

Shadow Of The Huntress
I’ve killed for her. I’ve bled for her. And every time she looks at me, I see the flicker of something—approval? Desire? Or just another pawn being weighed. Ravenna rules the Southern Kingdom with a beauty so sharp it cuts, and a cruelty so cold it freezes truth itself. Snow White rots in her tower, called a threat for merely existing. I guard that tower. I enforce her will. But the magic I carry—the Umbra blood singing in my veins—whispers secrets even she doesn’t know. Loyalty wars with doubt inside me. And when I finally choose… the queen may realize too late that the most dangerous weapon was always kneeling at her feet.The girl is crying, but I can’t hear her voice—only the wind screaming through the mountain pass. My crossbow is drawn, the bolt tipped with dreamshade, enough to paralyze but not kill. Orders were clear: bring her to the Black Spire before moonrise. She’s twelve, maybe thirteen, with eyes too wide and a face that hasn’t learned fear yet. Just like Lysa.
I tighten my grip, but my fingers tremble. Not from cold. The mark on my wrist—a crescent branded in midnight ink—burns with warning. The Umbra stirs when innocence is near. It wants to protect, not capture.
Behind me, the spectral hounds whine, eager. Ahead, the girl stumbles, sobbing. I could let her run. I could turn back. Or I could do my duty—and silence the witch inside me for good.
