Elara's POV
My hands won't stop tingling.
I press them against the smooth wood of the church pew, trying to make the strange buzzing feeling go away. It started this morning when I woke up, like a thousand tiny ants crawling under my skin. Now it's worse—hot and prickly, spreading up my arms.
"Stop fidgeting," Mother hisses beside me. Her fingers dig into my shoulder. "Everyone's watching."
Of course they are. My sister Seraphine is getting married today, and I'm supposed to sit here and smile like the perfect older sister. Never mind that this should have been my wedding six months from now. Never mind that Adrian—my fiancé—sits three rows behind us, probably thinking about how Seraphine is prettier, sweeter, more normal than I'll ever be.
The tingles get stronger. I clench my fists.
Seraphine glides down the aisle in her white dress, looking like something from a fairy tale. Everyone sighs and smiles. Father dabs at his eyes. Mother beams with pride.
I feel sick.
Not because I'm jealous—okay, maybe a little jealous—but because something feels wrong. The air in the cathedral feels too thick, too heavy. My heartbeat pounds in my ears. The tingles in my hands turn into sharp, stabbing pains.
"Elara?" Father leans over Mother to frown at me. "Are you ill? You're pale."
"I'm fine," I lie.
I'm not fine. My vision blurs at the edges. The candles along the aisle seem too bright, their flames dancing weirdly. When I blink, I swear I see green mixed in with the orange fire.
That's impossible.
Seraphine reaches the altar. Lord Pemberton, her groom, takes her hand. He's forty years old and has three chins, but he's rich and that's all Father cared about. Seraphine smiles at him like he's the most handsome man alive. She's always been good at pretending.
The priest begins the ceremony. His voice booms through the cathedral, talking about love and duty and sacred bonds. I try to focus on his words instead of the pain screaming through my hands.
It doesn't work.
The pain shoots up my arms, into my chest, spreading like wildfire. I gasp. Mother elbows me sharply.
"Do you have any manners?" she whispers furiously.
I can't answer. Can't breathe. The cathedral spins around me. The candle flames grow brighter, definitely flickering green now. No one else seems to notice.
"Do you, Seraphine Morgrave," the priest intones, "take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
Seraphine's voice rings out, clear and sweet. "I do."
And that's when everything explodes.
The pain in my hands bursts outward. Green light—actual light—shoots from my palms. I scream, trying to stop it, but I can't control it. The light hits the stone floor and something impossible happens.
Vines.
Thick, twisted vines erupt through the cathedral floor. They grow impossibly fast, wrapping around pews, climbing up pillars, reaching for the ceiling. People shriek and scramble away. The vines tear through stone like it's paper.
"What's happening?" someone screams.
"Demon! There's a demon!"
But it's not a demon. It's me.
I stare at my hands, glowing with that terrible green light. More vines burst from the floor around me. The candles along the aisle explode into towering pillars of green fire. The heat slams into the guests. Women scream. Men shout.
At the altar, the stone cracks. A huge split runs right through the middle, and both halves tilt at crazy angles. The priest stumbles backward. Lord Pemberton yanks Seraphine away from the breaking stone.
"Stop it!" I cry, but nothing stops. The magic—because that's what this is, magic—keeps pouring out of me. Vines cover the walls now. The green flames spread. Stained glass windows shatter from some invisible force.
"Elara!" Mother's face twists with horror. Not concern—horror. Like I'm a monster. "What have you done?"
"I didn't mean to! I don't know how—"
"WITCH!"
The word cuts through the chaos like a knife.
Lord Pemberton points at me, his fat face purple with rage. "She's a witch! She's ruined the wedding with her devil magic!"
"No!" I shake my head frantically. "I'm not—I didn't—"
But everyone's backing away from me now. Even Father. Even Mother. They're looking at me like I'm something evil, something dangerous.
Then I see Adrian.
My fiancé stands frozen in his pew, staring at me. I reach toward him desperately. He'll understand. He'll help me. He loves me.
His face changes. Love drains away, replaced by pure disgust. He stumbles backward like I'm diseased.
"Stay away from me," he chokes out. "Monster."
The word hits harder than any physical blow.
"Please," I whisper, but no one's listening.
"WITCH! DEMON! BURN HER!"
The chanting starts. First one voice, then ten, then fifty. The guests who were celebrating moments ago now scream for my death. Vines still writhe across the floor. Green fire still burns. And I'm standing in the middle of it all, my hands glowing, unable to make it stop.
Seraphine sobs in Lord Pemberton's arms. Her perfect wedding, destroyed. By me.
"Somebody fetch the Inquisition!" Lord Pemberton roars. "Now!"
The Inquisition. The witch hunters.
Terror floods through me, cold and sharp. Everyone knows what the Inquisition does to witches. They burn them in the town square. They make examples of them.
I run.
I don't make it three steps before hands grab me—guards, guests, I don't know. They slam me to the ground. My head cracks against stone. Stars explode in my vision.
"Hold her! Don't let the witch escape!"
Someone ties my hands behind my back with rough rope. The green light flickers and dies. The vines stop growing, but they don't disappear. They're still there, woven through the destroyed cathedral, proof of what I am.
What I've become.
They drag me toward the exit. I catch one last glimpse of my family. Father looks away. Mother covers her face. Seraphine stares at me with something I can't read—fear? Pity? Satisfaction?
Then I see him.
A man stands in the cathedral doorway, backlit by afternoon sun. Tall. Wearing black armor. His face is hidden in shadow, but I feel his eyes on me. Cold eyes. Judging eyes.
He steps forward into the light, and my blood turns to ice.
I know that armor. Everyone in the kingdom knows that armor.
Commander Cassian Thorne. The Stone Heart. The most feared witch hunter in all of Ashenfell.
And he's come for me.