But neither of them held true command of the chamber.
That belonged to the women clad in scarlet and shadow.
The Redmoon Witches had come.
Their presence sucked the warmth from the air; even the torches guttered low, as though bowing in respect—or fear.
Among them, one figure stood apart: a tall woman draped in dark crimson silk, her posture regal, her silhouette outlined by the morning light streaming through the window. She stood with her back to the chamber, hands clasped behind her, staring out across the endless sweep of the sea.
Cornelia.
High Mistress of the Redmoon Coven.
Her name was a curse spoken in hushed tones throughout the realm, for she was said to command storms, to still the heart within a chest, to whisper a name and condemn it to shadow. That she was here in person made Earl's throat tighten. He had dealt with witches before, yes, but always their lesser sisters—never her.
Earl felt his palms dampen.
