Origin: an Adult Paranormal Witch Romance: Othala Witch Collection (Sector 1)
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“May she prove herself well,” Dvorak said, tilting up his chin. “May we find our new queen.”
The crowd swelled closer to the half-walls surrounding the arena. “Blessed be our hopeful queen!”
“United we stand,” Dvorak said. “Divided, we conquer!”
He thrust his fist into the air, and the crowd erupted in applause.
Divide and conquer had been the sixteen’s original plan. If the human race were to survive, they would need as many chances as possible to do so. For that reason, each sector was to have its own enchantment, to be segregated completely from all other sectors. For all anyone knew, Sector One was the last remaining.
When Adira was young, her parents said the phrase had once been “United we stand, divided we fall,” but in the end, things didn’t work out that way; it was the division of the world and the creation of the sectors that ultimately saved everyone. To this day, Adira still questioned the validity of that. What if the original sixteen had been as manipulative of Regent Dvorak? What, if anything, could she trust when she hadn’t been there to see it for herself?
Regent Dvorak tilted his head to speak to one of the guards. After which, he nodded to the two standing post by the arena’s entrance. They opened the gate, the supposed witch’s eyes growing wider.
The doomed queen.
Opening the arena instead of the borders meant this was her first display.
She screamed as the guards pushed her toward the arena, digging her heels into the ground to slow her procession to death. “No, wait! I am not a witch!”
Her gaze darted around until it landed on the ravager on the other side of the arena. Then, her attention did not budge, but her pleas intensified, making Adira’s skin crawl with desire to help. But that would only land her where the doomed queen stood now.
“Please,” the doomed queen begged. “I don’t know any magic. My family made me do this!”
A lump formed in Adira’s throat. The doomed queen’s own family had sold her into this? Surely, they knew it was an unavoidable death. No human could survive a ravager.
A large man beside Adira spit over the wall. “Aye, then maybe you have what’s coming!”
“Yeah,” someone shouted from the other side of the arena. “Why give people false hope?”
“I bet she is a witch!” another cried.
Really, there was only one way to tell. Make her desperate enough to use magic, should she have any to use. Which was exactly what Regent Dvorak intended to do. If she failed to kill the ravager, everyone would know she wasn’t a witch. That, and she would be dead.
If she succeeded, however—and magic was the only way to make that happen—she would be crowned queen, bride of the regent. That would buy her a few months before Dvorak killed her some other way—unless, of course, she came to be with child.
If history were any indication, the odds were not in her favor.
Despite all of her clawing and desperate pleading, the guards forced the doomed queen into the arena. Before she could turn to escape, Dvorak sent his energy into the surrounding runestone lampposts. An electrical force field crackled around the arena to form a dome, not unlike the same one that was already containing a ravager on the other side.
This was the magic that protected the sector. On the outskirts of the city, one could see this on a larger scale—look out into the Deadlands and see the ravagers skirting through the trees, just feet away from the borders. Those same runes were found in lampposts scattered throughout the city, meant to create new, smaller prisons in the event of a border breach.
And those same posts also trapped the ravager until the display began, and the doomed queen until it was over.
In a way, everyone was a prisoner. The townsfolk were prisoners beneath the dome of the sector, the doomed queen a prisoner beneath the dome of the arena, and the ravager a prisoner within the smaller dome inside.
But not for long, and the doomed queen knew as much. She turned around, pressing her hands against the electrical dome, which burned her hands but did not let her pass through.
“I didn’t want this,” she begged. Tears soaked her face and matted hair against her cheeks and jaw. “I am not a witch. Please, don’t do this!”
Dvorak tilted up his chin. Then, with a dismissive wave of his hand, the smallest of the lampposts turned off, releasing the ravager.
The doomed queen crouched down, curling into a ball.
Adira stepped back, knocking into someone. “Sorry,” she mumbled, trying to take another step, but the crowd had gotten too dense.
No way out—no way for Adira out of the crowd, no way for the doomed queen out of the arena. Adira’s lungs constricted. She couldn’t breathe. She needed to get out. This was her mother’s death all over again. Her fault. Every human who died a witch’s death was Adira’s fault. So much blood on her hands.
She didn’t want to see this. All she’d needed to know was if this was the first or second display. If she had days or months left before the guard would unknowingly be looking for her—the next witch. She didn’t need to see the kill.
Sucking in another breath, she would have collapsed if not for the sea of bodies around her pushing her upright.
The ravager roared—the sound somewhere between a gurgle and a hiss but infinitely louder. The woman in the arena screamed. First in terror, then in agony. Adira had learned to differentiate the cries all too well. She squeezed her eyes shut and trembled with her effort not to use magic.
Please, I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to see this, to hear this.
Adira shoved past two burly men. One of them elbowed her in the rib as others knocked her farther into the mob. She grabbed her side and pushed through a small gap, gulping down air and wincing at the bruised pain in her side.
Soon, the jaunts and cheers of the crowd drowned out the screaming. Those were the moments she hated herself most. She preferred the cheers to the screaming, even if they were celebrating a massacre. What kind of monster did that make her?
The sound that followed was the worst. Silence. It meant an end. It meant…death.
The doomed queen had been telling the truth. She was not a witch.
Which meant the regent would waste no time resuming his search for someone who was.
Someone like Adira.
She sidestepped another citizen, finally working her way out of the crowd. As she did, she came right back into the line of sight of the regent. This time, a man stood before him. A witch hunter, judging by the customary garb: dark, loose pants; no shirt; a sword in a scabbard secured to his back. And of course, the tattoo.
From where she stood now, she again couldn’t see the arena, but today had reminded her what a blessing that was.
As the witch hunter turned toward the crowd, Adira froze.
Him? He’d been the man from the dispensary—the one who had helped her get the cloves. He couldn’t be the one to go in and fight the ravager.
But no sooner did Adira have that thought than she realized the ridiculous reason she’d thought it. There was no such thing as being too handsome to fight a ravager. If the regent chose him as one of the warriors for the task, then that would be his fate.
She scanned the rest of the guards to see who else would step forward. When she saw no one, she pressed up on the tips of her toes to try to see inside the arena. Perhaps they were already by the entryway.
No?
She glanced back at the witch hunter, his olive skin glistening beneath the high midday sun, pearls of sweat sliding along the cords of muscle in his arms and stomach, then tracing down his shoulder blades and spine. His tan seemed darker around the lines of his muscles, making everything about him more defined, more pronounced, more…intimidating.
But not intimidating enough to take down a ravager alone.
Where were the other witch hunters? The last time she’d seen a display, it had taken five of them to bring down the ravager, and all the blessed armor had been destroyed in the proc
ess. She always made a point to miss them.
Strands of black hair fell against the witch hunter’s forehead as his dark gaze panned the crowd. For a beat, his attention stopped on her.
Adira’s heart thudded in her chest, and the oxygen in her lungs seemed to disappear without a breath.
His large hands curled into fists at his side, broad chest heaving. If Adira wasn’t mistaken, it seemed he was nearly about to lunge for her. She took a step back, and the witch hunter scowled before turning away. He kneeled in front of the regent to present his sword on open palms.
Saved by the display. Again. There was more irony to that than Adira would care to ruminate on.
Dvorak waved his hand over the witch hunter’s weapon, his lips moving to cast a spell that Adira couldn’t hear from this distance. Dvorak was always careful to protect his spells. From who, one could only wonder.
As the handsome warrior stood and headed toward the arena, Adira shook her head. One witch hunter was not enough. A blessing spell was not near enough to face a ravager alone—not without magic of his own.
The most beautiful man Adira had ever seen was being sent on a suicide mission.
“They can’t do that,” she muttered. “They can’t send him in there alone!”
A man beside her nudged his elbow into her arm. “Ay, miss. He won’t let them send anyone in with him. Alec says we can’t risk so many of our witch hunters on one event.”
Alec. So the man had a name. And apparently, he also had a heart, though that made his chosen profession a bit harder to understand.
“Glad he cares about some lives,” she mumbled to the man.
But bitter as she might sound, she could not be entirely angry with him. Despite his role in the sector, if what the man said was true, then Alec was different. He was, at least, a man who didn’t deserve to die.
So Adira stayed for the ravager’s slaying. Weaseled back into the crowd to where she could see the arena. Where she could see Alec.
Because at the very least, if worse came to worst, the man deserved every last person there to witness his death the same as they had the doomed queen’s.
Chapter 4
Alec turned to face the arena. Normally, this moment was one of complete clarity and focus for him. In the past, the only part of any of this he struggled with was the moment Regent Dvorak had to turn off the runestone that unleashed the ravager on the doomed queen.
He always hoped for them. Always watched those moments with breath held and body tensed. But once what was done was finished, his peace returned, his focus re-centered, his mind tunneled on the task at hand: killing the ravager.
And then she showed up.
How brazen was she? She’d been caught stealing, and now she was just standing around watching? Was she hoping to watch him die? Hoping to have one less guardsman to worry about stopping her from her thieving ways?
Alec clenched his teeth, taking another heavy step toward the arena. Well, wouldn’t she be in for surprise when he not only defeated this ravager, but also walked out of the arena and captured her next?
While Alec stood at the entryway to the arena, he stared down at the doomed queen with regret he wished he didn’t feel. It was her family who claimed her to be a witch. It was true she failed her duty. But did she deserve such a fate?
His grip tightened around the handle of the sword. The crowd was already starting to back away, knowing what was coming next. He wished to tell them to just go home, where they would be safe—did they really think a few feet would make much of a difference? And did they need a show so badly? Had seeing the death of the doomed queen not satisfied them enough?
He scanned the crowd again—or rather, his gaze snapped to the one person he’d already pinpointed in the sea of faces. The market girl. Even as others were backing away in anticipation of what would come next, she stood stalwart.
He scowled at her, then returned his attention to wait for the regent’s command. In a few moments, Dvorak would turn off the runestone encasing the arena so that Alec could get in there and kill the ravager. He would have mere moments to proceed; Dvorak would need to reseal the arena before the ravager could escape.
Alec still, to this day, winced whenever a runestone was turned off. It reminded him too much of the day he’d lost his sister. But he couldn’t let emotion distract him.
The sky crackled overhead, and Alec braced himself for the regent’s words.
“It is with great sorrow to learn the sector will remain without a queen,” he said, his voice heavy and forlorn. “But may we remain ever-vigilant and ever-hopeful for the sake of the sector. This woman’s death will not go unavenged!”
As the crowd roared around him, the lampposts over the arena turned off. In that split second, Alec rushed into the arena before the regent turned them back on.
Alec didn’t so much as pause. He charged toward the ravager, wielding the sector’s most sacred sword. The only thing sharper was the ravager’s claws, so when the beast swung toward the blade, Alec spun, taking the brunt of the attack with his back. He was always more careful with the sword than with himself as it was the last remaining rune-sword in the sector and therefore the only one the regent could charge before a fight. It’d been trusted to Alec for a reason, and with each breath he took, he was determined to prove his worthiness as head of the Witch Hunters and Keeper of the Sword.
Enough people had died. He would not allow more people than necessary to get hurt.
Alec continued to spin, his movement away from the ravager minimizing the damage to Alec’s body. He ground his teeth together and arced the sword toward the ravager again.
The beast darted away, and the sword crashed into the red dirt of the arena, coating the metal blade in the same film that had dusted over his legs.
Another turn to charge the beast brought the girl from market into his peripheral vision. But that wasn’t right. The world should be dark to him now. It should have disappeared around him the moment he stepped into the arena, the way it always did. His focus should have blurred her right out of existence.
The ravager’s claws slashed through his pants and into the outermost side of thigh. Alec grunted, but before he could regain his focus, the ravager swung its oversized arms again, forcing Alec to slide against the ground to avoid being hit a third time.
What had gotten into him?
Over a girl!
His blood splattered against the dirt, and it caked against his wounds. This was a mess. The gasps he should be blocking out right now told him the crowd was afraid. If he died, who would fight the ravager? If the doomed queen could not be avenged, what promise was that to their own safety? They needed Alec to win this fight even more than he needed to, because a witch hunter could be replaced, but hope—at least in this world—could not.
Twisting away from another pounding swing of the ravager’s claws, he rolled back up to his feet, staying crouched low to the ground. He needed to get the ravager’s heart, and he needed to do so without the ravager destroying the sword.
This event was the reminder he needed. The blood cleansed his guilt over the death of the doomed queen. As hard as it was, everyone needed to make sacrifices in this world, even if that sacrifice was their life. And this was why. They were not strong enough to face the ravagers, and the regent needed help to run the sector and keep everyone safe.
The traditions only served to help with that—to keep hope alive, to keep the city trusting the regent would do whatever necessary to give them an heir and to keep them safe, even with the failing magic of the runes.
The same failing magic that resulted in his sister’s death, and the same failing magic that could ultimately kill everyone watching this battle if one of the runestones encasing the arena failed.
As the ravager stalked toward him, he saw his opening and lunged from the ground, directing the sword at the beast’s chest. But the ravager’s hand came up, and claws crashed into the sword, slicing the metal clear from the handle.
Wounds burning in the late afternoon sun, Alec dove for the discarded piece of metal in the red dirt. In one swift moment, he ripped off a piece of his pants while dogging another swing from the ravager. He came back around, winding the fabric around his hand and then picking up the sharp blade from the ground.
This was it. He might not agree with the way Dvorak ran the sector, but his cruelty was never without purpose. Perhaps the regent’s magic wasn’t strong enough to kill the ravager, but his leadership was strong enough to keep the city hopeful and the citizens in order. Alec would not be the one to ruin that.
He charged the beast again, this time aiming for the neck. The blade sank into the gray flesh, and the ravager hissed a roar. Alec removed the sword and plunged it again a second time, this time succeeding on impaling the beast through the heart.
The sword did not kill the beast. It staggered, but did not fall, and the sword just stuck out from its chest, leaving Alec without a weapon.
This was it. His failure would become legend. His death would destroy the sector. It wasn’t right. With Alec’s experience, this should have been easy. With the regent’s help, this should have been over by now.
Yes, sacrifices must be made for the good of the sector, but was the best thing this sector could bring forth the magic of their current regent?
This couldn’t be the end. All those sacrifices could not have been in vain. The ravager needed to die to keep hope alive—hope that was needed to keep the city going until Dvorak’s heir came forth. A stronger witch—that was what they all hoped for—one who still had the same strength of character as their current regent.
The ravager was regaining balance now, which didn’t leave Alec with much time. He darted across the arena and tackled the beast, grabbing the sword’s blade and trying to dislodge it from the ravager’s chest.