Moonbound Witch

RAVYN'S POV

While the others leaned toward the window, chattering and grumbling about the castle, a hush swept through the wagon as soft leather boots tapped across the floorboards. Our eldest sister—Nerisa, sharp-eyed and wrinkleless in that unnatural witch way—stood up, clutching a bulky space-satchel with straps braided in silver thread.

"Alright, ladies," she called, her voice calm and clipped like always. "Take one each."

We turned our attention toward her. She looked like she was holding a normal duffel bag—until she unzipped it and started pulling out at least twenty smaller satchels from what clearly defied logic. Typical witch tech.

"Put everything witchy in here," she instructed, handing each of us a magically reinforced pouch. "Charms, vials, powdered toads, whatever you've got. Anything suspicious enough to get you executed or publicly flayed—toss it in. They'll be searching your bags."

No one needed to be told twice. I took mine quickly. The outer fabric was charmed black velvet, stitched with near-invisible sigils. I slid mine under my corset sash and, like the others, began shoving anything remotely magical inside—crystal stems, dried runes, scent beads, powdered nightshade, my phasing dagger, and my emergency salve stone. All of it disappeared into the pouch like it had never existed.

Once full, the pouch still looked modest. Flat, innocent. Someone muttered a quick camouflaging charm, and around me, the girls started disguising theirs too—one turned hers into a pendant, another into a beaded ankle bracelet, another stitched it right into the lining of her bodice.

By the time we rumbled past the outer gate, we looked as mundane as court courtesans.

Outside, the sky was still charcoal-black. It wasn't even dawn yet. Mist crawled across the ground in thin tendrils, curling around the hooves of the wolves' night mounts and the silent guards stationed at the walls.

The massive castle gates creaked open with a sound like dying metal. I leaned toward the window, my chin resting on my hand as I squinted through the murky pre-dawn haze.

The courtyard was nearly empty—just a few guards, a yawning kitchen boy balancing crates, and a stablehand with straw in his hair. But then—

From the far end of the courtyard, a man moved.

He wasn't in armor. Just leaning against a wooden column, sharpening a curved dagger with slow, deliberate strokes. The sound of metal rasping against stone cut through the air. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing scarred forearms. His hair was a dark tangle, like the shadows clung to him even in this dim light.

He looked... familiar. But I couldn't quite place it.

And then, as if yanked by instinct, his eyes lifted.

They locked on mine.

Electricity jolted through my chest. Not the romantic, fluttery kind. No—this was the burn of danger. The slow, creeping chill that trails down your spine right before you realize you're not alone in the woods.

His stare was deadly. Magnetic. There was no polite curiosity in it—just the kind of ancient knowing that said I see you.

I blinked and abruptly sat back down, heart thudding in my ribs like it wanted out.

Werewolf. He had to be. That... scent of feral confidence. The stillness in his movements. The growl beneath the silence. I could practically taste the territorial musk from here.

Disgust bubbled in my throat. Gods, I'm going to be living with these creatures.

"You good?"

I looked up to see Calya—a newer witch, just a few moons in the coven, but already frighteningly powerful—watching me from across the bench.

I gave a nod and a tired smile. "All good."

She returned the smile, sensing I didn't want to talk, and leaned back against the wall.

Then the wagon jerked to a halt.

We'd arrived.

"Anyone got last-minute advice before we step into our doom?" one of the girls near the back asked, twisting her hair into a neater bun.

I stretched, smirking. "Kill as many as you can, ladies."

The wagon burst into laughter. A few girls clapped their hands; others groaned in mock horror.

"Don't listen to her," Nerisa said from the front with a dry smile, adjusting the cuff of her velvet glove. "She'll disappear into the woods when it gets messy and leave the rest of you to take the fall."

More laughter, but we all knew she wasn't wrong.

"Remember," another elder sister chimed in, suddenly more serious, "they'll give you bracelets when we step down. To suppress our magic—human or not."

Some of the girls tensed.

"But don't panic," she added smoothly. "We've all undergone the ritual. Your powers will remain intact—just dormant beneath the surface. Hidden from them. Use them only if you must."

Everyone exhaled. The tightness in the wagon loosened like a corset string pulled free.

Then came a knock—sharp and precise.

The wagon door opened to reveal a tall male figure. A castle steward, judging by the dull-grey uniform and the impatient tilt of his head.

"Come down, ladies," he said. "Leave your bags. They'll be brought to your quarters."

Ladies. Ha. What a joke.

We shared a look. Silent. United.

Then—smiles bloomed. Sweet, harmless, vapid little grins. Some girls started chattering about the castle, the fresh air, the romance in the court.

"Oh, I can't believe we're finally here!" one girl giggled, batting her lashes.

"I heard the prince is so handsome," another sighed, twisting a ring on her finger.

We stepped down one by one, coats fluttering, jewels gleaming. Just harmless little human girls. Too pretty to be dangerous.

And the wolves bought it.

Of course they did.

They always do.