Interlude

Hooves beat against the ground, causing the earth beneath the horse’s feet to tremble. The young girl controls the animal with the expertise of a rider well above her tender age of fifteen. She’s escaped and has taken the stone with her. Steely determination reflects in her focused gaze. She will not give in to the fear of knowing the Mountain Witch will soon discover the child is gone. Lowering her head, she kicks into the animal’s side, urging it on. She rides hard and fast, creating distance between herself and Smoke Mountain. Dark magic engulfs her immediate locale; on instinct her hand falls to the rock in her satchel. 

Hold on young prince, hold on. 

Brisk wind beats against her skin; she pulls her robe closer, creating a barrier between herself and the needle-like air that pricks at her flesh. The forest is dark, and each crackle of leaves beneath the horse’s feet resounds in the air, almost yelling out her position to the enemy. She considers slowing down, lessening the noise, but she’s still too close to the castle. It would be too easy for one of the queen’s minions to find her, so she rides and hopes that the darkness will be cloak enough to hide her and the would-be-king.

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“Gone? What do you mean it’s gone?” Moyrah’s shrill tone echoes through the air, piercing the man’s eardrums like sharp arrows.

“The girl, the spell-weaver, has taken it, my queen.” The man’s head is down. He dares not look into the queen’s menacing eyes. 

The woman is quiet as she approaches, the swish of her gown dragging against the ground as she gets closer has his heart moving from his chest to his throat in fear. Ice cold hands grip either side of his face, yanking his head up. Their eyes meet, and he feels his insides begin to solidify. She breaks the gaze and pushes him to the ground, as he inhales the tightness in his gut begins to lessen. 

“You have until sunrise tomorrow to find her and retrieve the egg.” Her tone is dangerous, “If you don’t, I’ll turn your children to stone and make you watch as I shatter them to pieces.”

The man scrambles to his feet, bows to the woman, and escapes the room as quickly as possible.

The witch watches as the man leaves.

Uncontrolled rage fills her as lava-like heat burns in her core; she’s a live volcano about to erupt. Her blood hits its boiling point, and she tightens her hands into fists. Her reflection stares back at her in the gold-rimmed mirror standing tall in front of her. The person in the mirror is a stranger, a ghost, a remnant of the past she’s been running from. She screams, a blood-curdling cry as her soul breaks like a wave against a shore hard and fast.

With a flick her hand the mirror crashes against the ground, shattering the glass to a million tiny pieces, breaking her reflection along with it. The earth beneath her feet trembles in fear as she continues to unleash her furious magic on the unsuspecting room, splitting tables and shredding each and every painting that hangs innocently on the wall. With each wave of her magic-filled hand wreaking havoc on the chamber, the anger in her dwindles and dies down, and the pain she feels is pacified if only temporarily. Once the whirlwind of destruction passes, Moyrah has a moment of clarity, a moment free of the darkness which r