Page 68 of The Demon Tide

The Black Witch

CHAPTER ONE

EAST

Elloren Grey

The Dyoi Forest

Eastern Realm

Seventh Month, two days prior to Xishlon

Black Witch.

I scan the purple forest surrounding me with urgency as I tend to little Tibryl. She hacks out a cough, but I manage to keep the flat side of my Ash’rion blade against her neck to cool her fever, my fingers on the runic combination for ice power, the weapon stinging cold against my hand.

My temples ache, the trees pounding their ceaseless tide of hatred into me as they have throughout the day and into the encroaching twilight. But the forest be damned—I’m determined to get farther east to find my family and allies.

To find Trystan.

I tighten my fist around the Ash’rion’s glacial hilt, struggling to keep my thoughts from scattering into worry for Lukas. His name sounds in the back of my mind with every beat of my heart, my nerves alight with the yearning to find him. Even as the heated echo of what felt like Yvan’s Wyvernfire shimmers through my lines.

The shocking possibility that they couldbothbe alive is an agonizing yet hopeful pull on my heart from opposing directions. I can’t get the dual images out of my mind—the devastated look on Lukas’s face as he threw me into the portal, his green eyes blazing with passion as I screamed his name. And Yvan...his eyes searing gold in the subland cavern when we said our last farewell, his hands cupping my face after he sent his Wyvernfire through me with his intense, fiery kiss.

Wait for me, he said before we were separated. But I didn’t wait. I didn’t question the news of his death. I Sealed to Lukas and fell in love with him with equal fervor.

An ache swells in my chest over how much it will wound Yvan—if he’s truly alive—once he discovers that I’ve Sealed to Lukas in absolutely every way. And Lukas...how will he react to Yvan’s survival?

But there’s no time to resolve any of this, and it all pales in comparison to what I’m faced with.

Tibryl starts to shiver, and I move the blade away from her skin, a dart of hope rushing through me. The tips of her pointed ears seem less flushed, her eyes not as glazed. I let out a relieved breath as the forest’s ceaseless tide of animosity pulses through me.

Black Witch.

Tibryl’s mother, Emberlyyn, wheezes, and my trace of relief evaporates. She’s slumped against Tibryl, both their backs to a violet moss-covered boulder. I spare a glance at Nym’ellia, beside me, the young teen’s green-glimmering face tight with worry.

“In Voloi, sometimes the moon glows purple and everything looks like violet flowers,” little Tibryl suddenly enthuses, her green and amethyst eyes glassy but alert.

I blink at her in surprise. “I remember reading something about a Lavender Moon holiday,” I say, attempting an encouraging smile, even as my muscles itch with the desire toget moving, my eyes continually scanning the surrounding forest for more of Vogel’s creatures.

“Everything’s better in Noilaan,” Tibryl says, seeming to cast off some of her shyness as she nods sagely in affirmation of her own statement. I imagine she’s around seven years old. Her black-streaked violet hair is dirty and matted and frames her violet face in a wild mess.

“I’ll have my own paints,” she tells me, her fever-glazed eyes brightening, “and I’ll paint the moon andallthe flowers. There are tiny purple birds there who will sit on your finger, and the Noi children keep them as pets. And there are heart-shaped waffles flavored with violets. And everything isso beautiful.”

She lets out a prolonged hacking cough, and I place the cooling Ash’rion blade’s side back on her neck,shushing her comfortingly as her mother listlessly rubs her back and chews on the Eastern Meadowsweet leaves I’ve foraged for them both to lessen their fever-dazed state.

So we can hasten our dangerously slow pace.

Tibryl’s spasming cough gets the better of her and she starts to whimper. I withdraw the blade again as Nym’ellia offers the child water from her flask.

I rake my fingers through my own knotted hair, acutely cognizant of Vogel’s overwhelming advantage, tethered as I am to these extremely vulnerable people, my magic bound down.

“We’ve had a long journey from Valgard,” Emberlyyn says as Tibryl drinks. “The Mages are pushing non-Mages out of the Western Realm.” She glances west with tensed eyes before looking back to me, exhaustion writ hard on her face. “The desert was unforgiving.” She pauses to cough into her fist.

Tibryl offers the water to her mother, and Emberlyyn takes it with a grateful nod. The child lays her head in her mother’s lap and closes her eyes, Emberlyyn’s hand coming down to tenderly stroke her daughter’s matted hair. There’s a disturbing rattle in Tibryl’s lungs as she breathes.The end stage of the Grippe.

Nym’ellia looks at me, dread in her eyes, and I can read her fear of what will happen to her sister.

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