It is a few hours later when the booming voice of Orion echoes about the woods.
“Zarina!”
“Shit.” She retreats further into the base of the old oak tree she has claimed as her safe space. It’s buried deep in the woods, a good hike from the castle, where no one would ever dare venture to find her. Or, so she thought.
She should have known her brother, Ori, would never allow her peace and quiet.
“Zi! Come on, I can feel you.” The snapping of twigs grows closer.
Zarina curls into a ball. The hole in the tree is cavernous, the perfect hideaway and the perfect place to store her contraband. The walls are smooth and almost stonelike, with little alcoves which Zaya has littered with candles and piles of books.
The forest grows quiet; her brother must have lost the scent of her. She sighs in relief.
“What is this place?” Ori plonks himself down and thumbs the corner of one of the blankets, while Zaya’s strategic cough to hide her shock at his appearance turns into a coughing fit.
“The whole coven is looking for you.” He leans forward to rest his chin in his palm. “They’re worried about you.” He stares deeply into her eyes. “I’m worried about you, Zi. You’ve been missing lessons, rituals, and dinners. It’s like you’re becoming a ghost.”
Her skull begins to vibrate, and she breaks eye contact when tears pool on her waterline. “I know what you’re trying to do. Get out of my head.” The pressure depletes when he looks away.
The first whispers of a storm fill the air. A gentle wind blows into the cavern making the flame of a candle lick the wall of the tree. Zaya guides the fire back to the bleeding candle. A tiny flame lingers on the tip of her finger, and she lets it glide across her skin before looking up at Ori.
“I don’t know why everyone is so worried about me. I’m fine,” she says, nonchalantly.
He studies her intensely. Golden eyes flickering over her sharp features. They couldn’t be more different. Ori is pure sunlight: yellow hair, sun-kissed skin, and the warmest of hearts.
Zaya is cold. Numb. Her skin is white, and her hair is so dark, the contrast makes her look sick. Every day she looks sick. Zaya thinks that, because Ori was born six minutes before her, he stole all the good that the universe had reserved for them.
She snuffs out the flame on the book. Orion frowns when he catches a glimpse of the cover.
“We have a place in this world, Zarina. We are not humans, we are power. Learn to control your gift. You have a duty to fulfil.”
Zarina laughs bitterly. “Careful. You’re beginning to sound like the dragon.”
“Yeah. Well, maybe you should listen to Mother every now and then.”
Zaya’s nostrils flare. She tries to calm her breathing. “Why is everyone trying to control me? I don’t want this. I never have.”
“Zi, you need to calm down. Breathe with me.”
Fury clouds her. “Don’t. Tell. Me. What. To. Do.” She stands abruptly, her book falling to the floor as flames burst from her hands. She cries out in pain, trying to find the will to tame her magic.
Orion reaches towards her, but she bats him away. “I’m just trying to help,” he mutters.
Zaya snarls, “You could never help me. Not like Em. You should have died, not her.”
Hurt flashes across his face. He wipes his arms as though they are covered in water, and he’s gone. She has no time to feel guilt or shame. All she can do is run, run helplessly through the shadowy forest. Rain falls in thick globs but it doesn’t put out Zaya’s flame nor the fire in her soul. Branches slap her face and arms, but she doesn’t feel their sting. All she can focus on is getting to the salt circle before the ball of rage which is curdling inside her stomach explodes out of her.
The castle turrets offer her the slightest pinch of relief as they peek above the tree line, but it is still too far. The dragon will have her head for this behavior. For this loss of control. Zaya’s veins sizzle beneath her skin, she is boiling alive and cannot let it out. Not just yet. Her speed lessens and her steps wobble as she closes in on the castle grounds. There is nothing inside of her but pain. When the salt circle at the edge of the forest comes into view, with what little strength she has left she breaks free of the trees, and with only the moon as her witness, falls to her knees and slams her fists down onto the salt. The tension inside of her releases as it erupts into flames momentarily, before Zaya’s body slumps in exhaustion.
“Well, this is interesting.”
Zaya looks up through tear and rain-clumped lashes to see a man standing inside the salt circle. Against the backdrop of the castle, he is menacing. Something about him is familiar, but she can’t quite place it.
His glassy eyes scrutinize her. “Get over yourself.”
She is taken aback by his bluntness. He doesn’t know her, or what she has gone through. He has no right.
“Who are you?” This rude stranger, as handsome as he is, is not the face she wants to be staring at. She had no plans to see anyone else tonight.
“Viridian.”
Zaya stands on weak legs, straightens her spine and clenches her jaw to disguise the fear coursing through her. He is dangerous, she can feel it in her bones.
She says nothing to him as he cocks his head, while something like pity and confusion paints his face. The weight of it dawns on her. She swallows lead. He must be a demon and demons can only walk the earthly plane if summoned. Her magic summoned a demon. Oh, Gods.
Viridian taps a long finger on the silver cat head atop his intricately carved cane. He walks toward the edge of the circle, a slight limp in his left leg. “Now, don’t you think it’s unfair, he pauses, “no, unbalanced, for you to know my name but I not know yours?” He toes the line of salt caging him.
“Unbalanced?” Zaya mumbles, the question wavering on the word.
“Why isn’t everything teetering on the edge of balance?” His pointed tongue swipes across a row of perfectly straight, pearly white teeth. He is too perfect, unnaturally so. “Life. Death. Good and—” His eyes snap to hers. “—evil. The exchanging of names can’t be left unbalanced, and, of course, it is just rude.”
“Zarina.” As her name crosses the boundary of her lips, the earth rumbles, and the air tilts. She shakes her head in disbelief as he crosses the salt circle. She steps back, catching her fall as she trips over a stone.
He stalks towards her in a less-than-graceful manner but as though a spell has been placed on her, she can’t move her feet even an inch. Viridian towers over her, and she refuses to look up at him.
“Ah.” He tucks the fallen strand of black hair behind her red-tipped ear. “The golden one.”
“Yeah. Whatever that means.” She says quickly, “How are you out of the circle, the salt it should—”
He interrupts her.
“Oh, little witch, you really should have paid more attention to your coven.” He taps her nose so gently she can hardly feel it.
When he snaps his fingers in front of her face, her feet are freed, and she scampers back until her palms scrape the rough of tree bark. He follows, caging her in, his hot breath caressing her cheek.
“Rule number one, names are the greatest power.” Viridian trails his finger across her lower lip. Zaya’s gaze doesn’t waver from his face for even a moment, terrified of what would happen if it did.
“Rule number two, never give your name to a demon, it renders you and any spell you cast utterly powerless.
“Rule number three, rules one and two don’t apply when you’re in the presence of Death. You were powerless the second you brought me here. You thought a little salt could stop a Horseman.” His laughter is thunder.
Zaya gulps, her face ashen. He leans in and licks a stray tear from her cheek.
“It has been so long since I gazed upon living flesh.” Viridian smiles sadly. “My brothers will be here soon. I’ll bring them to meet you. How they love to play with witches.” He turns, and she is alone once again.
Slowly, her back slides down the tree until she hits the sodden ground. Cold seeps through the layers of her skirt, and it settles on her bones.
Eliza Wilson has always had a wild imagination and a need to share it with the world. As a Creative Writing graduate, she spends most of her time working on her fantasy trilogy, Secrets of Pinewood. You can usually find Eliza sitting in a cozy corner of a cafe, oat milk, iced vanilla latte in hand, hunched over a notebook, and escaping into the world at the tip of her pen.
Featured image by Tai Jyun Chang on Unsplash.
