“This is insanity,” I say.

We are back in our cottage now, not even a mere hour later. We cook our supper together, absentmindedly chopping vegetables as we discuss possibly the most outrageous thing I’ve ever heard. And no matter how many times my mother explains it to me, I just can’t wrap my head around it.

“It is what it is, Nyria,” my mother says with a sigh.

“Our agreement with the Order is to keep their commander human?” I ask.

“Yes,” my mother replies.

“That’s our duty?”

“One of many.”

“But the king’s law states that he should have been executed the moment he was infected by any curse. How is he still breathing?”

My mother purses her lips. “This affliction of his, it makes him stronger. He has killed fifty beasts in the last moon cycle alone. Do you know who holds second place?”

“No,” I grumble. “Who?”

“His second-in-command, Eira of Mór. She has killed twenty. And do you know who holds third?”

I sigh like a petulant teenager. “Who?”

“Valeria Gray. The commander’s sister.”

I drop the carrots into the bubbling pot on the wood stove, looking over at my mother. Her red hair—even brighter than the fire inside the stove—is held back by a twine headband. For a moment, I feel as though I am in a memory, standing in the kitchen with Emrysa, watching as she cooked for me while Mother was out working. Though we all share the same forest green eyes, only Emrysa inherited my mother’s fiery hair. I, on the other hand, must have inherited my father’s hair—a dark earthy brown.

My mother was perhaps once beautiful, though that beauty now lies dormant beneath a cruel, frigid exterior, like water beneath the ice of a mid-winter lake. Over the years her features have become sharper, and I no longer see the warm, curious green eyes she once shared with my sister and I.

Now, there’s only hate. Hate and grief.

“Does the Red Mother know?” I ask, shoving the memory away. Despite how much the old crone despises the monarchy, the Red Mother has always been a stickler for their laws, especially ones that could cause them to look a little too closely at our witches.

My mother stops in the middle of chopping an onion. Her gaze darts to me.

“No,” she hisses. “And you will not tell her.”

“What about the queen?” I ask. “Surely she has opinions on the commander of the Hunters breaking her father’s law?”

“I don’t know the specifics, Nyria,” my mother says with a heavy sigh. “But they’re very close, the commander and the queen. There’s even rumors that they’ve engaged in indecent acts…”

Leave it to my mother to gossip, even as much as she tries to act like she doesn’t care about the personal lives of Liath’s nobility.

I roll my eyes, stirring the pot of stew. “So what’s our end of the deal? We keep Cassian Gray from turning into a monster, and he pays us? That’s it?”

“The coin, yes, but his hunters, too. Do you know how many of the outer villages have fallen this spring?” My mother points the knife at me while she talks. “The long winter was hard, but many beasts hibernated. It offered the deeper settlements a respite. Now that spring has finally come, we need more protection. More men.”

That’s right.

Our land, the Grayworld, is naturally one of tumultuous weather. Constant snow, frost, thunderous storms. Spring and Summer only exist in our world thanks to the Otherworld’s magic but, for three years—for unknown reasons—the fair folk kept their gate closed, and the Grayworld was plunged back into winter. Though I don’t know the specifics of why or how the connection was restored, the fair folk opened the gate during the Autumn equinox last year. With it, the fair folk brought us warmth again, and for the first time in a long time, the Graywoode had seen more rain than snow.

But the long winter wasn’t completely without its benefits. It kept many beasts asleep. Now that spring has come, all sorts of creatures are waking. Attacks have become more frequent in the recent moon cycles. So, it makes sense that my mother would concoct a plan to give the Gwaed more protection, even if that meant making a deal with a cursed man.

“So the Order protects us?” I say, disbelieving.

“No, Nyria. You must remember their true purpose,” my mother snaps. “They were created to keep us obedient, to keep our power contained. You can never trust the Hunters. Never. Do you understand?”

I nod, but my mind wanders to other concerns: “If I fail my Test, who will take your place as the intermediary when you become the Red Mother? Ailís?”

I’m sure Mother would love it if Ailís was her daughter instead of me. She has always been a quick learner, with a calm and stoic temperament. I, on the other hand…

“I suppose I can help lead the village guard,” I say.

My mother lets out a sharp sigh. “You won’t fail, Nyria. You simply can’t.”

The anger wells in my chest before I can quell it, the words spitting out of me.

“Fuck. Don’t be a fool, Mother,” I snap, raising the stew-covered ladle toward her. “I can fail. In fact, I probably will fail, and then what?”

My mother’s green eyes flash with rage and her hand lashes out, grabbing the ladle from me faster than I can blink. There’s a loud crack and a sharp ache in my jaw as the ladle crashes into my face. “You insolent little—!”

I crash into the ground, clutching my jaw. I look up at my mother. As if nothing has happened at all, she wipes the ladle off with a clean rag and puts it back into the pot, stirring the stew.

“You want to know the truth, Nyria?” Her voice is low. Any emotion in her tone is indiscernible. “If you fail, I’ll send you to Ard Liath. You have no use to me here if you are not a witch.”

I taste the blood in my mouth, sweet and metallic.

“I still know how to fight. I’m the best archer we have. I can handle myself without magic just fine.”

A sharp crack of laughter stops me mid-sentence, and shame stabs me in the gut. The sound withers me. My mother is always so good at making me feel small and weak. Even though I am now twenty-six, well past the age girls become women in the Graywoode, my mother still makes me feel like a child.

I rise from the ground.

“You’re a horrible mother,” I say. “Wherever Emrysa ended up, I’m sure it’s better than living with you.”

The ladle drops to the ground with a loud clatter.

“Nyria—”

I don’t stay to hear what my mother has to say.

I turn, grab my bow and quiver from where they’re hanging by the door, and sprint out into the cold night.