Elf-Witch Queen

Reawakening: Prologue 1st page - draft

Prologue - Draft

Nelia sits in the town center, arms behind her back, wrists bound by coarse ropes. Four days in the summer heat. Three more to go. Then she’ll be released.

Her crime? Public drunkenness and solicitation. Except she wasn’t drunk. And she wasn’t the one soliciting.

But here she is. Long waves of silken hair she dared be proud of, cut to jagged tufts, tunic and dress ripped down from her shoulders, pooled at her waist, and deep lash marks across her back. This is what her world has become. 

For their protection, women are no longer allowed in pubs, nor in the town square unless escorted by a husband or brother. Spinsters are looked down upon because no husband means they’ve made themselves undesirable. And any woman who would do that … is likely a witch.  

“Witness the shame!” 

A soldier, draped in the yellow robes of his order, stands above her, his voice a sermon of scorn. He stands atop the pedestal of a ten-foot stone statue of the Redeemer, the god these men have wielded into something merciless and unyielding. 

She knows he is not just clergy. The rows of bleached, shaved hair and eyebrows like scars, fanned out in exaggerated arches mark him as military.  Soldiers have begun patrolling the streets in robes instead of armor.

“The Redeemer’s light will not suffer impurity!” he bellows. “Such brazen vulgarity must be punished! This filth will be cleansed from our village!”

He leans down and spits on her. 

“She will only be purified if shown the light. Let her see the light!” 

Most keep their heads down, walking briskly past, pretending not to see. Others, too afraid to risk seeming disloyal, obey his command. A fistful of dirt flung at her face. A slap from a trembling hand. This is shame disguised as obedience. Nelia knows they don’t mean it.

But then there are the zealots. The ones who delight in her suffering. The self-righteous and cruel. They kick her ribs. They empty chamber pots over her head and laugh when she chokes on the filth.

Three more days of this.

She had once blamed the women who came before her, those who had been tied to this very post, paraded as dark-ones. She had thought them foolish or arrogant to break the rules so publicly.

But now she knows. Those who warned her were right. Things have changed under King Feryn’s command.

As daylight fades, the preacher-soldier departs, leaving her to the merciful quiet. The heat finally loosens its grip, but her thirst is unbearable. Should she dare ask someone for water?

She lets out a weak cough, hoping a villager might take pity, but no one stops. No one risks looking at her.

The town center, once a place of bustling markets, warm conversation, and gathering families, has become a place of fear. Even for men. They hover over drinks in the pubs speaking in whispers and looking around, wondering who they can trust. Say the wrong thing and they’ll be where Nelia is. 

Night provides further relief from the heat, and clouds blot out the stars. Even if someone is watching from one of the buildings, they can’t see her trying to work herself free. She won’t last three more days. It’s time to run.

She flexes her fingers, working at the knots. She must get out. South, perhaps. Seaview, if she can make it that far. Somewhere Weyshire’s reach won’t find her.

“Going somewhere?”

She jerks her head up. Standing before her is no less than the Weyshire Commander. His short, square figure as unyielding as the statue. Rumors say he is disfigured, that his mask conceals something monstrous. Or is it an effort to look more terrifying? If it is, it’s effective. 

“You’re strong,” he muses. “I could like you in different circumstances.”  

He uncorks a flask, and the scent of fresh water wafts out. A slow, long drink with a satisfied sigh taunts her.

“We applaud your chastity,” he says, wiping a forearm across his mouth. “It was your shameful brazenness that landed you here.  His gloved hand catches her chin, forcing her head up.

“Going out alone?” His voice is mocking, almost playful. “A woman with no husband? Tut, tut. That won’t do.” His breath ghosts against her cheek, heavy with the scent of mint. She had expected liquor, but the rumors must be true. He is a teetotaler. Always in control.

“Would you like me to cut you loose?” he whispers.

Her body turns frigid. She knows how this game is played. “Please,” she mumbles.

Krondel leans in, lips brushing her ear. “Let me hear how badly you want me to let you leave.”

The shame tastes bitter on her tongue. But what choice does she have? She licks dry lips.

“Please, Commander Krondel. Let me go.”

He pulls back just enough to study her. “Now, look at what a lovely lass you are.” His gloved fingers trail down her collarbone, lower…

She forces herself not to recoil.

“I’ll let you go,” he promises. “All you have to do is tell me the name of a witch.”

Nelia feels sick. She had heard stories. The Redeemer’s men would not release you until you named someone—a healer, a wise woman, anyone who might be accused of the dark craft.

“I only know the woman who used to provide me with remedies, but she’s moved. I know of no others.” Her voice is thin from thirst.

The commander shakes his head. “That won’t do.” He squeezes her arm until she whimpers.

“Try harder.”

Her cousin is a dream interpreter, some even say a prophet. But no. She won’t name her own family. “I honestly can’t think of anyone,” she pleads.

His hand tightens around her lower arm before he twists it behind her back. “So, you like pain,” he croons.

Her shoulder burns and she fears she’ll pass out. “My cousin!” she blurts out. “Em—” She stops. 

No. She’s heard of another. A healer in Easthill. “Livia. From outside Easthill Village.”

Krondel nods slowly. Considering. Then, he smiles. “You’re lucky, luv,” he says, drawing his blade. “I believe you.”

Relief floods her.

“Turn around then. I’ll cut those ropes.” 

She complies, daring to hope.

He grabs the ropes, then cuts across her throat. 

She collapses into the dirt, blood soaking the earth. Krondel drops the knife by her side.

“Poor lass,” he sighs. “Couldn’t take the shame.”