Now that Silas has broken the curse in his blood and come back to life, he is fighting to control dang- erous magic that shouldn’t exist. As threats gather beyond his borders and secrets unravel inside his court, he must protect his kingdom while hiding the truth about what he’s be- coming. But the greatest risk isn’t war—it’s the people he can’t bring himself to let go.

 

Seren wanted a quiet life. A shop. A future that belonged only to her. But her growing reputation as a witch draws the attention of the king, and his fascination quickly turns into something far more dan- gerous. What begins as a game of curiosity and charm threatens to pull her into a web of power, obse- ssion, and choices she may not survive.

 

As alliances crack and ancient magic stirs, Silas and Seren are forced to navigate a dangerous line between loyalty and desire. The closer they grow, the more the world seems determined to tear them apart—and the more impo- ssible it becomes to decide whether love is their salvation… or the thing that will destroy everything.

PROLOGUE​​

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        The moon crested the sky, nearing its zenith behind the gauzy clouds. It was nearly time, now. The witches had been more than clear about when they needed to start, but she couldn’t seem to make her legs work. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to go through with it, because she did. They both did.

        The moon grew darker as the clouds swarmed like moths, but Celia wasn’t worried about that. The witches had said clouds were fine, and that the stars didn’t need to be seen for their light to reach the earth. And their magic—his magic—moved beneath everything like a tide.

        Still, her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. She pressed trembling fingers to her temples, circling gently. It will work. It has to work. She repeated the mantra in her head, over and over, trying to anchor herself to it. She’d clung to those words like a child might cling to a blanket in the night, reciting them over and over as the days slowly crept toward this night. This night that would change everything for them.

        “Celia!”

        She flinched. Her heart battering against her ribs like butterfly wings in a cage. 

        “What are you doing in there?” The voice came through the door, muffled but urgent. “The time is nearly come.”

        She knew Geralt was just as nervous as she was. Maybe even more so. After all, she was the one that wanted this, and he simply loved her so much he was willing to go along with whatever she wanted. ‘As long as it makes you happy. That’s all I want,’ he’d told her. 

        “I just… I just needed some water,” she lied, voice tight.

        “Now is not the time for water. Get out here. Now.”

        She opened the door. The scent of crushed herbs and candle wax hit her immediately.

        Geralt stood just outside, his jaw tight. He gave her a look, part disapproval, part concern, but the softness in his eyes won out. As it always did. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re sure about this?” he asked, voice low. “We can still turn back.”

        Celia shook her head. “This is the only way.”

        “We don’t know that for sure.”

        The promise in his eyes made her heart ache. As hard as all of this had been on her, she knew that he also carried the quiet pain of their losses close to his heart. “It’s been five years, Geralt. And they’ve all died.”

He lowered his gaze. “I know, Celia, but we can try again. We can—”

        “No.” She cut him off. “I cannot bear to lose another. I won’t survive it.”

        She could see the rebuke shining in his eyes. The words he would never say aloud. But she felt them, hovering somewhere in the space between them, living in the pauses between their breaths.

        What if you don’t survive this, either?

        And he knew too, the words she would never say aloud. That death was a price she was willing to pay.

        Celia swallowed and turned away. The witches were waiting.

        One of them, Marigold, a stout woman with plump cheeks and pink lips stained from berry wine, clasped her hands and smiled warmly. “There you are, darling. All ready then?” she asked. Her voice was motherly, ringing sweet as honeyed tea.

        Beside her, her sister Rosemary—slender and grey-eyed—ground something into a thick black paste in a bone-white mortar. The scent of rot and sage curled up Celia’s nose. Rosemary didn’t look up as she worked. Her jaw was tight, her brow furrowed in concentration. She muttered something under her breath, too quickly to catch.

        Celia glanced at Geralt. He was watching Rosemary now. His shoulders were squared. 

        “Come, then,” Marigold said brightly. “It must be now. The door is open.” 

        She led them to the clearing behind the cottage, her hand on Celia’s back. The space was lit by dozens of lanterns strung between tree limbs like fireflies caught in glass. From a distance, the clearing might have looked like a wedding.

        Up close, it shifted into something else entirely.

        Celia took in the scene, her eyes first going to the altar. The structure didn’t look to be made of stone or wood. It looked like… bones. Not just bones, but human bones, bleached white and lashed together with dried tendons. The skulls at the base made her breath freeze in her chest. Were those… horns?

        Beneath the altar, someone had carved circles into the earth and then drawn over them with something. But the dark splashes were not drawn in chalk or ink.

        Celia’s brow creased with the sinking realization that it looked a little too much like blood.

        The swirling lines pulsed wetly in the low light, looking a little too fresh. And raw.

        Celia moved forward, but Geralt turned, stepping directly into her path. His hand wrapped around her arm, squeezing. “You don’t have to do this,” he murmured. “Not if you’re scared.” His eyes were dark and uncertain. He was taking in the same gruesome details she was noticing.

        But Celia just shook her head. “I’ve never wanted anything more.”

        He nodded once, his gaze lowering in quiet resignation, and they walked together into the circle. His hand held onto hers a little too tightly.

        The witches were already busy. Marigold hummed as she tied small bags of teeth and lavender to the lantern ropes. Rosemary, silent as ever, was drawing symbols into the earth with her own fingers—her nails cracked and black from whatever she had been grinding earlier.

        Marigold tied the final bundle of lavender and turned to give them a wide smile. “Everything is prepared. Exactly as promised.”

        Her voice was soft. Almost grandmotherly. It made the iron bowl on the altar look all the more jarring—charred black and filled with thick, shimmering oil. The contents looked as though they were heated to near boiling when Marigold dipped a finger in. She turned to Celia, finger poised to paint her with the heated oil.

Celia couldn’t help but draw back a little then. “You said it wouldn’t hurt,” she said, her voice nearly swallowed by the grove. “Isn’t that… hot?”

        “Oh, child. Not to worry, this part won’t hurt,” Marigold cooed. “Though birth always carries its own pain. I can do nothing about that.”

        Geralt’s frown deepened. “And me? What am I to do?”

        Rosemary finally looked up. Her eyes were a strange, clouded grey, like moonstone. “You’re here to anchor the soul.”

        “What does that mean?” Celia asked.

        Marigold waved a hand. “Just words, darling. Symbols. Energy. You give a little of your will, and in return the stars will grant you a child.”

        Geralt looked like he wanted to say something. His jaw was tense as he started to step forward, but Celia touched his arm. “I trust them.”

        The witches led them to the centre of the circle where Celia knelt on the soft earth, surrounded by symbols she couldn’t read. Rosemary knelt behind her, placing her hands on Celia’s back and whispering words in a tongue that made the hair on Celia’s arms stand on end.

        Geralt stood in front of her, his hands on her shoulders. “I love you,” he said.

        “And I love you.”

        Rosemary and Marigold began to chant.

        The wind stilled. The fire in the lanterns hissed and dipped. 

        Celia heard a low humming in her ears. It was slow at first, rising steadily until it became a high pitched ringing inside her head. She winced a little, trying to block it out.

        The bowl on the altar ignited in a rush, making Celia flinch a little.

        But the flame wasn’t fire, not really. It was star-bright, white and violet and shifting with a strange pattern of colours. If daylight was made up of rainbows, then this was whatever made up the night. The strange fire spun upwards into the sky, reaching out and up, until it seemed to connect with something high above them.

What it connected with, Celia couldn’t imagine. But the light looked as though it were spreading out from the centre pillar, like a rippling spiderweb made of liquid light. 

        It was beautiful. But it also made Celia’s skin crawl.

        And then, a glowing warmth started to spread in her chest. The sensation very nearly made her laugh, tickling as it crawled through her veins. She grew warmer. And then hot.

        Much too hot.