Prologue - Thessaly , The Witch Who Refused to Kneel
Artemisia had always known she would die for magic, She just hadn’t expected it to be so soon given the Roman soldiers had arrived a t dawn. Their horses trampled the wild thyme that grew outside her village, their red-crested helmets glinted beneath the morning sun. Someone had betrayed them. Someone had whispered that Thessaly still harbored witches.
They were right. Artemisia stood barefoot in the courtyard as the captain read the decree.
“All practitioners of forbidden rites will be executed under authority of the Emperor.”
Her mother squeezed her hand once , then let go, run, the squeeze had said but Artemisia did not run.
She was twenty-two and strong, clever and Too defiant for her own safety. Her hair a riot of dark red curls , fell down her back like a banner of rebellion. Her skin caught the light of dawn. Around her wrist glowed faint runic ink , protection magic hidden as ornament. The captain approached her.
“You,” he said. “You are the witch.”
Artemisia met his gaze.
“Yes.”
Gasps broke behind her.
Her mother whispered her name in horror.
The captain smiled.
“Then burn.”
They dragged her toward the pyre built in the village square.
She did not beg, She did not scream, Instead, she began to whisper.
Old words, Older than Rome, Older than Delphi and the air shifted and the wind turned, and the flames , once lit , bent away from her. The soldiers stumbled back in confusion as the ropes burned away, but her skin did not.
Magic roared through her veins like wildfire.
And then the world went silent a shadow fell across the square and the soldiers looked up first, Their fear came like a wave and a single rider stood at the edge of the village.
Black cloak, Black horse, Silver eyes. Drakon!
He dismounted slowly, the soldiers parted for him without knowing why, he did not look at them but looked at her.
Artemisia felt it like a blade between her ribs, Cold, Judging, Curious.
He stepped closer to the dying pyre.
“You are reckless,” he said quietly.
His voice was deep , smooth , utterly without warmth.
“You are cruel,” she replied.
A murmur rippled through the villagers. No one spoke to The Ashen Warden that way.
His silver eyes sharpened.
“Cruel?”
“You stood in Delphi while they burned the temple.”
His expression did not change.
“And you would have stopped them?”
“Yes.”
A lie, But a brave one. For the first time, something flickered in his gaze...Interest.
“You are strong,” he said.
“And you are a monster.”
The soldiers shifted uneasily.
Drakon stepped so close she could feel the chill radiating from him.
“Careful, little witch.”
“I am not little.”
“No,” he agreed softly. “You are not.”
His gaze dropped , not crudely , but assessing.
Power recognized power, She hated that he could feel it, He turned suddenly to the captain.
“Leave.”
The man swallowed. “But the decree”
“Leave,” Drakon repeated.
The captain obeyed the entire Roman unit rode away without another word and Artemisia stared at him.
“You serve them,” she said.
“I serve no one.”
“Then why protect them?”
He looked at her for a long moment.
“I did not protect them.”
He stepped past her.
“I protected you.”
She bristled.
“I did not need protecting.”
He glanced over his shoulder.
“You would have died within the hour.”
“I would have taken them with me.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “You would have.”
That, strangely, sounded like approval.
She crossed her arms.
“Why are you here?”
He paused.
“For you.”
Her breath caught , not from romance.
From danger.
“I do not belong to you.”
“No,” he said calmly. “You belong to something older. And it is waking.”
The wind stirred again, earth beneath her feet trembled faint but real.
She felt it something beneath Greece was shifting and Drakon knew it.
“I will not join you,” she said.
“You will.”
“I hate you.”
His mouth curved , not quite a smile.
“I know.”
