Ashes of Chaos (Legacy of the Nine Realms #2) - Amelia Hutchins Page 0,169

as the male snarled. Her head whipped back, and she rattled, causing my eyes to round. The subtle hint of magic exuded from her, causing my skin to break out in goosebumps before she picked us up and righted us back on our feet.

“Are you okay?” she whispered, her eyes searching mine before moving to the younger witch.

“Fine, My Lady.”

“My Lady, my ass,” she snapped, irked at the title.

“Aria,” the king growled, and she turned. “They’re witches.”

“So am I,” she snarled back, and I watched his eyes narrowing to slants before he exhaled.

“Come,” she stated, baring serrated teeth at the guard when he moved to intervene. “Try me, motherfucker,” she warned, and I swallowed the urge to smirk.

Esme was right. There’s fire in her eyes and blood. But how long before Ilsa turns it to nothing more than smoke and ashes? I silently took her in, noting she wore the king’s cloak. Her shoulders were back, and her head was high. She doesn’t look like much, but Esme was right. She’s powerful. Very powerful. I could feel the power, but it wasn’t right. It wasn’t ours.

She’s something else, yet the same. A warrior stepped closer, and her eyes turned toward him, filling with a sea-green color. Fiery embers burned in them, and I’m struck stupid with the rarity of what that meant. Only a few within the Nine Realms could change. Only a few of the strongest breeds survived past Hecate’s rage and the war she waged when she entered this realm and laid claim.

“You aren’t with the other witches. Why?” I asked, watching her eyes slide back to lock with mine.

“Because the king knows I’d start a rebellion, and he’d get his ass handed to him,” she offered, giving me a smirk before winking.

“Aria, this way,” another male called, sliding his eyes down my frame before dismissing me.

“Coming, Lore,” she snorted.

I watched her vanish with the men, entering the king’s tent before the guards hurried us to the center of the camp. My fingers worked through the flesh of my palm, telling Ilsa that I had eyes on her target. I don’t look down as soldiers gathered around us, or when the skin on my palm burned painfully.

Once I was among the witches, I peered down at my hand, reading the runes that covered my palm. My heart thundered in my chest, echoing the blood flow through my ears. My attention moved to the largest tent, watching as Aria slipped inside with the king. I frowned, peering around the large camp filled with warriors, camp followers, and witches.

“Name?” a woman asked, and I frowned. Her gaze lifted, and she paused. “Send this one to the herb tent. We will use her to create potions,” she announced without waiting for me to speak.

The guard held out his arm, and I followed him, turning to stare at the tent surrounded by guards protecting the king. Ilsa had said to stand down, that Aria was already dead. It didn’t make sense to send me in if she already had another plan in action. Not unless something had changed for Aria, or even for me.

My gaze turned to a group of rowdy men, taking in the lords with three witches naked on their knees. Swallowing hard, I hurried my steps toward the herb tent, moving inside before releasing the breath I’d held.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” a woman exclaimed, her cloudy blue eyes searching mine. “So, have you?” she asked, moving closer to examine my face before reaching for my hands, which still burned. I yanked them away, causing her keen eyes to lift and hold mine. “I’ll see your hands, girl.”

Swallowing bile, I held my hands up with the backs to her, but she grabbed them, turning them over to stare at bare palms. I slowly blew out the air I’d held, sliding my eyes away from hers. Once she was satisfied, she lifted her eyes.

“You’ve brewed before, yes?” she questioned.

“Many times,” I admitted.

“You look like you’ve been through it,” she stated, and I frowned. “The war. It haunts your eyes. You’ve seen too much for your age, girl. They call me Maize. You can call me Maize, or you can call me Old Crone. I care not which one you prefer. I am both.”

“Old Crone only means you’re brave and smart. You’re a survivor, too.”

“That we all are,” she huffed, turning to the cauldrons that were boiling. “If you’re smart, you’ll stay out of the notice of the guards