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The Witch Collector (Witch Walker Book 1)

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The tendons in her throat strain with effort, but the people tasked with guarding our village sit at a table wearing lost expressions. I usually reach Hampstead Loch—the closest village to my cabin and Winter Road—around sunrise, and end my day at Silver Hollow by noon.

I mutter a prayer to the Ancient Ones, hoping with every fiber of my being that Nephele and the others have done as Colden asked, and that it’s enough to prevent the Eastlanders from breaching the wood. Before I can decide better of it, I dismount, grab the little one, and whirl him in the air as though I’m a father and he’s my son.It can kill anyone and anything, the blessed and the cursed, the forever living and the risen dead—even other gods. For centuries, every eastern ruler has tried to conquer the southern lands, longing to claim the City of Ruin—a citadel believed to hold the Grove of the Gods, and the burial ground of Tiressia’s deities. Born without the ability to speak, I learned to weave magickal constructions by translating Elikesh using the language Mother taught me—a language of signs spoken with hands.

On the other side of the stone wall that separates the main village from the farmers’ steads, a handful of elders exit the temple after their customary morning prayer. The Witch Collector (Witch Walker Book 1)Copy link in description to download thisbookEvery harvest moon, the Witch Collector rides into our valleyand leads one of us to the home of the immortal Frost King, toremain forever.Forced to marry the wealthy Count Casbian by her power-hungry father, Margrete turns to the gods, praying for a life free from the men who wish to rule her. Garbed in dark bronze leathers from head to foot, a flock of cawing crows accompanies them, a shrieking cloud blotting out the sky.

A few weeks ago, a group of farmers found the blade during harvest, half-buried in the soil of a soon-to-be fallow field. Flames billow unnaturally from his mouth and eyes, melting skin and sinew from bone—burning him alive from the inside out.On a deep inhale, I close my eyes, absorbing that scent, and watch as the shimmering, coiled strands of the dove’s life unravel like a spool of thread. Some are happy, while others are sad, worried for their loved ones who never came home from the hunt.

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