Chapter 1 | THE WITCH OF BLACKMERE
The forest began whispering three miles before Caelan Voss reached the manor.
He noticed it because the wind had stopped.
The branches stood perfectly still beneath the gray afternoon sky, yet something moved through the trees.
A murmur.
A breath.
A hundred voices speaking just beneath the edge of hearing.
Caelan tightened his grip on the reins.
“Don’t.”
His horse’s ears flattened.
Caelan glanced toward the trees.
Nothing.
Only black trunks disappearing into fog.
He had been warned about Blackmere.
Everyone in the kingdom had.
Children were told not to enter the forest after sunset. Farmers nailed iron above their doors. Mothers used the witch’s name when their children misbehaved.
Lucien Vale.
The Witch of Blackmere.
Murderer.
Traitor.
Cursed mage.
Monster.
Caelan had heard the stories since childhood.
He had believed every one of them.
Until three weeks ago.
Three weeks ago, King Aldren had summoned him personally.
Three weeks ago, Caelan had been handed a royal warrant sealed with red wax.
Three weeks ago, he had been told:
Find Lucien Vale.
Break the curse.
Kill him if necessary.
Caelan had accepted.
He was a curse-breaker.
He had been trained by the Order of Ash since he was twelve.
He knew how to dismantle enchantments, sever magical bonds, identify possession, and kill witches who refused surrender.
He had never failed a royal assignment.
He did not intend to start today.
The forest opened.
Blackmere Manor stood beyond the trees.
Caelan stopped his horse.
The stories hadn’t mentioned the house.
It was enormous.
Two towers rose from either side of the main structure, their roofs broken and blackened. Ivy covered most of the stone. Several windows were shattered. The iron gates hung open.
There were no guards.
No soldiers.
No wards.
That was wrong.
A man powerful enough to curse an entire kingdom should have protected himself.
Caelan dismounted.
His sword hung at his hip.
His spellbook rested beneath his coat.
He checked both.
Then he walked toward the manor.
The front door stood open.
Caelan stopped beneath the arch.
“Lucien Vale.”
His voice entered the darkness.
Nothing answered.
He stepped inside.
The temperature dropped.
The great hall was enormous, its walls lined with bookshelves and faded paintings. Dust covered the floor.
A fire burned in the fireplace.
Freshly lit.
Caelan’s hand moved toward his sword.
Someone was here.
He followed the light.
The room beyond was smaller.
A man sat beside the fire.
Caelan stopped.
This was not what he had expected.
Lucien Vale looked—
Human.
He appeared to be in his early thirties. Dark hair fell carelessly across his forehead. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, exposing pale forearms marked by several thin scars.
He was reading a book.
He didn’t look up.
Caelan drew his sword.
“Lucien Vale.”
The man turned a page.
“You’re late.”
Caelan froze.
“What?”
Lucien closed the book.
His eyes lifted.
They were gray.
Not the unnatural black Caelan had been warned about.
Gray.
Tired.
Beautiful.
The thought came without permission.
Caelan immediately hated himself for having it.
“You’re under arrest by order of King Aldren.”
Lucien looked at the sword.
Then at Caelan.
Something strange happened to his expression.
His face softened.
Not with fear.
With grief.
“Caelan.”
Caelan’s heart gave one hard beat.
He hadn’t introduced himself.
“How do you know my name?”
Lucien stood.
“You always ask that.”
Caelan’s fingers tightened around the sword.
“Answer me.”
Lucien took one step closer.
Caelan raised the blade.
“Another step and I’ll.......”
“You’ll kill me.”
“Yes.”
Lucien nodded.
“I know.”
Something about the way he said it made Caelan’s stomach turn.
“You know nothing about me.”
Lucien looked directly into his eyes.
“I know you hate thunder.”
Caelan said nothing.
“You pretend you don’t, but you do.”
The sword remained between them.
Lucien continued.
“You sleep on your left side. You count steps when you’re nervous. You sharpen your sword when you’re angry, even if it doesn’t need sharpening.”
Caelan’s pulse quickened.
“Stop.”
“You have a scar beneath your right shoulder from a fall when you were thirteen.”
Caelan’s face went cold.
No one knew about that.
Lucien’s voice softened.
“And when you’re frightened, you rub your thumb against the first knuckle of your index finger.”
Caelan looked down.
His thumb was moving.
He stopped it.
“How?”
Lucien smiled.
It was the saddest smile Caelan had ever seen.
“Because you’ve asked me that thirty-seven times.”
The fire went out.
Darkness swallowed the room.
Caelan heard something beneath the floor.
A heartbeat.
Slow.
Ancient.
Thump.
Lucien whispered:
“Welcome home.”
