Page 89 of A War of Crowns

The wonder and the pain of it all were burned into her memory just as her mistress’s mark had been burned into her skin.

While she walked, Talia rubbed the brand stamped on her inner wrist. She traced the familiar ridges of her unique scarring until the movement soothed her growing nerves.

Like all apprentices and Witchsworn, she was branded with the mark of the Underworld, the domain of Our Lady Below—a crescent moon pointing upward, crowning an inverted mountain peak.

But as Skatia’s apprentice, she also bore the mark of her mistress’s personal sigil: a desert rose, which twined itself around the crescent moon of the Lady.

She had always thought it was a pretty addition.

But that day, she wondered if it was a premonition of sorts. A desert rose for her unmarked grave once her soul was taken to the Underworld and kept as an offering to the Lady.

That was what happened to those apprentices who failed their trial. Their souls became forfeit, mere sustenance for the Lady.

There was some comfort in that, she had always thought. The knowledge that even if she were not strong enough in life to be useful to the goddess, at least she could serve Her in death.

Stepping into the temple on that day of all days stole her breath as it ever did. Black and gold yawned all around—majestic and fathomless. Inky marble columns twined upward into infinity, disappearing into the darkness far overhead. Underfoot, the crescent moon and inverted mountain of the Lady were carved into the very stones and edged with gold to provide a glittering walkway which led her straight to her fate. On the walls was written the history of their Sisterhood: the story of the first witch led to the darkness and gifted extraordinary power by their goddess.

Glancing around, Talia swiftly counted the Sisters who had come to witness her failure. Their golden eyes all watched her through the dimness with the inscrutable intensity of predators. At the shoulder of each stood at least one Witchsworn, marked by the emblem of their mistress on their chest.

Some Sisters, though, had brought a full handful of Witchsworn with them.

The temple swiftly became claustrophobic.

Too many eyes followed her as she trailed in Skatia’s wake to the very center of the temple, where the Mother waited for them both. Eyes that had seen far too much over the years bore into her own as she reluctantly met the gaze of the wizened woman.

The Mother was so old, she had long since lost her own name.

She was simply the Mother, chosen by the Lady to guide the Order of the Sisterhood until her death, at which point another Sister would be chosen.

The Mother frowned when they stopped in front of her, as if she saw something in Talia’s eyes that displeased her.

Or perhaps she didn’t see anything at all.

The latter was a far more likely choice, Talia thought. Whichever it might be, she ducked her head to avoid further scrutiny.

“Sister Skatia,” the Mother addressed her mistress. “Is your pupil ready?”

“Yes,” came Skatia’s immediate reply.

At the feel of her mistress’s golden eyes skating across her form again, Talia straightened her back and lifted her head. At last, she met the gaze of her mistress—the woman who had raised her—and let those molten eyes pierce deep.

For the briefest of moments, Talia was certain Skatia had gifted her one of her rare smiles—a mere twitch of the lips and nothing more.

But perhaps that was simply the delirium.

“Seeker Talia,” the Mother addressed her, and Talia did her best not to sway on her feet as she looked back toward the much older woman. “Do you enter the trial of your own free will, knowingthat to fail will result in the forfeiting of your life and the consigning of your soul to forever wander the Underworld?”

Talia nodded in response to the Mother’s words, which earned another frown from the high priestess. “You will speak when you are spoken to,” the Mother boomed with heightened authority.

That command echoed around the cavernous confines of the darkened temple with such strength and fury, every nearby candle flickered out of existence.

Talia swallowed as best she could and croaked out an answer of, “Yes.”

But even then, the Mother seemed dissatisfied. Eyes narrowed, the high priestess studied her for a few moments more. Assessing. Judging.

Clearly finding her wanting.

But there was no turning back now. For the past eighteen years, this was all Talia had lived for, ever since she was first apprenticed to Skatia at the age of six.

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