the distance, the glow of the firebugs is stark against the gloom of the swamp as they dance hypnotically above the water. I fill my lungs, the air only slightly less stifling at night, and steel myself for what awaits me once I return home.

I cross the network of bridges without incident, keeping to the most well-lit paths. The public house is busy but the noise is muffled. The windows are alight, the yellow glow harsh against the purple lanterns outside. I briefly watch the silhouettes through the window, relieved to see there is no one loitering outside.

Just a few platforms away lies the deserted village square. I avert my eyes from the red-stained chopping block. When the first girl stepped up to volunteer, it was celebrated. The village square was decorated with moss garlands and delicate white flowers, and all our resources were pooled to create a huge feast. It had almost been a competition for the first girl to be allowed to volunteer. They lined up to show off their talents or their beauty or both. Everyone wantedtheirdaughter to be the one who broke the curse.

But none of them did.

The king paid their families, as promised, but their daughters' heads were forfeit. An incentive, he had called it. And when no one volunteered, women were taken by force. I am told Mossgarde used to be a town, but now it is a village. A village full of angry whispers and growing dissent.

After eighteen years of greedy taxes and five years of dead women, Mossgarde refused the king’s call. Daughters, wives, sisters, friends—they were all hidden and defended when the guards came for them. They wielded what they could—kitchen knives or broken table legs—and saidno. The guards were ready to rip a woman from them, no matter the bloodshed.

And then the king had stepped out.

It was the first time I had seen him in person. Imposing was the word which came to mind. Something like rage simmered beneath the surface of him, like a pot ready to boil over. But there was something else there, too. I could see it in the slight curl of his lip, the dismissiveness in his eyes. We were not people to him but prey. Something primal in my mind warned me I was in the presence of a predator wearing the face of a man.

He took his place on the elevated platform in the village square and waited for us to pay attention.

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