Chapter 1: The Witch Waits With Open Arms (And Fangs)
The air in the throne room tasted of old metal and colder things. Elara shifted on the obsidian, the sigh of leather against stone the only sound aside from the constant, low hum in the walls. She stretched a leg, the point of her black boot finding a familiar groove. It wasn’t stone. It was the eye socket of Sir What’s-His-Name, polished smooth by this exact motion over the last six months.
“You lot are terrible company,” she said to the room.
Her audience was silent. Dozens of them, frozen in a cascade of violent motion, men in steel plate captured mid-charge. Their faces were locked in final shouts beneath their visors, blades forever poised to strike. The magical stasis field around them glimmered, a faint sheen like oil on water. It preserved the drama, the splendid fear. She found it improved the ambiance.
A skull cup sat on the arm of her throne. She picked it up, took a sip of the dark, spiced wine within. Her emerald eyes scanned her gallery. That one there, the burly one with the impressive paunch, was now a very functional coat rack. The pretty blond one with the weak chin held a witchlight orb in his petrified hand, casting a steady green glow. She was an artist, really. Recycling.
A twinge, then, in the wards at the forest’s edge. A delicate pluck, like a spider feeling a fly tap its web.
She straightened, a slow smile curving her lips. Another one. Foolish, prideful, and undoubtedly delicious. The hunger stirred, a hollow sensation deep in her gut that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with power. She could feel him already—the clank of his virtue, the hot, stupid rush of his courage. It was practically a flavor on the air.
She rose, her boots clicking on the marble floor as she paced between her frozen trophies. Her corset, tight and black, emphasized the sway of her hips, the full curve of her chest. It was part of the uniform. They always looked there first. It made the rest so much easier.
“Let’s see what we’re working with,” she murmured.
She waved a hand. The wall of the cavern shimmered, becoming a window of scrying mist. In it, a figure trudged through the dense bracken of the Whisperwood. Young. Knight-errant, probably. His armor was too shiny, too unscathed. A virgin blade. He had that determined set to his jaw she found hilarious.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Elara chuckled, watching him hack at a thorny vine with his sword. “You’re going to ruin the edge.”
She tuned her senses to him. His thoughts were a loud, bleating noise in the quiet forest. Slay the witch. Save the kingdom. Prove my worth. Father’s approval. The songs they’ll sing. It was all one tedious, arrogant loop. She fed on that certainty. It made the unraveling so much sweeter.
She decided to meet him in the glen. The one with the poisoned moonflowers and the soft, sucking ground. It was a good spot for a first impression.
With another gesture, she was there. The forest air was damp and rich with decay. She leaned against the blighted trunk of an ancient oak, one boot crossed over the other, and waited. She didn’t bother to hide. She was the forest.
He crashed into the clearing minutes later, sweating under his plate, his breath coming in foggy pants. He saw her immediately. She watched the process on his face: confusion, recognition, then a buckling wave of bravado. His hand went to his sword hilt.
“You!” he boomed, his voice too loud for the trees. “Witch Elara! Your reign of terror ends today!”
Elara pushed off the tree and took one step forward, just into a spear of weak sunlight that pierced the canopy. It lit the raven fall of her hair, glinted off the leather of her corset. She saw his eyes drop, just for a heartbeat, to her cleavage. Predictable. So predictable it was almost sad.
“My reign?” she said, her voice a smooth contralto that seemed to weave into the rustling leaves. “That’s a strong word for a woman minding her own business in her own home. You’re the one with the drawn sword in my front garden.”
“I have come for the souls you’ve stolen!” he declared, failing to sound convinced.
“Have you now. And how, exactly, do you plan to carry them?” she asked, taking another slow step. Her hips moved with a deliberate, hypnotic rhythm. “You don’t seem to have brought a sack.”
He faltered. “I… I will vanquish you! Your dark magic is no match for pure heart and steel!”
“Pure heart,” she repeated, as if tasting the words. She was close enough now to see the pores on his nose, the faint tremor in his sword arm. The hunger in her coiled tight. “Let’s test that.”
She didn’t cast a bolt of fire. She didn’t summon a creature. She simply looked into his eyes and pushed. Not with physical force, but with a wave of pure, psychic allure, a distillation of every carnal daydream he’d ever stifled in his chapel pews. It washed over him, hot and sweet and cloying.
His righteous glare melted into a dazed stupor. His sword tip dipped toward the mossy earth. “You’re… so beautiful,” he slurred.
“I know,” Elara said. She closed the final distance, reached out, and ran a single, cool finger down his heated cheek. He shuddered. “That pure heart of yours is beating so fast just for me. It’s not thinking about souls or salvation anymore, is it?”
He shook his head, mute, captivated.
“It’s thinking about my mouth,” she whispered, her lips inches from his. “My hands. The places this cold steel armor is in the way.” She tapped his breastplate. It rang with a hollow sound.
He nodded, desperate.
“Good boy,” she purred. Then her expression iced over, all mockery and sharp edges. “Pathetic.”
Before the insult could even register, she snapped her fingers. A crunch of buckling metal echoed in the glen. His armor condensed inwards, twisting, compacting, pinning his arms to his sides in a steel vice. He grunted, eyes wide with shock and sudden pain.
“You’ll make a decent candelabra,” she mused, circling him as he struggled. “Maybe for the west hall. It’s a bit dark.”
“Witch! Beast! Release me!” he screamed, the fear finally winning, raw and satisfying to her ears.
“Oh, I will,” Elara said. She leaned in, her breath against his ear. “Every single part. Just not all at once.”
She placed her palm on his forehead. The capture spell took hold, the glimmering stasis field enveloping him mid-roar, sealing him into his moment of perfect terror. His final, frozen shout would be a delight to look at for years.
With a thought, she sent his new statue shimmering back to the throne room, adding to the collection. She brushed a speck of rust from her glove.
The hunger was still there. It was always there. But that was just an appetizer.
She turned, about to will herself back to the cavern, when the wards plucked again. Not a clumsy tug this time. A different frequency. A steadier, heavier pressure. Deliberate. Another one. Already?
This felt different. Not a boy playing knight. Something else. The hum in the air changed tone. She tilted her head, listening to the forest’s whispers. A slow, genuine smile, one of intrigue rather than mockery, began to form on her lips.
This could be interesting.