thirteen

(—the executioner)

Ten witches sit at an elongated oval table. Some are willowy, others muscular, a few with extra curves. All wore draping robes edged in one of four colors; red for fire, green for earth, blue for water, and white for air. Three seats were empty, seats removed from the table and placed against a wall. Seats for the judge, jury, and executioner.

The Council talks late until night bleeds into day and day into dusk and dusk back into darkness.

Finally, they ring the bell, a simple thing that sits next to one of the ornate chairs, the rope a mere thread of magic as it summons the Sisters.

Narcissa arrives first, sitting in the middle chair, a cold look of boredom on her face. But beneath the ice is a predator waiting for her prey to be announced. Maev is there between one second in the next, shadows peeling away to show her reclining on the third chair, fingers resting on the cold granite and drumming in a rhythmic pattern. Finally, Adaire walks in, perching on the edge of her chair.

They wait. And when the council talks, they listen.

They let the council lay out their plan. They let the council lay down the rules. They let the council place an ancient dagger next to a thick sheet of parchment. And when the council is done, is they agree.

Maev, to the surprise of everyone, moves first, letting the cold metal of the dagger bite into her flesh, her blood dripping onto the parchment as generations of other witches had done.

Her sisters followed suit, the Council members departing as a heaviness settles in the air.

War.

It rings through the air and burrows deep into Maev's bone.

We're going to war.

Dusk draws near and the streets quickly begin to clear. Shutters are drawn shut. Lights are extinguished. Circles of salt protect doorways and herbs frame windows while hearths burn with a never-ending flame. Witches cloaked in white with a single symbol slashing through the back prowl the world. It is indeed a witch hunt, but not one conducted by humans, but rather by the witches determined to put the Forsaken in their graves.

A shout is heard, curious heads poking cautiously out of windows and heavily guarded doorways. A witch is thrown to the ground, a mask clattering to the ground, anger clear in the Conqueror's face who caught them.

Another Forsaken caught. Another execution to be scheduled after they yielded what little information they might know.

The Forsaken spits on the ground.

The witch flame in his doorway sputters and extinguishes as a witch adorned head to toe in black appears, no emotions on the harsh features of her face. A shocked gasp echoes, traveling down the streets and stirring whispers as the dying sun lights up the witch's face.

Wholly black eyes, skin leeched of warmth, nails cloaked in darkness, shadows spilling out of her mouth and swirling around her arms. Maev Barebone smiles, sharpened white teeth glinting in the dark as the temperature drops several degrees. Then she takes one, just one, step forward and the mask shatters underneath her boot.

Then she leans down and grips the witch's face in one hand, nails digging into skin, blood beading and dripping down her face from the shallow wounds. Then Maev lifts her hand, licking one of her fingers.

A too curious witchling is drawn quickly away from the window by his sister.

A Blood Witch had not been let out to hunt since the Salem Witch Trials. A Blood Witch had not been allowed to draw the blood of their victims before their execution, the tracking handled by the Elemental Witch and the sentence declared by the Bone Witch for nearly three centuries. A Blood Witch had been strictly forbidden to mark a Witch ever since the Council outlawed it sixty years ago.

For now, no matter where that Forsaken went, Maev Barebone would be able to find her with half a thought.

Maev Barebone disappeared in a cloud of darkness and the whispers started.

The Council has mobilized the Sister Three.

The Council has declared war on the Forsaken.

The Council has saved us all.

The Council has doomed us all.

The Blood Witch is on the Hunt!

From town to town, city to city, country to country, the warning spread to every corner of the Earth. The sigil of the Barebone clan was painted on doorways in blood, locks double checked and witchling's carefully watched.

Neighbors that, a mere month ago, were as close as family now cast wary glances at each other. Acquaintances no longer stopped to exchange pleasantries, while travelers were met with suspicion and fear. No one could afford to trust anymore. Not while the shadows shifted with a mind of their own and fire blazed in the distance and Conquerors roamed the street.

The Blood Witch is on the Hunt!

A bedtime story told to children give life, Maev Barebone shrouded herself in blood and iron and darkness.

"I heard she went into hiding for three years to prepare," a witchling whispered to her brother.

"And I heard that if you say her name she'll appear over your bed in the middle of the night to drain you of your blood." He whispered conspiringly back.

Their mother slapped the back of their heads and scolded them, the slightest hint of fear visible in the tremor of her fingers. "It's bad luck to joke about the Sister Three. Now eat your dinner before it gets cold."

That night the witchling was dragged from her bed by her brother, their faces pressed against the attic window as they watched a house in the distance crumble into dust before rupturing into flames. And in the morning they both swore to never mention Maev Barebone's name again, for it was she who tore the foundation of the house apart in her hunt, and they each lit a candle at their altar for Narcissa Barebone who'd aided her sister.

Coast to coast she went. Days bleed into weeks and soon she stopped bothering to check the date. Blood coated her fingers and hummed in her veins as she sniffed out her prey, her sister by her side.

No stone was left unturned and places she'd never heard of, places that were rarely drawn on maps, soon became scarred by her hunt. The Forsaken had rooted too deeply in their world and it was proving troublesome to destroy them all. But they kept going, separating when deemed necessary and colliding when their paths crossed once more.

For the first time in her life, the Blood Witch immersed herself in her power, giving herself to the magic that ran through her veins.

One day she picked up a mirror that had fallen off a mantel. Maev Barebone stared at her reflection and a stranger stared back.

Nothing human was left in her face as black markings spread over her brow and curled up near her temples. Black eyes narrowed and black tinged lips pursed in disapproval as she was revealed for what she truly was, a witch born by death.

After that, she stopped looking in mirrors.

Africa was torched by the sun and witch flame alike as the most rural areas reaped large populations sworn to the Forsaken. For the first time since the hunt began, the Blood Witch was nowhere to be seen.

And hidden away, tucked behind layers of technology and centuries of lies, a lone figure appeared on top of a metal statue. It was intricately crafted and was made of a metal so powerfu and thought to be rare. The panther bared its teeth, partially prowling out of the mountain. A protector of a nation great and unknown.

The Blood Witch sat on the edge, fingers playing with the thin phone she kept on her at all times. It was nighttime and the sky glittered with thousands upon thousands of stars, stars that watched over the witch. She didn't dare think of his name but took comfort in the closeness even if it meant nothing to the frozen soldier a mile away.

She'd drawn into herself, tucking away the important pieces, the human pieces. After all, witches were supposedly half-human. And it was that human side that would get her killed if she allowed it to surface.

So before it became too much, before her humanity resurfaced, the Blood Witch vanished.

She'd let Narcissa handle the Forsaken around Wakanda. For now, she'd go South, shedding the last bit of kindness her in by leaving her heart behind with the one she knew it was safe with.

The witch had long since stopped trying to scrub her hands clean. Some were killed on spot, others marked, and the streets seemed to flow red with their blood. Every time she closed her eyes she dreamt in red; red stained flowers, red stained rivers, red stained world.

Her anchor was a mere piece of technology hidden safely away in one of her many pockets, an object she gripped tightly at night when she felt herself slipping more than normal.

We're almost done.

She'd tell herself this sentence, again and again as time stopped holding meaning. And when even that didn't hold any meaning, she reached for a new mantra.

I can almost go home.

Home wasn't a place to the Blood Witch, but rather a person. She didn't remember much about him; not that she had forgotten about him, but rather in the sense that it hurt too much to even think about him. So instead she changed his name to home and kept that tucked close to her heart, mouth curling around the word and the tiniest bit of warmth would creep in. Not enough, never enough, but it helped.

I can almost go home shortened as the days continued to pass into I want to go home and eventually it simply became home.

She repeated it as blood stained her clothes and filled her mouth. She repeated it as she curled in on herself at night, death now a familiar friend.

Home. Home. Home.

The Blood Witch stood in a room. She didn't move, she didn't blink, she just stared at the wall in front of her. She was so close that she could almost smell the hot desert wind and sand on her tongue, a hint of freedom that she ached for.

Her gaze moved from the barren wall to the contents of the room. It was once her room, a long time ago when she tried to quell the wanderlust in her and attempted to fit into the mold the others expected her to conform to. Now it held nothing but cobwebs and left a bittersweet taste in her mouth. It was stripped of anything and everything, some possessions going with her, others being given away or even burned.

Then she steeled herself, let her spine become a rod of steel, her face carefully composed into one of apathy.

A knock on the door had her turning towards it. Adaire stood there, adorned in her formal wear, a hint of worry tucked away into the small frown that lined her lips. A silent question was in her eyes, one the Blood Witch neglected to answer as she started walking out of the room.

I'm not okay.

She couldn't bring herself to say the words, to express her fear of how little control she had over herself and how she was scared to return home, terrified of wrecking it.

She follows Adaire, counting their steps as they ascended a spiral staircase that would lead to a large stage. She waited for a moment, preparing herself for what was to come, and then she stepped into the sunlight.

Witches flooded the area around them, some figures of importance, others there to witness the historical event if it could be considered that. She kept her gaze above the ground, looking at the horizon and the fluffy white clouds that peppered it. A beautiful day, too beautiful for what was about to happen.

Words were being spoken, carefully crafted and articulated in such a way that only Adaire could make it work. Her sisters' jobs were done— Adaire had been carrying out sentences and rebuilding more shattered parts of communities while Narcissa had aided her on their hunt. And she... she still had one more job. The last job for her last day in this place. And then she could leave and never return.

She finally looked down at the kneeling witches, shackled and restrained, heads covered in bags to dampen their powers. The leaders of the Forsaken, the important ones, here to be made example of.

The hoods were removed as Narcissa stepped forward, accepting the knife offered to her by Adaire. It wasn't a witchblade, but rather an ordinary knife meant for bloodletting and nothing more. The Elemental witch cut each Forsaken, their blood dripping into a bowl. Just a few drops were needed, nothing more.

And then she stepped forward, the crowd hushing.

It was time for her job, it was time to be the executioner. For even while witches showcased tendencies of bloodthirst, power was revered above all.

She bowed her head slightly, letting Narcissa paint a symbol upon her brow, silently calling forth the magic that rolled through her veins. Then she thought of the witches at her feet, at how she Marked them throughout her hunt, and she straightened up, tilting her head back to feel the sun's warmth on her face.

She could feel their heartbeats, their blood running through their veins, their staggered breaths. She reached deep within that well of power, seeing their lives as bright, flickering flames. And then with a soft exhale, she extinguished their life.

Blood streamed from their noses as they slumped forward, dead.

What better way to showcase power, then to kill someone without even touching them?

As the faint roars of approval from the crowd reached her ears, she could list a hundred reasons of better ways to show her power.

Not one of them involved killing.

part one of two keke

the formatting is a bit different than normal but i hope it makes sense/flows fine.

let me know what you think :)