The Red Witch - Chapter 1
1.
O Red Witch.
O Red Witch.
To you, the first drop of blood, and the last.
The night and day of Bretnach belong to you.
Even the final breath of sunlight is yours.
— A folk song of Altnebra
* * *
“Good morning!”
The loud rustle of curtains being flung open accompanied the chirpy greeting that jolted Kiara from her heavy sleep. Though barely awake, she couldn’t quite manage to open her eyes. Madam Raelin approached her.
“Come now, open those eyes. Today’s the day the world finally sees how lovely they are. And look, it’s a rare sunny morning.”
Her voice was a gentle coaxing, warm and bright as spring light. But when she caught sight of Kiara’s sleep-swollen eyes, she let out a sympathetic click of her tongue.
“Oh dear, they’re all puffy. I told you to go to bed early last night, didn’t I? What are we going to do with you?”
“I’m fin…”
Kiara grimaced as she tried to say she was fine. Her throat felt sealed shut, raw from a night of restless sleep. But before she could even form the words, Madam Raelin shook her head.
“None of that now.”
And then, something clicked. Kiara clapped both hands over her mouth in alarm.
She wasn’t supposed to speak today.
How many times had they drilled it into her head? And still, she forgot. Madam Raelin laid a calming hand on her shoulder to soothe the panic rising in her.
“It’s alright. The Lady Niv is merciful. She forgives up to three times. But that means you’ve only two chances left now, understood?”
Kiara nodded with great determination, but Madam Raelin wasn’t quite convinced. She pressed her point again, sterner this time.
“Actually, no. You’ll need your voice once more, during the binding vows. So really, you’ve just one mistake left. Just one.”
Just one chance to speak. Kiara tilted her head slightly.
Until when?
“Ah… well… until tonight. When he opens your lips.”
He? Those words might as well be riddles to her. Kiara blinked in confusion, and Raelin gave a soft chuckle.
“Who else? Your husband, of course!”
Today was Kiara’s wedding day. In Altnebra, tradition bound the bride to silence — no word was to pass her lips until she lay beside her husband on their wedding night.
‘What a strange tradition.’
Kiara pouted, her lower lip jutting out in silent protest. Madam Raelin gave her another gentle pat, as though to coax her back from the edge of her thoughts.
“When you marry, your name changes, your house changes — your whole identity is reborn. It’s like a second birth. A child’s first cry belongs to their mother. A bride’s first voice… belongs to her partner. That’s the sentiment behind it.”
Partner.
It was a foreign word, oddly soft on the tongue. Whatever it meant, it carried little weight for Kiara. How could it, when she hardly even knew the face of the man she was to marry? All she really knew was this: her fiancé was none other than the young king of Altnebra.
And yet…
‘…First cry? Are they expecting me to cry?’
Her expression twisted again, not quite in horror, but with a quiet and creeping dread. She was already exhausted, frayed thin by the rituals, the rites, the sheer unfamiliarity of everything. Sensing her unease, Raelin blushed furiously and stammered her way through a hasty clarification.
“Well, that is… it’s not really crying, per se. It’s more like… a sound. That just… happens. Naturally. Your mouth just… opens and—”
It was only getting worse. Kiara stared, blank and uncomprehending. Was the groom meant to whisper some sort of password?
“You may speak now.”
“You have my permission.”
Or…
‘Was it… something like a kiss?’
A kiss.
The word fluttered through her thoughts like a wayward feather, and all at once, an image bloomed in her mind of her lips meeting those of a man she had never seen clearly. His features were vague, blurred by imagination, but his hair shone gold in the candlelight.
‘How splendid His Majesty King Blaine would look beside Lady Kiara, with his wheat-blonde hair and her ebony locks. Would their child be fair-haired? Or chestnut, perhaps? And what color would their eyes be? It’s impossible to picture. His Majesty’s eyes are deep holly-green, and Lady Kiara’s are that dark cherry-red, like ripe fruit in summer.’
A man with hair like sun-warmed grain and eyes the color of winter holly. My husband.
Only then did her heart stir with something dangerously close to excitement. A blush touched her cheeks like a petal falling, and Madam Raelin watched her with a satisfied gleam.
“Breakfast first! And didn’t we save some tea leaves? If we steep them and lay the warm leaves on your eyes, the swelling in those puffy eyes will go down in no time. Quickly now! You won’t have another moment to eat later!”
Perhaps it was the anticipation, or perhaps the ceremony itself, but even Madam Raelin’s voice was a note higher than usual this morning.
From there, the day swept her away in a dizzying rush — meals hastily taken, a bath with fragrant oils, powders brushed onto her skin, her hair coiled and pinned, and the corset so tight it stole her breath. And finally, the white dress drawn over everything like the last page of a prayer.
Then came the chapel.
