Page 135 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

I reminded myself of the facade I had to maintain. “Of course,” I said through gritted teeth.

His gaze flicked to the page before him. “Spring, First Year of the Kingdom of Valen. His Majesty King Daemon Hellebore, the Realmmaker, was visited at court today by a woman by the name of Evenia Harborlight. A handmaiden to Eilkas, Miss Harborlight sought an audience with the King to deliver a message from the God of Divination himself. Standing before the King and his council, she bemoaned the loss that the witches had suffered during the war, cut down by His Majesty’s army so that the Kingdom of Valen might be born. Miss Harborlight further claimed that this genocide at the King’s command had ignited the wrath of the first witch, Celene. She foretold that the conflict would give rise to a magical being. A witch born of flame and fueled by the blood of vampire. Their power would be legendary, their strength rivaled by only one other. They would avenge the witches who came before in the shadow of the solstice sun, and tear apart the kingdom built on Celene’s bones from within.”

Mordric glanced up at me expectantly.

“Is that all?” I asked.

He dropped the tome into my open hands. “See for yourself.”

I read the passage again. And again. And again until the words blurred together.

She foretold that the conflict would give rise to a magical being. A witch born of flame and fueled by the blood of vampire. Their power would be legendary, their strength rivaled by only one other. They would avenge the witches who came before in the shadow of the solstice sun, and tear apart the kingdom built on Celene’s bones from within.

Outraged at her words, the King commanded his loyal wyverns to—

“What does this mean?” I asked, my fingers tracing the text. “The part about the witches who were cut down by the king’s army?”

Mordric cleared his throat. “Surely you know the history of the Great Conflict?”

I shot him a wry look. “Of course I do.”

“Then you know that the ancient king, the one that my great-grandfather opposed, staffed his army with legions of your kind. Some even believed that his right-hand man, a witch, was the puppet master behind his reign of cruelty. King Daemon’s army was filled with humans and vampires alike and, well …”

I brushed the skin of my throat with my fingertips. He didn’t need to tell me the rest.

“That’s not what they taught us in the Outlands,” I admitted. I supposed it would have made witches look far too sympathetic.

“Do you see now why I need to keep you here?”

The book fell from my hand with a clunk. “You think I’m this witch,” I whispered. “The one Evenia spoke of.”

He shook his head.

I stumbled backward as Mordric advanced on me, retreating until my back was pressed against the wall. Iron had been installed here, too, I realized, laced into the wall somehow. It reached toward me through the stone, eager to sap me of any threads of power that had survived when the iron doors closed. My heart beat so fervently against my chest that I thought it might burst through my skin.

I thought of my dagger, but I hadn’t seen it since I shed my clothes to bathe hours ago. Stripped of my powers, I stood no chance against a vampire. The violence of that thought frightened me nearly as much as the look in Mordric’s eyes.

“Why keep me alive?” I accused as he pinned me against the wall. I was fighting every instinct not to cower. “Why waste your time training me instead of killing me yourself the night we met? It would have been easier for you.”

He sucked in a breath, his black eyes widening as if I’d offended him. “Finn, I don’t want to kill you,” he said, stepping backward. “I want to use you.”

I glanced around the room, plush and golden in the dwindling candlelight. My cheeks grew warm. “Use me? For what?”

“As a weapon.”

I balked. “What?”

“Did you read the account?” he asked. “Their power would be legendary, their strength rivaled by only one other.”

“I read it,” I snapped.

“This is what I’ve been training you for,” he continued. “What I trained Ophelia for. You are the ‘one other’—my champion, the one whose power can rival that of the witch in this prophecy. That is why the witches took you captive. Because they know that only you can defeat them.”

I nearly sent a prayer to Bialar, the Goddess of Fortune, as thanks for what was clearly sheer, dumb luck. If he had believed for even a moment that I was the enemy the prophecy spoke of, I was certain that I wouldn’t be standing here.

“I couldn’t tell you the truth at first,” he continued. “I needed to gain your trust.”

“You gained my trust by plying me with promises of power and a seat at your table,” I snapped. “By telling me you loved me. But you were only using me.”