❛the ends justify the means.❜
( part two of deadwater kings )
The board is set and Shabina chose her side. The better world she dreamed of is finally within her grasp, but she struggles when the path to victory seems to be paved in blood. The long...
"I think the reason pawns can't move backwards is because if they could, they'd kill their own kings in a heartbeat."
—Guante, "The Family Business"
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Hadrian emerged from the water, boots digging into the sand. He only met Ilse's eyes to nod.
It was done. The Library was gone.
And he had a whole mess of fresh problems to tell her about.
Ilse stood alone on the beach, her long dress and red hair fluttering in the same sea wind as the tents behind her. Her face looked paler than usual -- a true feat considering her complexion typically bordered on white -- and her hands were clenched together in front of her.
Hadrian swallowed. He dismissed a chattering Farah and Quin with a nod, the blonde witch glowering at him over their younger companion as they left.
"What happened?" Hadrian asked as he walked up to Ilse.
She'd always been a sister to him, even during the dark times when he'd been stationed at King Wilson's side as a spy. Harsh at times, but he knew she cared. So, when her expression remained stony, he scowled.
"Do we need to go somewhere private?" He glanced around. Magic flowed freely through the witches' hideout -- no stone walls or metal doors to impede the energy. Most witches could spy through the current if they had the right training.
She shook her head but beckoned him to follow her anyway. "Things have changed while you were gone."
He was already exhausted by whatever news she carried. "On my end, too."
"You can tell me about that later. Right now, just don't do anything dramatic."
He barely refrained from groaning and flopping dramatically onto the sand path. They passed between tents and shelters, most of them empty, headed towards the largest tent towards the middle of the island. He could feel the combined power of so many witches converging in that one tent. He straightened and sped up, overcoming Ilse's pace with ease.
He ducked through the tent's flap without waiting for an invitation.
Inside, there were maybe two hundred witches. The entire population of the island.
Some old, some young, all grouped by their coven. They sat on the floor, where a patchwork of rugs kept the sand away. At the far end, the coven leaders stood together.
Ilse gave him a look -- warning, reassuring, maybe? -- and stepped ahead to join them. Quin had her pale head leaning in with the rest of them, apparently getting caught up on whatever the hell they were all doing.
Warren was a tall, dark skinned man with a broad nose and icy blue eyes. He wasn't wearing a shirt and his muscles glowed golden in the sunlight glowing through the tent's fabric walls. He was the coven leader who greeted Hadrian first.
