Her body was swollen now. It was obvious because of her lithe frame, but the tresses of silky, scarlet fur and the confidence of her gait allowed the woman to carry pregnancy with grace. For some wolves, there was an agony and exhaustion that accompanied pregnancy. Others glowed with motherly tenderness, like a blossoming flower in the sunlight.
Yvaine gleamed with the intensity of hellfire, alight from within by a thousand, sulfuric flames. Her pelt was the crimson covenant of autumn, a promise of death and rebirth. The charcoal fur that lined her limbs and crown, that spilled down her spine as if she’d crawled from the earth’s crust, was blacker than ever. A reflection of the deepest night that made the rest of her fur all the more fiery in comparison. Her eyes burned as cold as the reaches of outer space, a searing brilliance that pierced into a wolf’s very soul. But it was all nothing compared to the witch’s aura. It was almost tangible, licking the edges of shadow, permeating from her core with the promise of destruction.
She was blessed by Tuatha Dè Danann now. The Queen of Fire. The warrior of the banduri. The mother of all goddesses and fae.
Yvaine was a vessel for new life, and nothing, not a monarchy, not a war, not an entire civilization, could stop her.
With an ever-present smile darkening the banduri’s lips, she skirted the edge of Inverness. Her new home was now the safest place to hide from Adamh’s imperial military, since any soldier entering Jacob’s territory had the tendency to “disappear.” Not that the witch was afraid of being drafted in her current condition. She wanted to resist the urge to spill blood until the time was right, but if she crossed paths with one of the parliament’s drones, she would surely put her plans (and her children) in danger. The Fortress was also the best place to observe Jacob’s rising army. Every day, more clans pledged their allegiance to the rebel with golden eyes. She wanted to know all of their strategies, their numbers, their beliefs. Of course, she wanted the mainlander Monarchy to crumble.
But she wanted witches to come out on top.
If she wasn’t here, then Yvaine was in the Fae Forest. She’d just returned from another ritual, rabbit blood still dripping fresh circles around her belly, against her chest, and down the line of her slender jaw. The witch’s tongue swiped the edge of her fangs, a chant still echoing from the cavern of her lungs. Every day she fed on what she could, sometimes with the help of her fellow witches. Every day she offered sacrifices to the fae. Every day she chewed on red raspberry leaves and dandelions, mixing knowledgeable concoctions for a healthy pregnancy. And every day, Yvaine prayed to Tuatha to forge strong children in her womb. She had not yet given birth, but the banduri witch became a mother the day she knew she conceived. It was her greatest honor and greatest purpose.
The woman paused at the treeline, watching a rebel warrior bathe in the distant river. Slowly, she stretched herself in the grass, lying with the regality and casual grace of a predator. A lioness. Yvaine set one paw on her stomach before leaning down to lick her unborn children affectionately. Then her eyes, as bright as violent as the moon, flickered back to the wolf in the water. She felt something in her body, in her spirit: a portent so crucial she needed her children to know.
“When you are born,” she uttered, her voice soft but tremoring, “there will be blood. But you must survive. Because the blood of your birth begins the bloodbath that will ignite this country in flames.”
