The Vampire & Her Witch

”Seven months ago, the world changed,” Nyrielle said, surprising the gathered guests as she remained standing rather than taking her seat at the high table. ”Seven months ago, our enemies, the Lothians, cemented an alliance with a marriage, securing the support of a powerful human family on the eastern shores.”

”The Lothian’s new allies hold considerable influence and wealth in the Kingdom of Gaal,” Nyrielle explained, slowly revealing a scheme that could spell doom for the people of the Vale. ”But their influence in the Kingdom of Gaal pales in comparison to their ability to send their fleets of ships across the seas, returning with holds filled with soldiers from the humans’ old kingdoms, all eager to fight in a new Holy War.”

At the front table, Kaisen reached for Helga’s hand and held it tightly, as if to reassure her that they were still safe behind the walls of the Vale of Mists even as he trembled at the idea of an invading army from across the sea.

Even his father, Achim, wasn’t old enough to have lived through the Crusade that shattered the Vale of Mists more than a century ago, but every child of the Vale had heard the stories of the powerful Church and their Miracle Workers from across the sea. Suddenly, the army Lady Nyrielle had raised began to make much, much more sense as a new fear began to take hold in Kaisen’s heart. If the enemy from across the sea was returning, would Lady Nyrielle’s new army be enough?

”Owain Lothian gained something far more dangerous than an alliance with another of the human’s noble families,” Nyrielle continued as if she were oblivious to the growing sense of dread in the great hall. ”Because the woman he married bore the mark of the witch.”

”It is fortunate for all of us that Owain Lothian is a cruel man, easily blinded by the hatred he ingested along with his mother’s milk,” Nyrielle said with a dark smile on her pert lips. ”Any Eldritch Lord would gladly offer up half of their domain to secure a marriage to a powerful witch, but on the night of his wedding, seven months ago, Owain Lothian beat his bride to the brink of death and sent his knights to bury her in the wilderness between the Vale and the March.”

This time, it was the people who had come across the mountains who exchanged startled looks with each other. Many of them had witnessed the power of the Mother of Trees when she stood in the arena of High Fen City, nurturing a willow grove from saplings and healing the innocent spectators injured by the cultists from the Cauldron of Flame, but none of them knew how it had come to pass that she joined forces with the Harbinger of Death.

At the table of honored guests, dark, furious looks appeared on the faces of Milo, Achim, and Kaisen as they imagined the scene Nyrielle only briefly described. The notion of a man, any man, who was ruthless enough to beat his own wife to death on the very night of their wedding offended something deeply sacred within them that transcended race or clan.

Achim had given up a proud life of service because Lorena captured his heart, and he could no longer bear the thought of spending so much time away from the joy she brought into his world. Milo had rushed into battle against Owain Lothian and the Church’s Inquisitors in order to buy the time for Juni and the other people of their village to escape and if he had died that day along with his brother, he would have been content with his death as long he knew that his Juni had escaped.

For any of these men, and several more throughout the hall, the day they stood in solemn or boisterous ceremonies and pledged to share their lives together with the women who captured their hearts was the day that their lives gained a new kind of richness and purpose as they took up the title of husband, and for many of them, the title of father soon after.

Hearing that Owain Lothian attempted to murder his bride on the night of their wedding transformed the young lord in the minds of everyone present from a despised enemy into a reviled monster. A monster so ambitious and ruthless that he held nothing sacred and would destroy anything to achieve his goals. And if he would beat his own bride to death... just what would he do to them when he led his armies against the people who had been his family’s enemies for more than a hundred years?

”I was fortunate beyond belief to discover her that night,” Nyrielle said as her smile softened. ”Not buried and forgotten, but having clawed her way out of the grave they left her in, fighting to overcome her wounds and reach the Vale of Mists. That night, I promised her vengeance, and she promised to serve as my Seneschal, but even I underestimated the strength of the witch I found that night.”

”People of the Vale of Mists,” Nyrielle said, filling her voice once more with a hint of power that stilled every whispering tongue in the great hall. ”You may have heard rumors of her, but today, the time for rumors is over, and I present to you the truth.”

This time, the ripple of power in Nyrielle’s voice seemed to provoke something outside the room. A whisper of wind, like a breeze dancing through the thinning branches of an autumn forest, swept through the hall. The faint wind brought with it a scent that was slightly damp and earthy, reminding everyone in the room of the Vale of Mists at night when the fog was thick and the world felt like it had shrunk to just the few feet they could see through the dense fog.

When Nyrielle spoke, the heavy, iron-bound wooden doors to the great hall swung open, revealing a lone woman with pale blond hair wearing an emerald green dress and matching witch’s hat. Pale golden lace framed the deep valley of cleavage above a corset that emphasized her slender waist, and patterns like falling golden leaves were embroidered across her verdant green skirts.

Her face was fresh and youthful, but the presence that emanated from her felt as ancient as the fortress itself, with roots that sank deep into the earth. With each step she took into the great hall, the cedar boughs at her feet seemed to perk up, releasing more of their rich, sweet scent as if even fallen trees insisted on paying their respects to her passage.

”People of the Vale of Mists,” Nyrielle said formally. ”I present to you the woman who became my Seneschal. Lady Ashlynn Blackwell, daughter of Count Rhys Blackwell and former wife of Owain Lothian. She comes before you as the Eldritch Lady of the High Pass after defeating their greatest champion in single combat.”

”Tonight, we welcome her as the Mother of Trees,” Nyrielle said as Ashlynn came to stand beside her at the high table. ”And together, with her coven, we will rewrite the destiny of the Vale of Mists!”