The castle shook to every boom of the tempest. Melucia stood center of her throne room, fire having ripped her gown, strings of black magic slithering across white skin etching her. She breathed in barbaric, sadistic breaths. The walls shook not from external siege but from the magic collapsing inside her.

The White Coven had come.

They arrived on the day of the dwindling moon, their voices chanting in forgotten languages, each sound another nail hammered into Melucia's rule coffin. Laced ...