Milah dug her nails into the palms of her hands as the newly-dug grave was filled. Could it really only have been yesterday that her mother had been by her side, comforting her? It seemed like it had been years ago, and that Milah was far older than her sixteen years had been the previous day. Tears built in her eyes, but she forced them away. She would not cry. She had to be strong, for both herself and her father.

Milah's mother had been her father's everything. And now that she was gone, he seemed to have fallen far from his original ideals, drinking himself into the night, and slapping Milah when she suggested he come to the funeral with her. In the end, she had come alone.

The rest of the village was mourning along with her, but their apologies and pity fell on deaf ears. Milah was not grieving; she was furious. Nothing should have taken her mother from her like this, nothing should have reduced her father to his current state. Nothing, that is, except for magic. It was all the fault of magic. Corttann's rulers' prejudice against it now made sense to Milah; it was an evil thing, and it had taken her mother from her. She would see it destroyed.

After the grave had been filled and the villagers had begun to trickle away, Milah alone remained at the cemetery. A light drizzle seemed to reflect Milah's current mood. She stood there for a long time, her mass of black curls becoming soaked and sticking to the back of her neck.

She didn't know how long she had been standing there before a silky-smooth voice addressed her from behind. "Milah Bramson," he said. She turned to face him, her black dress swishing around her heels. The man behind her was swathed in a black cloak, his face indistinct from beneath his cowl. "You have suffered a great loss today, have you not?"

She shrugged, figuring that the question didn't require much of a response. It seemed incredibly obvious to her. The man, realizing she had no intention of answering him, went on, "The fault lies with magic. A magic robbery gone wrong took your mother's life. Without that foul essence, she may yet still be alive."

Milah clenched her fists, feeling the knives hidden in her skirts. "What do you want?" she demanded. "Can you not see that a daughter is grieving her mother? Begone!"

There was an unmistakable note of amusement in the man's voice. "Is the daughter grieving, or plotting her revenge? I come to you, Milah Bramson, only to offer my services to you in the latter desire."

"To get my revenge?" Milah questioned, eyeing the man a trifle nervously. Normally, someone who wanted to help another get revenge was not a good person.

"Of course. Do you not wish to eradicate that foul disease known as magic from the world?" the man asked. "Of course you do. I come to you to inform you that there is a way. The Witchfinders."

Milah inhaled slowly. "The Witchfinders? They're a myth."

"Believe in them, Bramson," the man replied, and rolled up his sleeve. On it was a thorn tattoo wrapping around his arm, passing his elbow. "For they are real."

Milah stared at him. The Witchfinders were bent on eliminating magic from the world—and she agreed with them. "I want in," she said.

The man's voice reflected the triumphant smile on his face. "Welcome to the Witchfinders," he said, and grabbed her arm.