Witch of Iria

Cursed

"I can't believe it." A voice drawls from behind me. I turn and it's Owen, wearing a mocking grin. "You look like a real life lady. At least, for tonight."

He's dressed in a forest green, with buttons of dull silver. I give him a gracious smile and then abruptly flip him off in the middle of the ballroom. I'm sure I hear someone splutter to my left.

His grin widens and he gives me a mock bow. Finn stands beside me with an odd look on his face. It's almost a scowl but it quickly changes to something more thoughtful.

"So when are you presenting her?" Owen asks Finn, his face suddenly serious.

"Nice to see you too," Finn mutters, avoiding the question.

Presenting me? What? Panic assaults me again and my confidence against Idris dissolves into smoke.

"Presenting me to whom?" I bleat, my hands clenching my skirts.

"To my father," Finn says after a moment. His eyes are on the thrones and not on me, in my blue dress.

The Lord of Iria? All the warnings my mother told me feel hollow. This was the man who fell in love with her, who gave her everything. She was the wicked mistress who took the dead Queen's place and his heart. Until he threw her out. In the stories, it's the wicked Queen who takes everything. But in real life she was robbed.

"Sooner is better than later," Owen is saying. "And he is free of Idris for now."

I glance back at the thrones and notice the Lord sitting on his own, his legs stretched out in front of him. His hands are elegant, resting with authority on the griffin hand rests. I imagine them wrapped around my throat, robbing me of air. Even from where we're standing I can sense his aura of power.

Finn nods and goes to take my hand but I draw back.

"I'm not meeting him."

Finn's face darkens, that golden charm becoming something sharp and deadly. Owen looks uncomfortable.

"Yes, you are. This is part of our deal," he growls, grabbing my hand. My magic churns, rioting.

The sincere man asking for help has gone. Now he is replaced with a ruthless courtier, his face hard. There is no crack revealing kindness. But what did I expect? I've become too soft living with Dorcha. Where we love each other and don't ask for anything. His eyes plead with me in my mind, calling.

"Fine," I say, taking a deep breath. Finn all but drags me forwards and Owen fades away, as if he doesn't want to witness this confrontation.

"What was he like? The Lord of Iria?" My child voice quakes to ask the question. My mother looks up from her spell work, her lovely face morphing into a snarl.

"He was nothing," she hisses and grabs my wrist, twisting it. I writhe in pain and whimper, begging her to stop. The sharp bite of winter surrounds her and the oncoming darkness makes her seem more savage. "If you have time to ask me such questions, daughter, then you must not be trying hard enough."

Tears drip down my cheeks as she inspects my shoddy curse, woven from meticulously placed threads of power. My fear makes the threads unravel even more. She twists my wrist more until I'm sure it'll break.

"Stop!" I beg. "Please!"

Her laughter is full of thorns.

"The Lord of Iria was the cruellest of them all. He would think nothing of ending you. This curse is pathetic."

She roughly lets me go and I sprawl in the dirt. My wrist is on fire, the pain making me gasp. My curse falters and she commands that I do it again. I try and twist the first loop, concentrating on it in my mind, but it starts to shiver. Her look of disdain cuts deep. My silvery moonlit powers try and heal my wrist but I shove them down deep inside. I shouldn't use them, only the shadows. I had to be better. I had to be like her.