“I know that, but the mating bond doesn’t,” I practically choke out.

“I will always be a target. If it’s not the rebels, it will be your father. If it’s not your father, it will be the Queen of Delsar. If you truly intend for this to work between us, you’re going to have to learn to live with my being in danger.” Her eyes are bright, and it drives me mad. I understand her reasoning, but the protective urge is overwhelming. I swallow once. Twice. Then I take a deep breath, pulling myself together.

“Okay,” I finally say. “But I want to be by your side, hidden.” She starts to protest, the attitude I love so much rising to her expression. I know what she’s going to say, so I hold my hand up. “Please, Laurel. I know you can protect yourself. But I need to be there.”

I can feel the weight of this compromise between us. Me accepting her exposure; her accepting my protection. She studies me, and for once I understand the thoughts running through her mind—she also realizes how important this moment is for us.

“Fine,” she says, and I loose a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

I give her a giant cocky grin. “You won’t even know I’m there, witchling.”

Nemesia

The witch’s great power was consuming her, becoming too much for her to bear. Those closest to her from the coven searched high and low for a solution to stop the madness they were glimpsing. No solution presented itself.

Unknown Story, Unknown Origin

“Follow me,” Genevieve says, taking my hand in hers. I follow her through the bustling crowd of the Floating Market. I’d mentioned to her my love of the district at night, and she’d insisted on bringing me to her favorite places in the humid and damp bazaar.

We weave in and out of stalls where merchants sell silk scarves, roasted nuts, magical objects, and everything else imaginable. Despite the Market’s position atop the salty water of an inlet on the coast of Arnia, the wooden walkway is sturdy beneath our feet. The sun has just started its descent in the sky, deep orange in the haze of the briny air.

“Where are we going?” I ask. Genevieve only turns her face back to me, joy written so clearly across her open expression, and smiles.

“We’re almost there,” is all she says before tugging harder and increasing our pace.

We near the end of the pier-like structure that halts abruptly at a cliff that soars a hundred feet above the water. The crowd has thinned significantly this far away from the hub of the market, and less than a handful of patrons stroll the walkway. When we reach the mass of rock, Genevieve jumps, grabbing a rope ladder expertly hidden in the crevices of the cliff. Her eyes are bright, and without speaking, she climbs.