Verita Winslow's hands trembled as she smoothed the loose soil around the base of her rosemary plant. The damp earth clung to her fingers, grounding her in the moment, a necessary distraction from the storm brewing in her chest. The morning was quiet, the kind of stillness she both craved and feared. The chirping of birds mingled with the rustling of the trees surrounding her secluded cottage, their dense branches forming a barrier between her and the world she desperately avoided.
Her home, modest and hidden from view, stood as a testament to her isolation. The stone walls, weathered by years of harsh winds, were cloaked in ivy and flowering vines that she allowed to flourish unchecked. The scent of lavender and thyme hung in the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of her magic, which always lingered no matter how much she suppressed it. The windows, framed by wooden shutters painted a pale green, reflected the sunlight in muted tones, casting faint rainbows onto the stone pathway that led to her garden.
Inside the cottage, the story was much the same—functional, unassuming, and steeped in solitude. Worn furniture arranged with care spoke of someone trying to create a life within the confines of her fears. A row of shelves near the fireplace held an assortment of spellbooks, their cracked spines whispering of knowledge she refused to explore. She had no use for magic, not when it could destroy everything she touched.
Verita straightened, brushing the dirt from her hands onto her faded skirt. Her hair, a rich auburn, fell over her shoulders, catching the sunlight in strands of copper and gold. She tucked a loose strand behind her ear, her golden-brown eyes scanning the garden for any signs of disturbance. There was none. Not yet.
She sighed, her breath clouding in the crisp morning air. She had spent years perfecting this façade of calm, this illusion of control. But control was a fragile thing, one she knew could shatter with the slightest provocation. The truth was, Verita Winslow was a woman teetering on the edge of an abyss.
"Why do you insist on tormenting yourself?" she murmured to no one in particular, her voice barely louder than the rustling leaves. It wasn't the first time she questioned her life of self-imposed exile, nor would it be the last.
She turned to head back inside, her bare feet padding softly against the stone path. The wooden door creaked as she pushed it open, revealing the cozy yet suffocating interior of her cottage. A cauldron bubbles gently on the hearth, filling the room with the herbal scent of chamomile and mint. The potion was simple, one of calming properties she had learned to brew years ago, back when her aunt still lived here.
Her aunt. The woman who had raised her after her parents deemed her too dangerous to keep. A strict, no-nonsense witch with little patience for emotions, her aunt had drilled the importance of control into Verita from the moment she arrived. "Control or catastrophe," she'd say, her voice a sharp blade that cut through any protest.
Verita had been a child then, too young to understand the weight of her magic, too naive to grasp the devastation it could bring. But she understood now. Oh, how she understood.
The gentle hum of the wards surrounding her home broke her reverie. She froze, her heart skipping a beat. The wards never faltered. They had been designed to withstand any intrusion, a barrier between her and the world beyond. But now, the faint shimmer she could always sense had dimmed, replaced by a disquieting stillness.
Her chest tightened as she stepped toward the window, her fingers gripping the edge of the curtain. She peered out cautiously, her golden-brown eyes scanning the tree line for any sign of movement. At first, there was nothing but the swaying branches and dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves.
Then she saw it—a shadow, darker than the surrounding foliage, moving with deliberate intent. Her breath hitched as the figure came closer, the outline of a tall, broad-shouldered man materializing through the trees. He wasn't alone. Another figure, leaner but just as imposing, followed close behind.
Verita's instincts screamed at her to run, but her feet remained rooted to the floor. She watched as the men approached the edge of her garden, their polished boots crunching against the fallen leaves. They moved with purpose, their dark cloaks billowing behind them like ominous clouds.
Her hand tightened around the curtain as she caught a glimpse of their faces. The first man, with his sharp jawline and piercing gray eyes, exuded an air of authority that made her stomach churn. The second, slightly shorter but no less intimidating, had a cruel smirk that sent a shiver down her spine.
Verita's heart pounded in her chest as she stepped back from the window, her mind racing. Whoever they were, they weren't here by accident. The wards hadn't failed—they'd been breached.
She turned toward the door, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She had to think, had to act before they reached her. Her magic stirred within her, a restless force she had spent years suppressing.
"Stay calm," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Control or catastrophe."
The words felt hollow now, a mantra that did little to steady her nerves. She glanced at the cauldron on the hearth, the bubbling potion a reminder of the quiet life she had fought so hard to maintain.
But that life was over.
The knock on the door was firm, deliberate. Verita flinched, her pulse roaring in her ears. She gripped the edge of the table, her nails digging into the wood as the knock came again, louder this time.
"Miss Winslow," a voice called out, smooth and cold as steel. "We know you're in there. Open the door, and we can discuss this like civilized beings."
Verita's breath caught in her throat. Discuss what? She didn't even know who they were, but their presence sent a clear message—they were here for her.
The door creaked as the taller man pushed it open, his gray eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her blood run cold.
"Verita Winslow," he said, his voice laced with authority. "Jevan Ashford has sent for you."
Verita's pulse thundered in her ears as the taller man stepped through the doorway, his presence sucking the air from the room. He moved with a predator's grace, each step deliberate, as if he already knew she wouldn't resist. His sharp jawline was set in an expression of cold authority, and his piercing gray eyes swept over her, assessing, calculating. Behind him, the second man followed, his cruel smirk deepening as his eyes locked on her trembling form.
"Miss Winslow," the taller one said again, his voice smooth but edged with steel. "You're a hard woman to find."
Verita instinctively backed away, her bare feet brushing against the stone hearth. She tightened her grip on the table, the familiar scent of chamomile from the cauldron doing little to calm her now. Her mind raced as she tried to process the situation. Who were they? What did they want? But she already knew the answer. Jevan Ashford.
The second man leaned against the doorframe, his smirk spreading into a grin. His dark eyes glinted with amusement as he spoke. "Look at her. Like a frightened little rabbit."
The taller man shot his companion a warning glance before turning his attention back to Verita. "Jevan has requested your presence. He was quite insistent."
Verita forced herself to swallow the lump in her throat.
Verita's instincts kicked in before her mind could catch up. She darted for the back door of the cottage, her heart hammering as she threw it open and bolted into the woods. The cool air sliced against her skin, the scent of damp earth and pine flooding her senses. Her bare feet slapped against the forest floor, each step sending shocks of pain up her legs, but she didn't dare slow down.
Behind her, the sound of heavy boots echoed like thunder.
"She's running," the second man growled, his voice sharp with irritation.
"She won't get far," the taller one replied, calm and steady. "She doesn't know who she's dealing with."
Verita's chest burned as she pushed herself harder, weaving through the thick trees. The shadows of the forest wrapped around her like a cloak, but she knew they wouldn't hide her for long. She risked a glance over her shoulder and immediately regretted it. The two men were gaining on her, their supernatural speed making the distance between them disappear far too quickly.
Her magic stirred, a wild and unpredictable force that she had spent years burying. It clawed at her, begging to be unleashed, but she held it back. No. Not here. Not like this. She couldn't afford to lose control—not when the consequences could be catastrophic.
The forest began to thin, the trees giving way to a rocky incline. Verita's lungs screamed for air as she scrambled up the slope, her hands scraping against the rough stone. She reached the top and paused just long enough to take in her surroundings. To her left, the path led back toward Havenfall, where the crowded streets would offer some semblance of safety. To her right, the terrain became more treacherous, the rocks jagged and uneven.
"Verita Winslow," the taller man called from below. His voice was steady, unbothered by her head start. "This is pointless. You can't outrun us."
Verita's grip on the stone tightened as she turned to face them, her breath coming in sharp gasps. The two men were at the base of the incline now, their faces illuminated by the faint glow of the moonlight filtering through the trees. The taller one—clearly the leader—was composed, his piercing gray eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. The second man, by contrast, looked like a predator about to pounce, his smirk widening with each passing second.
"Stay back," Verita warned, though her voice wavered with fear. She lifted her hand instinctively, a flicker of golden light sparking at her fingertips. It was a weak display, barely enough to startle them, but it was all she could muster without losing control entirely.
The taller man's lips curved into a faint smile. "Ah, there it is. The magic Jevan is so interested in. You've been hiding it well, but not well enough."
His words sent a wave of anger surging through her. She wasn't some tool to be used, some pawn in their twisted games. She took a step back, her heel slipping on the edge of the rocky path.
"I won't go with you," she said, her voice firmer this time.
"You don't have a choice," the second man snapped, lunging forward.