The Calamity of a Reborn Witch - Book 3: Chapter 1.1: Prologue {Part One}: A Spark of Divinity

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Prologue {Part One}: A Spark of Divinity

Vanya traced her fingers lightly over the prickly heads of golden wheat as she followed her mentor along the dusty path through the field. The rising sun pressed like a warm sigh against the back of her neck and beads of sweat rolled lazily from behind the copper-golden curls that bounced lightly with each step.

The enchanted alexandrite crystals stitched into her thick gloves reflected the light against Vanya’s dusty face and dry lips. She swallowed. The lingering taste of morning dew she had lapped from the leaves of an oak tree in the early hours of dawn had already faded. But Vanya would never dream of complaining. Tarlay had made it quite clear that their business in Lafeara was urgent, which meant that proper rest and nourishment would have to wait until they arrived at their destination.

Still, the tired witch hunter was beginning to miss her lumpy bunk back in the female barracks—just a little.

Ahead of Vanya, the purple braids of Tarlay’s dyed purple hair swung leisurely behind the superior witch hunter’s powerful strides. Every lock of her magnificent mane was adorned with silver rings of sapphire gems that sparkled like stars beneath the morning sky. No matter how often Vanya studied them, she could not fathom the enchantments buried in the small jewels, but she knew that—like her own fists—they were key to Tarlay’s fighting technique.

While not as revered as Ripper, the Commander of the Witch Hunter Order, “Demon-eyes” Tarlay, Ripper’s third in command, was still well known and respected, especially among the female witch hunters who either admired or envied her.

Vanya raised her chin and squared her shoulders as she focused on breathing in the heavy, humid breeze. Through the weary fatigue that clung to her tired muscles, the unextinguished spark of joy and relief still remained. Out of all the apprentice witch-hunters eager to earn a place among the order’s ranks, Tarlay had chosen her for this mission.

Their assignment was two-fold. First, they were to observe and probe a potential witch from Lafeara that Ripper had described as a half-blood Baroness named Lady Maura.

‘She must be moderately powerful for Ripper to send Tarlay.’

Vanya shook her head with a heavy sigh and adjusted the leather straps of the rucksack on her back. Their second objective was just as puzzling.

‘Something about tracking down a spark of divinity? I’m not really sure what that means.’

Rows of Lafeara’s highly prized wheat folded beneath the breeze like golden waves around them. Vanya wrinkled her nose as an unpleasant smell filtered towards her. She glanced ahead at Tarlay, but her mentor did not falter nor react to the foul scent, which grew steadily stronger.

‘She’ll let me know if there’s any danger,’ Vanya mused, attempting to reassure herself. Her fingers slid away from the straps of her pack to tighten the leather straps of her witch-steel enforced leather gloves. The witch hunter’s movements disturbed the heavy bangles of witch-steel on her forearms that clinked together with a weighted thud she hardly noted as a hungry growl escaped her empty stomach.

Vanya winced as Tarlay halted. A pair of chartreuse-green eyes glowed beneath the sun as they focused on her for a moment. There was something mesmerizing about Tarlay’s infamous “Demon-eyes” that rooted Vanya to the spot before they shifted further west.

“Follow me quickly,” Tarlay muttered ominously, then burst from the dirt path into the stalks of wheat.

Vanya blinked after her, swore, then grabbed the straps of her pack as she hastily pursued her swift mentor.

The blurred golden barrier suddenly vanished around her as Vanya stumbled out into a smothered plain of dry earth, smothered hay, and dust. She eyed the large, empty clearing cautiously as she shifted closer to Tarlay. The scent of ember and sweltering malice in the air was suffocating. Remembering her scarf, Vanya pulled the scarlet material over her mouth and nose, then dropped into a crouch as she studied the patterns of footprints belonging to horses, cattle, metal wheels, and thousands of men.

“The Emperor’s army camped here,” Tarlay observed as she moved up a small hill where the smoldering remains of a large pyre blackened its peak. “A funeral,” Tarlay muttered as she toed the remains of a fire-ravaged chest. “It must have been someone of importance for them to offer tribute.”

“The Ambassador’s family was traveling with him,” Vanya ventured hesitantly. Her gaze caught on the charred skeletal remains of a horse beneath the black pillars. “Whoever it was, I wonder how they died?”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Tarlay said dismissively as she moved around the pyre to sniff the breeze cautiously. “Whoever it was, be grateful they weren’t a pureblood.”

Vanya swallowed and tightened her hold on the scarf pressed to her face.

“It would appear that Ventrayna’s forces packed up and left four to five days ago.”

Vanya grunted in agreement as she straightened and adjusted her pack once more. “Luckily, we didn’t run into them on the way here.”

A cold smirk slid across Tarlay’s face before she nodded in agreement. Even a witch hunter as formidable as “Demon Eyes” couldn’t take on the hundreds of coven fire witches that made up Emperor Arius’s military forces.

“Let us continue,” Tarlay said as she turned sharply west. “The Capital is close by.”

Vanya nodded, followed, and continued to observe the collage of markings on the ground. The witch hunter’s violet-blue eyes narrowed in on a pair of footprints that wove through the encampment towards the pyre before vanishing back into the field. ‘These are recent. Perhaps a day old?’ She sniffed the breeze, but the lingering scent of fire witches clouded the air and made discerning any other scents impossible. Nevertheless, Vanya’s instincts told her that these witches did not belong with the Emperor’s forces.

‘Members of the covens hidden in Lafeara perhaps?’

Her gloved hands tightened restlessly around the straps of the rucksack. This would be Vanya’s first witch hunt without a priest to slow things down and with Tarlay to observe her no less. Her violet-blue eyes pierced the curtain of wheat and bright sky as she prayed silently for the chance to prove herself.

If she didn’t—Vanya would be removed from the barracks of witch hunters and sent to the birthing houses of the weaker half-witches.

Every female witch hunter was given one year to prove themselves capable in the field.

The priest Vanya had been assigned to for her first three missions had been a coward who refused to face any witch head-on. Instead, the loathsome man would simply report their findings so that more experienced teams could hunt down their quarry.

Vanya’s patience reached its limit when the priest chose to ignore the imminent danger a male wind coven witch posed to a border town where children were lured from their beds and night and devoured by the cannibal witch. Although she had succeeded in catching her prey, the priest had been furious at her act of disobedience. They parted soon after. The priest was transferred to more sociable duties while Vanya found herself placed on probation for three months.

Her next priest proved to be utterly reckless in his desire to capture and slaughter witches, nearly getting them killed on more than one occasion—though he endangered Vanya far more than himself. Their seventh and final mission together ended with a broken leg for the priest while Vanya was placed on probation once more for failing to protect her handler.

‘Rebellious. Unreliable. Difficult to control.’ Those were the labels that prevented Vanya from obtaining a new handler for several weeks after her second probation ended. With half a year gone and only mixed results to show for it, Vanya began to lose hope. When she was finally assigned a third priest, Vanya was determined to get it right this time and focus on proving herself to the elders.

Instead, she ended up punching her handler in the face after he tried to take advantage of her during their first week in the field.

The uproar that followed Vanya’s reluctant return to Zarus was infinitely worse than her previous failures. Despite only breaking the priest’s nose, several other priests and even two Cardinals called for her immediate execution. At the brink of despair, she languished in the church prisons for two weeks until Ripper set her free and assigned her the task of training new witch hunters.

It was a different kind of death sentence to be pulled from the field and assigned to training. Vanya knew this temporary reprieve would end with her being transferred to live among the mothers of the birthing house, where she would be assigned a different partner each month until she inevitably became a mother herself.

Tarlay had saved her from that fate by giving her this chance.

And Vanya would rather die facing a witch than become a second-class half-witch whose existence only served to create future witch hunters.

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Tarlay appreciated the silent nature of her new apprentice. Far too many of them became chatty after overcoming their initially awed introduction. The most annoying of these had asked one too many questions about Tarlay’s unique heritage. She had chosen Vanya for this mission because she understood the desperation that burned quietly behind the young woman’s eyes. While Tarlay couldn’t guarantee the witch hunter’s future, she hoped the half-earth-witch would prove herself helpful on this mission.

‘Ripper might not be happy, given Vanya’s history, but even he can’t ignore her potential.’

Not every witch hunter did well under the restraining yoke of a priest. Tarlay had also struggled, though she managed to get through her first year with only one handler. Priest Gale had kept her on a strict leash in public but knew when to get out of her way in battle.

He was an Abbott now, having retired from witch hunting after Tarlay successfully earned her permanent place among the witch hunters. She knew that Gale claimed credit for training her “Demon Eyes” ability but didn’t care.

All that mattered to Tarlay was that Ripper had recognized her potential and taken her on as an apprentice. She never had to wear a leash after that.

Still, regardless of how far Tarlay had risen among the ranks of the witch hunter order, she paid particular attention to the female witch hunters who followed after her. She hoped that one day they would be offered the choice of serving as either a witch hunter or breeder. Pope Jericho had certainly done much to improve the living conditions and treatment of his witch hunters. Tarlay would go so far as to say the young Pope had gone out of his way to get closer to Ripper, often favoring the Commander’s opinion over that of his Cardinals.

‘It’s odd—given that it was a witch hunter who betrayed his family and brought old Zarus to ruin.’

Tarlay studied the mildly packed streets of Lafeara’s capital and sniffed the breeze. The aroma of fresh-fired meat soon led her to the market district, where she rewarded her dusty apprentice with their first decent meal in a week.

A mortal whose very pores smelled of roast greeted them warily. While the witch hunter’s unique hair and eyes were hidden beneath their raised hoods, their strange traveling garments and unique hunting tools stood out to any discerning eye.

A glance at Vanya showed the young woman was practically salivating as she ogled the display of meat, seasoning, and various sauces.

“We’ll each have two of those,” Tarlay said as she gestured to the curled strips of meat pierced onto a stick. “Well seasoned.”

“How will you be paying?” the meat vendor asked cautiously, his eyes narrowing on the jewels embedded into Vayna’s gloves.

“With coin,” Tarlay answered curtly. “Your price?”

The man paused, and Tarlay’s mouth thinned as the price of their meal rose within that short span of time.

“Twelve crescents.”

“Eight,” Tarlay countered with a nod to the crudely written sign advertising ‘Two for the price of One!’ “And I’ll give you another two if you can help us with directions.” She placed the eight coins down on the wooden counter and watched him weigh over her offer.

“Alright.” The meat man spat on the ground to his right, then turned to flash four meat sticks in the fire. “What place are you trying to get to?”

“The slave market.”

The pinched fingers of seasoning halted for a brief moment before he continued to sprinkle them over each stick, then added a trickle of sauce mixed with honey to the mixture. Tarlay nodded to Vanya as he returned to the counter. Her apprentice eagerly took their meal and stepped back as the meat vendor swiped the coin from the counter into the pocket of his apron.

His posture and anxious demeanor practically screamed, ‘Please go away now,’ but when Tarlay counted out four more crescents, he sighed and rubbed his fingers against a sauce-streaked towel.

“I’m no noble, so I don’t knows for certain, but—from what I heard—the slave markets be hidden backstage behind the theater house.”

Tarlay smiled and placed the coin on the counter. “In which direction is the theater house?”

“Behind the fortress, just west of the slums. Ask directions to the theater, and anyone can point you in the right direction.”

He rattled off a few street names for her to look out for and then dismissed them by turning around to tend to his fire.

“May the Saint’s benevolence shine upon you,” Tarlay murmured as she stepped back to leave. She smiled as the man flinched. A fresh stick of meat fell to the ground, where it was snatched up by a lurking stray dog who scampered off as the vendor pulled a knife from his belt with a curse.

“Pwease tell meh it’s not dawg,” Vanya murmured worriedly around a mouthful of sticky meat.

“Sometimes, our questions should go unanswered,” Tarlay replied sagely. She took one of her two sticks from the hungry apprentice and chewed a bite free as she scanned the street for a sign.

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“Why are we headed to the slave district,” Vanya grumbled as she gnawed on her empty meat stick.

“The rarest of gems are generally found in one of two places,” Tarlay replied over her shoulder. She spotted a street sign that read Candlestick Lane and turned left. “Those whose value is easily recognized are kept behind the walls of the rich and powerful, while those whose potential is often overlooked—”

“Are found among the dregs of society,” Vanya finished with a grimace, recalling the first time she had heard that particular bit of wisdom during her lessons as a child.

“That was how we found you,” Tarlay added with a knowing smile.

Vanya blinked, surprised that someone as important as Tarlay would know so much about her, but remained silent. Half-witches often struggled to find their place among the mortal families into which they were born. The inability to control their magic led to accidents that labeled them as “cursed” or, even worse, “witches.” It was also not uncommon for a mortal, left with a witch’s child, to quietly get rid of the baby to avoid being condemned by association.

Vanya’s mortal father had chosen to sell his infant daughter to slavers instead of killing or abandoning her in the wild. She couldn’t adequately describe how she felt about the choice he had made, but Vanya couldn’t deny it had led her to the Witch Hunter Order and the Church.

At least now, she was among her own kind.

The young witch hunter clenched her jaw self-consciously as the fresh meal in her stomach turned unpleasantly.

‘It’s—not like I’ll run into my mother here. She was an earth witch after all, and they are Lafeara’s natural enemies.’

Her nausea passed just as they reached the sizeable arena-shaped theater building.

“This must be the place,” Tarlay muttered with a nod to the large sign above the marble pillars of the entrance, which read, ‘Candlestick Theater.’

“Maybe there’s a back door?” Vanya suggested hesitantly as she studied the sturdy lock and chain that secured the entrance before them.

“It wouldn’t hurt to check,” Tarlay replied, and they continued around the side of the building.

The exterior gray walls of the theater house were decorated with painted posters that represented the various acts performed on its stage. The newest and by far largest poster contained the image of a young woman in a silver dress standing on a field of bloody snow. Behind the woman’s white wolf mask flowed wild black hair. In her raised right hand, the woman held a sword, while in her left, the gruesome, decapitated head of a man whose body the woman stood upon. The eye-catching poster’s caption read, ‘The Fearsome Duchess of Winter.’

‘Is she a witch hunter?’ Vanya wondered curiously before jogging to catch up to Tarlay, who had moved further ahead.

“It appears you were correct,” Tarlay announced as Vanya reached her. The senior witch hunter gestured towards a black door tucked under an archway with three white crosses marked across its surface. On either side of the door stood two lumps of masculine muscle who eyed them with matching scowls.

The short man with an ugly scar, that ran down the left side of his nose and twisted the corner of his mouth horribly, held up a hand as they approached. “What do you want?”

The abrupt demand carried a tone of annoyance and disinterest that drew a cynical smirk from Vanya. Both witch hunters were dressed in simple garments of gray and brown instead of the notorious scarlet armor their order was known for, so it was only natural for such ignorant mortals to dismiss them visually.

“I’ve come for a slave,” Tarlay replied with a disarming smile as she nodded in greeting. “This is the slave market, isn’t it?”

“Market’s closed today,” the man replied as he moved forward to block her path. A flicker of surprise raced across the man’s face as Tarlay deftly slapped his hand aside. The man’s scar twisted further still as the witch hunter stepped past him and placed a hand on the door.

“Now wait just a minute—”

Vanya choked back a laugh as the foolish mortal made the mistake of placing his hand on Tarlay’s shoulder. The senior witch hunter caught his wrist and spun her body, slamming the helpless mortal into his stunned partner.

‘Not bad for a mix-blood.’ Vanya smirked as she watched both mortals slide down the wall with muffled groans of protest.

Tarlay released the defeated man’s wrist with a dismissive sigh and pushed the door open.

The woman on the other side stumbled back with a startled yelp as Tarlay and Vanya stepped into the shadows of the slave arena. Over the mortal’s graying-brown hair, Vanya saw rows of cages, only a few of which were occupied by slaves.

‘Perhaps they really were closed today. Still, I wonder what Tarlay hopes to find here?’

“W-welcome! Welcome!” the woman said in a businesslike tone as she stepped to the side. “I’m afraid we haven’t much stock on hand today, but you are free to browse—” the slaver hesitated as she caught sight of the two guards still laying on their backs, “—as long as you have funds to make your purchase?”

Tarlay brushed past the woman with a noncommittal grunt. The slaver flinched back and assessed them both with wary, hostile eyes. Vanya met the woman’s gaze and resisted the urge to imprint her fist into the mortal’s hefty girth as unpleasant nostalgia swept over her. She shook her head and refocused her attention on Tarlay, still not sure what they were doing here.

Her mentor glanced back, a silk purse in her left hand, from which she drew two cords of crescent coins that she shook briefly. The sound of potential earnings together drew a smile from the slaver’s lips as she rushed up to bow before Tarlay.

“Welcome to Lafeara’s slave market. I am Madam Cricket. If you could provide me with the details—such as age, sex, color, and build of what you are looking for, I can better assist you.” Madam Cricket rubbed her hands together as Tarlay returned the coins to her purse and tightly drew the strings. “Although, as you can see, our stock is currently depleted. Most of the leftovers were to be sent across the border tomorrow—if you know what I mean. But we might be still able to provide you with something—adequate.”

“Even if I gave you a description, I doubt you would be able to find what I’m looking for,” the Witch Hunter replied with a brief smile.

Vanya and the slaver frowned in confusion. Madam Cricket cleared her throat as she glanced back at the younger witch hunter. Vanya looked away first and quietly smothered the tingle of discomfort the woman’s gaze burned into her skin.

“You appear to be foreigners—your accent—it is strange.”

“Are only locals permitted to buy?” Tarlay retorted. A hint of impatience dripped through her smile as she scanned the nearby cages.

“Oh no, of course not. We welcome all coin and trade—” Madam Cricket’s gaze returned the weighted bracelets on Vanya’s wrists.

The calculating look in the mortal’s eyes made Vanya’s skin crawl. She looked away and met the empty gaze of a slave woman leaning against the bars of her cage, gnawing on a flat stone with broken teeth. Vanya tightened her grip on the pack she carried and focused on Tarlay’s back. She flinched as the slaver reached up and yanked down her hood.

“Ahh, but you have quite the lovely specimen here,” Madam Cricket murmured as she focused on Vanya’s eyes. “Such a pretty color. Her face isn’t bad either, and she looks well kept for her age.”

The faint tearing sound of leather trickled through the piercing ring of anger that filled Vanya’s ears. A hand pressed down on her shoulder, and she blinked, turning to find Tarlay close beside her. The witch hunter’s glowing chartreuse-green eyes were focused on the mortal before them.

“If you want to keep your limbs, tongue, and eyes, then I suggest you refrain from so much as looking at my apprentice. Is that clear?”

Madam Cricket stiffened and shrank beneath the burning gaze of Tarlay’s “Demon Eyes” before swiftly dropping her gaze to the floor. “M-my apologies. I-I have offended—”

“Your very breath is irksome. Leave us to browse in the comfort of your absence. I will call for you when we have found the slave we seek.”

Vanya felt a stiff smile twitch against her numb face as Madam Cricket managed to free herself from Tarlay’s dangerous gaze. The slaver moved awkwardly but swiftly away, not daring to raise her head until she found and escaped through a door in the wall to their right.

“You didn’t have to—” Vanya fell silent as Tarlay released her shoulder and held up a hand for silence. The senior witch hunter grasped the silver chained pearl necklace beneath her cloak and closed her eyes. Vanya drew in a breath as quietly as possible and waited for Tarlay to complete her search.

The few occupied cages around them contained only women, not all of whom were fully clothed. Vanya shifted uncomfortably as she pulled her gaze away from the stubbed arm of an unmoving woman two cages to her left.

‘Mortals enslaved by other mortals. There’s no cause for us to get involved in local affairs beyond the scope of our mission.’

Vanya ground her teeth beneath the pitiful whimper of a hungry baby in the arms of a young woman curled up against the bars with both eyes closed.

Tarlay pulled back her hood with a frown then released her necklace before continuing forward determinedly.

“What—is it we’re looking for?” Vanya asked as she followed close behind.

“A spark,” Tarlay muttered distractedly.

Vanya furrowed her brow in disbelief then averted her gaze from the cages around them as they entered the male section of the slave market. Surprisingly, it was the men more than the women who lacked even the smallest garment for modesty.

The smell of unwashed bodies, dried urine, piles of feces, and two more corpses clouded her senses as Vanya locked her gaze on the brightly shining gems in Tarlay’s hair.

‘Do you really think we’ll find a spark of divinity in a place like this?’

But no sooner had the question crossed her mind than Vanya felt—him.

The nauseating odor evaporated as the air went still. The enchanted jewels in Vanya’s gloves hummed almost audibly in recognition. She stepped to the side quickly when Tarlay stopped ahead of her. In front of the witch hunters stood an isolated cage near the corner of the arena.

There was only one male slave inside the cage, thankfully dressed but wearing pants of a much more refined material than most slaves would ever receive. His bear back, which faced them, was covered in a lattice of purple and gray scars that ran across bruised, tanned skin. The slave’s face remained bowed between the knees of his crossed legs, and he appeared unaware of their presence, but his shoulders rose and fell with steady breath.

Tarlay chuckled softly. Vanya’s gaze remained locked on the male slave’s scarred back as she focused on the indescribable aura that could only be coming from him. She drew in a breath and marveled at the clean, pure air that encircled the slave’s cage.

Understanding followed as Vanya resisted the sudden urge to drop to her knees.

‘A Spark of Divinity. The Descendant of a Saint.’