Truthwitch (The Witchlands 1)

But the monk’s hair—that was as glossy and radiant as Iseult recalled. A halo fit for the Moon Mother.

Iseult broke her curious gawk—it was hard to stare for long. Evrane and Safi and everyone else wore Threads of a thousand brilliant shades. They pressed down on Iseult no matter where her eyes landed. On sailors who were terrified or triumphant, who were giddy off violence or ready to collapse with exhaustion.

And then a few nearby Threads shivered with revulsion. Their owners had spotted Iseult’s skin and eyes. None seemed hostile, though, so Iseult blocked them out.

After what might have been hours or minutes, the Jana began to slow. The magical wind stopped entirely, leaving a hole in Iseult’s ears where it had roared. A tenderness on her skin where it had kicked. Only a natural breeze carried the ship now, and a full moon shone overhead.

“Welcome to Nubrevna,” Evrane murmured.

Iseult pushed to her feet, the Painstone briefly flaming bright, and shuffled to the bulwark. Safi and Evrane followed.

The land was not so different from the coast north of Veñaza City—rocky, jagged, pounded by wild waves. But in place of forests, large, white boulders dotted the cliff tops.

“Where are all the trees?” Iseult asked.

“The trees are there,” Evrane answered tiredly. “But they do not look like trees anymore.” With a snap, she unbuckled her cleaver’s sheath. Then she plucked an oily cloth from her cloak.

Safi’s breath hitched. “Those aren’t boulders, are they?” She turned to Evrane. “They’re tree stumps.”

“Hye,” the monk answered. “Dead trees do not stand for long when a storm blows through.”

“Why … why are they dead?” Iseult asked.

Evrane seemed briefly surprised, and she glanced from Safi to Iseult, as if to verify the question was genuine.

Upon seeing it was, Evrane frowned. “All of this coast was razed in the Great War. Cartorran Earthwitches poisoned the soils from the western border to the mouth of the River Timetz.”

Cold sank into Iseult’s lungs. She glanced at Safi, whose horrified Threads were shrinking inward.

“Why,” Safi asked Evrane, “have we never heard that before? We’ve studied Nubrevna, but … our history books always described this land as vibrant and alive.”

“Because,” Evrane said, “those who win wars are those who write history.”

“Still,” Safi said, voice rising, Threads scattering outward, “if it was all a lie, I should’ve known it.” She grabbed hold of Iseult’s hand, clenching so tight that it hurt through Iseult’s Painstone. Throbbed into Iseult’s wound.

But the pain was refreshing. Iseult embraced it, glad that it made her spine straighten and her throat open. Her gaze settled on Evrane’s saintly, concentrated face as the monk cleaned her cleaving knife—the one Iseult had used. Sea fox blood still crusted the swirling steel.

As Evrane scrubbed, her movements practiced and sure, Iseult was suddenly struck by how many knives Evrane must have wiped clean in her lifetime. She was a healer monk, but she was a fighter too—and she’d lived at least half of her life during the Great War.

When Iseult and Safi oiled their blades, they wiped away fingerprints and sweat—protected the steel against everyday handling.

But when Evrane—and when Habim and Mathew … and even Gretchya too—polished their swords, they scraped away blood and death and a past Iseult couldn’t imagine.

“Tell us,” she said softly, “what happened to Nubrevna.”

“It started with the Cartorrans,” Evrane said simply, her words dancing away on the breeze. “Their Earthwitches tainted the soil. A week later, the Dalmotti Empire sent its Waterwitches to poison the coast and the rivers. Last, but hardly least, the Marstoki Firewitches burned our entire eastern border to the ground.

“It was clearly a concerted effort, for you must understand: Lovats has never fallen. In all the centuries of war, the Sentries of Noden and the Water-Bridges of Stefin-Ekart have kept us safe. So I suppose the empires thought that if they briefly allied, they might topple us once and for all.”

“But it didn’t work,” Iseult said.

“Not right away, no.” Evrane’s cleaning paused, and she stared into the middle distance. “The empires focused their final attacks during the months leading up to the Truce. Then, when their armies and navies were forced to withdraw, their magic was left behind to finish us off. The poison spread through the soil, moved upstream, while the Marstoki flames burned whole forests to the ground.

“Peasants and farmers were forced inland. As close as they could get to Lovats. But the city was already too crowded. Many died, and many more have died since. Our people are starving, girls, and the empires are very close to toppling us once and for all.”

Iseult blinked. There was finality in Evrane’s voice, a rose-colored acceptance in her Threads.

Beside her, Safi’s breath slithered out. “Merik truly needs this contract,” she whispered, her voice devoid of emotion. Her Threads muted and frozen—as if she were too shocked to feel. “Yet my uncle has made it impossible for him to claim. It’s too specific—no spilled blood…”

A pause hung in the air. The wind and the shouts of the sailors dulled. Then suddenly, it all snapped forward—too fast. Too bright.

Safi lurched away from the bulwark, her Threads avalanching outward with more colors than Iseult could follow. Red guilt, orange panic, gray fear, and blue regret. These weren’t the frayed Threads that break but rather the tough, reaching Threads that build. Each emotion, no matter the color, surged out of her, reaching across the deck as if trying to connect with someone—anyone—who might feel as wildly as she.