Page 20 of Reign

Adder released Finn—his face contorted in fear as he realized Dog was prowling toward him.

Dog, her mouth wide open, let out a terrifying growl. She pounced on Adder, savagely tearing into him. Bits of flesh flew through the air as Dog shredded him like he was made of parchment.

I couldn’t watch anymore. My legs were about to crumble like rotting wood, yet they managed to carry me as I fled.

I found shelter beneath the thick roots of an old oak tree. Curling into myself, I closed my eyes and begged for daylight. I prayed to the gods that on the morrow, I would awaken in my bedstead, flushed with relief, realizing that the tragedy of this evening was only a nightmare.

Wanted.

I braced myself against the biting wind, fearing I might freeze on the moorland. Gray clouds stroked snow-capped hills as a chalky path wove through mounds of frosted greenery. Sticking to the trail, I hoped to stumble upon a villager or a vagrant who could point me toward the Walled City. But my faith waned faster than the remaining light. For nearly three days, I’d trudged onward without seeing another soul. All I’d heard were disembodied voices in the whipping winds as my lonely mind longed for interaction. Part of me wondered if I’d died beneath that oak tree on the first night—if I was in purgatory, condemned to endlessly roam the green for an eternity.

I shivered inside Finn’s tunic, which gaped from my frame and allowed the biting breeze to brush my bare skin. His breeches were no better—too long, with dragging hems that collected sticky cleaver leaves and burdock seeds as I marched. I lost count of how many times I’d tripped over them, cursing the fabric as if the breeches were to blame.

As the memory of warmth faded, and I believed I’d never feel it again, something appeared on the horizon. In the distance, I could see what looked like stone cottages. A village, I thought. I bunched up the hems of my breeches and ran.

“Hello!” I screamed, running with haste toward what I hoped was civilization.

For a moment, I could feel the heat of a bonfire and see smoke puffing out of chimney tops. I imagined myself seated beside an open hearth, eating a hot meal and drinking belly-warming ale. But as I approached, my relief turned to despair. It wasn’t a village, but a stone circle.

At its center stood a weathered sundial, but the gnomon cast no shadow. On the hilltop beyond, overgrown bramble bushes blocked out the little light winter offered. Clearly, many years had passed since anyone set foot here.

Engraved beneath the sundial was a design—a circle enclosing what looked like a six-petaled flower, surrounded by words, nearly lost to erosion, inscribed in Yfelle.

I pieced together the remaining letters and read aloud:

“Follwen’he Seolfor Wicce.” Follow the Silver Witch.

The words left my lips with an ease that shocked me—I’d never learned to read, yet I understood them perfectly. My mind turned to the vision Dog had shown me: the woman with purpled palms and a mane of sterling locks. Was she the Silver Witch? And if she was, who was she?

Overwhelmed by sorrow, I slumped onto a lump of sandstone, tears brimming in my eyes. My heart sank faster than a heavy rock hurled into a lake. Hiding my magical abilities meant I never truly understood who I was, and the burden of that uncertainty weighed on me heavier than ever.

As my thoughts turned to Avice, tears spilled down my cheeks. All of me had hoped her hatred was shallow—that if she ever discovered my witchhood, she’d look deeper and question whether magic was truly as evil as her father claimed. But I was wrong. And now, she was dead.

I wailed like a newborn, while my stomach rumbled in agonizing hunger.

After a moment of self-pity, I slapped my own cheek. “Pull yourself together,” I croaked, trying to steady my breath.

With weary legs, I stumbled to my numb feet and pressed onward. Though it felt as if I’d walked for longer than a day, the sun still lingered behind a thick wall of clouds. I crouched beside a frozen stream, its water flowing beneath a thin layer of ice.

Clenching my hand into a fist, I punched through the sheet, cracking both the ice and my knuckle. Ouch, I thought, shaking off the thumping pain. I plunged my fingers into the frigid water, cupping a handful and bringing it to my quivering lips.

“Oi!” a voice called.

I glanced skyward, wiping my freezing hands against my cloak as I scanned the moorland for the source.

A whistle rang out. My gaze shot up, catching a glimpse of movement where the sky touched a snowy peak—a waving hand, high up on a hilltop.

Laughing weakly, I waved back, doubting my own eyes and convinced it was a mirage. But as three men, all with white hair, bounded down the hillside, I realized they were as real as I.

“You, boy!” the roundest of the trio shouted, his baggy breaches swishing like a skirt as he galloped toward me.

As they drew near, I noticed that one of them was hiding a black eye and cut lip beneath the rim of a worn felt hat. My pulse quickened, fearing they were thugs.

“I’m not a boy,” I snapped, momentarily forgetting I was no longer Niamh. “I’m a man,” I corrected myself, puffing my chest like I’d seen so many men do.

All three of them chuckled.

The bruised one plucked my flat cap off my head. “Nice,” he muttered, examining the stitching.