Moonbound Witch

RAVYN'S POV

It had been three days since moving into the castle under the glorious, soul-sucking title of "official court dancer." Three days of stiff backs, aching calves, and an overwhelming urge to hex someone with plantar fasciitis.

The training had been brutally disgusting—an elegant way of saying my entire body hated me.

To make things worse, the women here had only one goal: claw their way into an Alpha's bed like their lives depended on it. And maybe they did. These girls would strike with a hidden blade, then curtsy while dabbing blood from their fingers with perfumed silk.

I stood in the middle of my room—one of the many towers assigned to the new "performers." Lavish by human standards, maybe. Silk drapes. Canopy bed. A wardrobe taller than two grown men. Enchanted floor warmer that did absolutely nothing about the stone walls sucking the warmth from your bones. The place was beautiful, sure, but the trauma? Free of charge and unlimited.

I crossed my arms, glancing at the vanity mirror, remembering the latest debriefing.

> "If the Alphas or any other men of importance require your service—bathing, massaging, bedwarming—you comply."

That was yesterday's charming lecture from the old withered prune of a human etiquette teacher who probably once danced for the king of mold.

The memory alone made my lip curl.

I'm going to turn that woman into a mushroom one day, I swore internally.

There was a knock at my door.

"Ugh, what now." I rolled my eyes, tossing my robe tighter around me as I padded over to the heavy door. I pushed the curtain aside, swung it open—and froze.

Grinning back at me like three demons from a cursed circus stood Lilith, Circe, and—of course—Nyx.

"It's time for practice!" Lilith chirped, her grin a little too wide for someone who wasn't high on chaos.

I stared blankly at her. "Practice?"

Circe waved, boots laced up to her knees, corset laced tighter than a noblewoman's secrets. Nyx, meanwhile, was already leaning on my doorframe like she owned the castle.

It wasn't Lilith's grin that worried me. She was usually sweet. It wasn't Circe's boots. She just liked fashion. No. It was Nyx. If she was smiling, bad things were already happening. And worse—she'd infected the other two.

I narrowed my eyes. "The teacher said no practice today."

"Yes," Nyx said sweetly, "but did she also tell you there'd be a test today?"

My eye twitched.

"Please. Take that smile off your face before I do it for you," I muttered. "What test?!"

"Oh, you know," Nyx drawled, "just a little test of poise, grace, sensual expression, historical accuracy, obedience, and... hmm, I think pelvic control?"

"Please tell me you're joking," I groaned, rubbing my temples. "It's too early for this, plus it's only been three days!"

"I wish it were a joke," Circe said, now fully smiling and unbothered, "but no. Apparently, this is our life now."

I looked at the three of them in horror. "Why are you all still smiling?!"

"We were simply trying to cope with our frustration," she said with a straight face, "but then Nyx realized how much our smiles would annoy you… so we decided to keep them on."

I stared at them, mouth open, beyond words.

"You all belong in a padded tower," I said flatly, turning around.

With a sigh, I reached for the wall hook and grabbed my towel, pulling off my nightdress without ceremony. I wrapped the towel around myself tightly, tucking the edge in just beneath my arm.

"Will you come in already or keep standing there like witches of chaos?"

The girls shuffled in, groaning like it was a sleepover and not the beginning of our lifelong indentured servitude. Nyx immediately collapsed onto the edge of my bed, poking at my sequin-studded pillow. Circe was already admiring my boots lined up by the wardrobe like they might give her answers to life.

"I'm going to wash. I'll be out soon."

"Sure," Lilith said, already helping herself to my jar of enchanted rosewater.

I rolled my eyes again—hard—but couldn't help the smile tugging at my lips. Mad, the whole lot of them, I thought fondly.

...

"Pa-da-ra-pa-pa," I hummed lazily, towel wrapped snugly around me, a smaller one slung over my shoulder like I had important business to attend to. In one hand, I clutched a worn linen pouch stuffed with dancer-approved essentials—rose-sage soap, and a sponge that smelled faintly of mint, and a tiny bottle of oil we used to keep our legs shining during performances. I was headed toward the dancers' private washroom down the western hall, hoping the hot water hadn't run out and praying no one had stolen the only mirror that didn't lie.

The melody danced from my lips, light and distracting, one of my old favorites from home—before everything got flipped upside down and sprinkled with wolf hair and unnecessary testosterone.

I was already planning my next move—figuring out how to gather information on how this castle actually worked when no one was watching. Mentally mapping out which Alphas were dumber than they looked and how to slip past their notice. But that was a problem for later. Right now, I had to survive whatever fresh nightmare this test was.

But then—my breath caught.

As I turned the corner at the end of the hallway, I slammed to a halt.

Standing there, blocking the light like a divine punishment, was our head dancer—the skeletal woman with a cane and zero warmth who ran our "training." She stood perfectly still in her corseted gown, velvet robes trailing behind her like shadows. Her hair was pinned up like a crown of daggers. But she wasn't alone.

No. No, no.

She was with a man. And not just any man. The man.

Even from here, he looked like he'd been carved by some lazy, bitter god who decided perfection should come with menace.

Dark tousled hair fell in waves over his forehead. He was tall—taller than anyone had a right to be—and wore deep black riding clothes that hugged his frame like sin. A half-buttoned tunic revealed a collarbone so sharp it could slice bread. His gloves were tucked in one hand, the other casually resting on the hilt of a dagger sheathed at his side.

And his face—gods above.

Chiseled jaw. High cheekbones. Eyelashes that belonged in ballads. His eyes were shadowed but glinting—silver or grey or something worse. I couldn't tell from here. I didn't care.

My heart skipped, stuttered, then started racing like it had somewhere better to be.

And then he turned his head.

Our eyes met.

And everything in my body screamed run.