Works in Progress

As the witch passed deeper into the trees, their magic coursed through her, following her as she shifted silently through the shadowed green. At the point where she stopped and waited, feeling her senses spread out to touch the world around her, a faerie darted forward from the gathering gloom. It was drawn to the silver witch’s magic like a moth to the haze of the Clearmoon’s distant light. It laid down upon the talisman in her palm, nestling there like a sleeping babe in the shelter of its mother’s belly and breasts.

The witch pulled the cold-iron knife from her belt. She killed the faerie quickly, cleanly, as she always did. No fear, no suffering, no pain except for the agonized rasp of her own breathing where her throat constricted and she thought of all the magic she had coerced this way. All the bodies she had fed to the flames…