Seven Witches

twenty-one

Hera;

Hera clutched her wound, willing the knife to stay in her so that she won't bleed anymore. The pain was dizzying, so sharp and intense that she had lost sight of where she was crawling, the only thing keeping her moving is the unspeakable urge to find relief.

She cried as she crawled with her hands and feet and all, Ivan standing a few feet away. When he realised what he had done, he ran outside and never came back.

It felt like days had passed and not minutes as she blacked out and then awoke. She crawled, her dress drenched in mud and blood and tears, crawled until her nails had come off, until she reached Paul's room.

Her legs did not function and she could not stand, had banged her hand on the door as hard as her trembling body could withstand.

When Paul opened the door, a gasp of fear and then a cry out was what she heard. Hera opened her mouth to say something, to ask him to help her, but the last thing she felt were his arms going under her, lifting her off the ground.

~

Cythera could hear her own heart beat with a storm of emotion. She couldn't wait to be back to her room, not the one Tsar Vladimir had given her, but the one she shared with Hera, their little home.

So just as she had sneaked out, she sneaked inside the palace, this time glamouring Alba, Selene, and Demyan who refused to be left out even when she argued that she can't possibly hide them all for long.

She made sure she still avoided the sentries as much as possible, especially that her eyes were not glamoured. "Remain silent," she whispered as they waited for the gates to be open to slip in, Alba unable to obey the simple order Cythera had given.

The wolf sniffed around, running off into the polished corridor. It was only when Selene whistled for her that she behaved. "You could've done that earlier," Demyan noted, brows pinched in concentration.

The four walked lengths to reach Hera's room, and for a moment Cythera wanted to run the opposite side to avoid facing her, just in case her sister was still mad.

When she was about to place her hand on the door knob, someone on the other side had been faster than her and opened the door from within.

It was Paul. He held a bowl of warm water, bruises lining his glassy eyes. As soon as he saw her, he dropped the bowl and those eyes went wide, mouth ajar. It alarmed her, the clench of his jaw, the inhale he held in, and the way his arms tried to block her line of sight.

Cythera looked behind him, to the girl lying on the bed, sheets over her deathly pale face, her hollowed cheeks, the amount of bloodied cloths on the table beside the bed—Cythera's old bed.

Blood roared in her ears, her breaths like shards of glass down her throat. The roaring didn't quiet down as she walked closer and tugged down the blanket to see the wound, not when she had so softly asked who did it, not as she was told it was Ivan.

She was undone by his name, overwhelmed by blinding rage. Cythera didn't hear the words Demyan uttered as she dug into her bag and found the dagger she had carried, didn't hear Selene's warning as she braided her hair and walked down the hallway.

It was magical how little she noticed what's around her when usually it overwhelmed her senses, but now it was as though there was a cover thrown over her eyes, her ears, her mind. Her only thoughts were on the blade she held so tightly in her hand that her fingers had grown numb, on her unwavering steps as she headed down, down, down, to the military camp.

It was hours past sunset and the men were rounding up together to drink ale beside fires. Cythera had laid down her powers to ambush any guard who approached her, making them turn in the other direction. So when she asked where Ivan was and got the answer from his mates, that he had not left his tents in two days, Cythera's fingers dug into her palm.