In My Bones

@ oldbook;

The cell wasn't so bad—at least, not compared to how Bronwyn had imagined. As a child, she'd been told horror stories about the awful vampires and what they did to little witches who didn't behave. The stories were all dingy dungeons with torture implements and blood on the walls, the witches hanging by manacles made from hazel, crafted for the express purpose of blocking magic. Those were the sort of stories told to convince kids to listen to their parents and mind the rules of the coven, because the coven kept you safe.

Frankly, as bad as her situation was, Bronwyn was relieved. The only thing the stories got right was apparently the hazel manacles. Rather than being hung from a wall though, they simply locked around her wrists, attached by a chain like handcuffs. The cell was dim, yes, but there was lighting in the hallway outside in the form of sconces lining the wall. It was also a little damp, but as far as her eyes could discern, no blood lined any surfaces within her small space, and there was nary a weapon anywhere within her sight. There was even a chamberpot in the corner for her use and a straw pallet upon which she sat. The complete silence almost made her wish for the moans of the damned though. Almost.

The manacles were their own special form of torture in a way. The hazel had been cut roughly, meaning they weren't exactly round so much as many sided with plenty of corners to poke into skin. That wasn't to say that they were made badly. On the contrary, they were a healthy, thick wood and didn't seem to have a single splinter. It was more as if they were made to be highly uncomfortable to the wearer, and whether it was because of the sharp corners poking into her wrists or due to the wood itself, they accomplished that job with Bronwyn. It started as an uncomfortable, prodding itch that she couldn't seem to shake and couldn't scratch because her hands were bound, and then it spread, becoming something close to a burn that she couldn't alleviate. After some unknown period of time during which she attempted to simply deal with the feeling, she ended up angling her hands down in front of her body and pulling one leg up so that her foot could press into the chain connecting the manacles together, hoping that angling the manacles away from her skin in one area would provide some relief.

This was the same position in which the vampires found their prisoner. Had her skirts been shorter than their calf-high length, the scene might have been indecent. As it was, she looked akin to a feral animal, hunched over with wild, honey-brown curls falling all over the place like a giant bird's nest. Bronwyn was wraithlike in her skinniness, little more than sunned skin stretched taut over angles and bones. She wore no jewlery, was barefoot after having her shoes taken along with her cloak and satchel, and had been left without a single weapon at her disposal. Her skirt had been tied twice around her waist, shirt tucked into it to help hide how ill-fitting the simple blouse was on her as well. When she looked up at the vampires' approach, her face was angular and hollow, with shadows around her eyes and cracked lips. What really stood out in her appearance were her violet eyes though, a trait that wasn't exactly natural and was amplified as such by the light of the sconces' fire reflecting in their depths.

Her mother would've fainted at seeing her daughter look such a sight. Bronwyn's appearance was neither practical nor even ladylike; it was disrespectful.

"Stand up," the first guard demanded as he approached the bars. He seemed young and eager to prove himself. Bronwyn's self-preservation instinct rang little alarm bells in her head, but logic paid attention to the guard standing behind Foolhardy. His expression was stoic, eyes calculating—obviously the one with experience. He'd be harder to get past, and even if she managed, being chained in hazel, she'd have to dodge a castle full of vampires who would go on high alert once they realized their prisoner wasn't where she was supposed to be. Her chances of making it out of this mess were pretty much none.

Keeping her eyes on Foolhardy and No-Nonsense, Bronwyn slowly pulled her foot back from the chain and let it drop back to the ground, immediately feeling the itching return to the skin she'd been able to give a brief reprieve to. She fought with her expression then, trying not to show how the hazel was getting to her, and settled on something that she hoped was as unfeeling as No-Nonsense—she had no idea it was a scowl that settled there instead. When she got up, it was without the help of her hands to balance her, nearly causing her to nearly fall back down before she caught her balance, at which point she approached the cell's bars. Despite their numerous initial questions, Bronwyn hadn't answered a one, and that silence was carried through now. They wanted to know which coven had sent her and why they'd targeted that specific vampire. They didn't know she only wanted a fang, and even if she'd told them, they wouldn't care and more than likely, wouldn't even believe her anyway. Greed was a witch problem.

"Try to act up, and we have orders to subdue you by any means necessary." This came, once again, from Foolhardy, who procured a key only after receiving her curt nod of acknowledgement and opened the door. He stepped inside the cell, put a hand on her shoulder with obvious distaste for having to actually touch a witch, and used that hand as a lead to practically push her out of the cell. "You're being taken before the Queen Mother to receive your punishment," No-Nonsense added, though he, at least, kept his hands to himself.

It was then, as she was being half-pushed down unknown corridors towards a fate that was surely death that Bronwyn spoke for the first time since being captured. "Finally."

@ rosamarie
It was deliciously dark in her throne room which is exactly how Cleo liked it. In the past, when her mother was in charge and before she was chosen to rule, the throne room was kept lit with many different torches and fires. It was always sweltering hot as if her mother was trying to replicate hell itself. Cleo’s face twisted into a scowl because that was almost exactly what the Queen Mother before her wanted. The Queen Mother before her was weak and ashamed. She was ashamed to be the creature that she was, ashamed to expand their family, and even ashamed enough to let all vampires be basically exiled. It was no surprise that Cleo was selected quickly and she was ripped to pieces just as fast. The vampires needed someone far stronger than the Queen Mother from before, lest they look weak to other creatures.

Worst of all, Queen Mother Theresi had let witches rule because of how weak the vampires looked. They seemed to think they were more powerful than her family. At the time, they were right. Cleo ran long manicured nails through the layers of black curls that fell down her back and her scowl twisted into her smirk. Now, they were wrong. Cleo was determined to bring the vampires back to glory. She was determined to remind the magical world just who her family was. She was the Queen Mother that this family needed and every single one of her children knew this. Cleo rested her head against the back of her throne, letting her fingers grip the edge of it tightly, and closing her eyes. She was bracing herself. She was never one to control her temper and seeing a witch in her court was not something she was sure she would handle well. She had a plan, of course, but there wasn’t much stopping her from ripping off the little witch’s head instead.

After a deep, almost shaky breath, she opened her eyes once more. The room was lit only by a glowing red orbs. There light was dull, but the shadows casted against the walls looked, well, a little like blood. She didn’t mind. The energy that these lights gave her was truly exhilarating. It reminded her of power and purpose. Cleo stood, wondering if it would look better for her to be standing or sitting. Was she completely unbothered by this little witch or was she just ready for a ruthless kill? She took two careful steps forward before a knock startled her. “Yes,” she said, her voice smooth like velvet. Not a single child of hers would question if she was nervous just a moment ago.

“Your Majesty,” Verona, Cleo’s lady-in-waiting, said. “I just wanted you to know that they are almost here.” Verona was cute, pixie-like blonde vampire. She was sweet, almost like a child, but she was also killer. It was her innocence that brought humans to her like a moths to a flame. It was her sweet smile and soft eyes that made others underestimate her. Cleo knew exactly how capable Verona was; that was why she was always the closest to her. Cleo nodded to her, smoothing her face. She decided to sit or she probably would just kill the witch. She waved Verona over, who stood just a step behind and they waited together. The footsteps of her guards and the stumbling less-graceful steps of the witch echoed as they drew nearer. Eventually, the heavy stone doors opened.

Cleo’s dark eyes were penetrating as if she’d thrown a knife at your heart or, at least, that’s what she wanted them to look like. Instead, it felt like someone had thrown a knife into her stomach. She had an arrogant and equally threatening line ready for the witch, but for a moment nothing came out. Even as they settled her down in front of her, nothing came out. She pressed her fingers into the bones of the throne, trying to focus less on the pain that was warming her insides and more on what she was suppose to be doing. For a moment, if anyone was paying attention, they would see her fear. She was unsure what this feeling was and more importantly, she was sure she might look like she was failing; she couldn’t fail like Theresi.

She was quiet for too long. She knew this too be true and she searched wildly for something to say that would explain her own deficit. Yet, she was unsure if the mixture of fear or relief was even her own. She took the smallest breath - one even a vampire couldn’t hear. Then, she very gingerly took a glass of wine and blood and sipped it. That seemed to dull the aching pain she felt within her and she refocused. “Little, filthy, disgraceful witch. Did you know that the blood of a witch could keep me young for a century? It would be so easy to kill you. Tell me, is there a reason I should not?” She said, corking a brow. She was feeling more like herself; she liked to play with her food.

“Speak now. Magic really can’t help you anyway,” she added, taking another sip of wine.

@ oldbook;

Bronwyn's first impression of the throne room was that it looked much more like the descriptions of her childhood stories than the dungeon had. Even the crimson globes casting the deepest of lights did nothing to penetrate the shadows that draped the corners, hiding how large the room might be or what was lurking within it. In fact, its darkness had an almost claustrophobic effect, as if it were closing in, nipping at her heels. That was hardly a concern compared to the Queen Mother she was about to face, however. She'd heard plenty of rumors about Queen Cleo, all of them attributing to vampiress' ruthlessness and hatred of witches. Had she been in power when Bronwyn was a child, the stories would have been even graver.

It was not death Bronwyn saw when she her gaze found the queen, however. The sight of the woman paralyzed her insides for a moment, and even as she swore she heard her heart beating in her ears, she forgot to keep walking, stumbling when Foolhardy nearly tripped into her. She didn't even argue as her second guard took her other shoulder, and they marched her before the throne, pushing her onto knees that didn't feel as if they could currently support her weight anyway. She couldn't tear her gaze away from Queen Cleo even then, though, and even if her wildly beating heart felt a lot like panic, the warmth blossoming from her core wasn't fear.

It's a vampire trick, Wyn. Just a trick. Don't look in her eyes.

With some effort, she considered dropping her gaze but instead forced herself to focus on the little blonde vampiress standing behind the Queen Mother as a little prod of obstinacy asserted that she not appear any weaker than she did already. And while looking away did not release her from the warm panic that had taken over her body, it did release her from the paralysis that had overtaken her limbs. She may not have seen death, but that was what she facing, and with some of her wits returned to her, she was determined to face it on her own two feet at the very least, which was why she pushed herself up off the ground even as she was addressed, remaining careful not to look directly at Queen Cleo.

The line of questioning, however, did take her off-guard. Was this some sort of trap to make her think that she could save her life? Her continued silence seemed like the best option just as that moment, though the burning itch around her wrists wanted her to simply speed up the process, but one thought lodged itself in her mind and wouldn't let go. This compulsion to at least divulge one bit of information, whether or not it was actually heeded, and though she fought it for several silent seconds as the Queen awaited her answer, likely thinking that Bronwyn was searching for a way to earn her continued life, she at last gave in. "After you kill me, you shouldn't drink my blood," she said, voice raspy but audible. "I've used black magic for more than a century; it's what turned my eyes purple, and it's likely affected my blood as well. There's no telling what the taint would do to a vampire."

To call the making and consumption of Greed "black magic" was a stretch in Bronwyn's eyes, but that was exactly what the High Witches had decided to label it as. Greed was a fairly new bit of potion-working when Bronwyn was young, though it was terribly expensive and hard to come by because of the dangerous ingredients that went into making it. Those who did produce it kept its recipe a secret. A daughter of the prestigious Peligrads, known as magical family with extremely talented witches who often became High Witches, she'd been able to come by some in her teenage years though. She'd only heard that it amplified a witch's abilities, and more than a little bold, she'd wanted to test it for herself. Shortly after, the High Witches declared it as black magic due to its extremely addictive properties. Frequent users of Greed, whose eyes were purple, were labeled as black witches and exiled. Despite having used it only once before it was banned and holding out for as long as she could, Bronwyn was already hooked, and it wasn't long before she was exiled as well. She was sure her parents were long dead, Cornelius as well likely, though she was sure he'd had children, and there were still plenty of Peligrads in the world who'd never heard of their exiled Aunt Bronwyn.

Even if she was angry enough at being exiled from her coven to help the vampires attempt to undermine them, after 117 years, they probably knew more about what was happening with the witches than she did. Everything she knew could be traced directly back to rumor.

"As a Black Witch," Acknowledging her title still felt like ashes in her mouth, but Bronwyn held firm to her expression, chanting her mantra in her mind: show no weakness. "I have no current information on the covens. As a witch, I have no inclination to share old information. As a Peligrad, I won't be intimidated by a vampire." To prove her point, she raised her chin, finally returning her eyes to the queen, though it was to the top of her head rather than her eyes. "You may as well kill me now for all the good questioning me will do you, Cleo."

Her bold last statements held a simple purpose: to piss off the queen enough to kill her quickly. Bronwyn had already made peace with the fact that she would die in the captivity of these vampires, and she would rather it be now than at a later date. Though she hadn't revealed as much to them, if she wasn't able to make more Greed in the next couple of months, she would start to get sick and eventually die a horrible, agonizing death. Another reason it was labeled as black magic. If they thought torturing her or leaving her in a dungeon would get them answers, they'd keep her alive, and then she'd die of Greed. She'd much rather directly insult the Queen of Nightmares by blatantly refusing to answer questions, challenging her, and refusing to call her by her title, resulting in death by fury. In fact, she was counting on it.

@ rosamarie
For just a moment, Cleo paused. She knew the witch looked different, but now she could smell it o her too. She was not as righteous as the others. She was not as clean or pompous. She lingered with the vampires for a different reason. Cleo cared only a little what that reason was. Instead, she wondered what dark magic could do to a vampire. In her head, vampires were, in fact, dark creatures. She did not run from the dark, though. She embraced it. She bathed it, washing herself in the silky blackness of night and the deep dark red of blood. She almost wanted to scoff: there was nothing that could be darker than what her family was. She would not shrink from their legacy and so, the little witch still did not scare her.

“Oh yes,” she said, menacing,” she commented, rolling her dark eyes. The court around her laughed in response. “A black witch. Oh, I’m trembling.” Her voice dripped like honey, pulling her words and making them long. She had to compensate for her fear and for this very strange feeling she had. She tried to push it down deep within her and to ignore her stabbing paint. It just didn’t make any sense and she never felt it before. Perhaps it was magic. Perhaps dark magic was immune to hazel. She tilted her head, trying to process it all. No, that didn’t make sense. If it was, the little witch would have escaped by now; she was not so foolish.

Cleo’s pondering what cut short when heard her name tumble from the little witch’s cracked and broken lips. Cleo hadn’t heard her name since she’d become Queen; what a true dishonor.
She decided then. Yes, the girl would die. She stood calmer than she thought she would, moved across the room, and slapped the witch on her face. Her cracked lips started to bleed, but she held herself back. The witch was right about one thing: her blood smelled horrible. She curled her lip forward, “Never speak my name, again,” she said, her voice a whisper. She hovered so close to the witch’s face, she could practically lick the blood that now trickled to her chin.

She wanted to see fear in her eyes, but she did not. She wasn’t sure what she felt. She was so close to her now that felt the pain in her stomach intensify. She had deep rage that dulled the sense, but being so close to witch made a shift in her; one that she did not understand. In her mind, she could see herself twisting her head and snapping her neck within a millisecond. That was what the court was waiting for, but something within her stopped it. Was it her heart? No, it couldn’t be. Her heart had been dead for over 1,000 years. All she knew was that the witch could not die and more importantly, she could tell that to kill her would give her relief. She felt torn between her duty to her family and the deep disgust she had for the witch.

How long had it been now? She couldn’t tell if she had been thinking for seconds, minutes, or hours. She was too focused on the conflicting feelings within her. Her feelings were like waves crashing against a shore and yet, the pity she felt did not waver. It did not crumble like sand against the force of her own rage or the pressure of her duties. The shore of her pity stayed consistent and strong. She stepped backwards, just a step. She needed perspective. Verona shifted as well as if she was waiting to pounce. The guards in front of her stood confused; she could see it on their faces. “Go,” she said to them, flicking her eyes to the door. Within moments, it was just her and Verona.

She turned, walked back to her throne, and sat down. Verona’s hand touched hers, “My Queen, are you okay?” She asked, concern twisting her features. She waved her hand dismissively. Distance from the witch helped and her head felt less crowded. She stared at her, appraising her. Anything she said would fall on deaf ears. Until finally, she decided.

“I think death would be too easy. Here’s my decree: you shall stay here and do our bidding. A black witch cannot go back to her coven and she does not deserve the relief of death. Verona, let’s escort her to the small room next to mine. I think it will do well for me to be the one to keep her in check. That will be all,” she said, again waving her hand dismissively.

@ oldbook;
Though she certainly hadn't expected to be taken at her word, Bronwyn hadn't quite expected the open contempt that the vampires showed her for her moment of weakness in expressing some goodwill. She was not attempting to scare them in her open admission of the title she was ashamed of, but the fact that it was taken as such tindered the embers of the anger that had been lying dormant since her capture. Were the hazel not preventing her powers from manifesting, she might have done something foolish and shown them what exactly a Peligrad was capable of, Black Witch or no.

"Then it's your own stupidity to blame if drinking my blood kills you," Bronwyn replied boldly. While reckless behavior usually wasn't a staple of her personality, she was just asking to be killed. If all the stories were correct (and she suspected they were), no one acted towards this particular queen in disrespect.

When Cleo stood, Bronwyn knew she'd been successful in her goading. As graceful as the woman moved, she could feel the tactfully concealed anger. Bronwyn did not attempt to back away from it, however, instead standing her ground. Do it, she attempted to communicate with her eyes when they stood face-to-face. Her eyes were unable to follow the movement of the hand that darted towards her, but rather than death, a sharp pain lashed the side of her face with enough force to turn her head. The split lip burned, but she didn't so much as attempt to touch it as Cleo closed the distance between them, forcing Bronwyn to meet her eyes once more.

The warning reached Bronwyn almost as if from a distance, and even the disappointment at only receiving a slap for her efforts in attempting to piss off the vampire queen was dulled. She could still feel the woman's anger like a palpable thing, strong and steady as a heartbeat, but other than the slap, she did not act on it, and looking into Cleo's eyes, Bronwyn could see the woman deliberating. On the best way to kill her, perhaps? She didn't know, but much like before, she felt some foreign warmth forming within her once more, pushing at her as if the feeling were trying to communicate something to her.

Then, after an indeterminable amount of time, Cleo ordered all to leave and walked away. Still attempting not to move or betray how the hazel affected her, Bronwyn stood as still as death, only the slightest twitches of her fingers evidence of the burning itch encircling her wrists. That was nothing compared to what she felt when it was suddenly announced that she would live. Something close to panic gripped her bones, and she spoke without consideration for her words as she stalked towards the throne that Cleo sat on. "Too easy? You live to kill witches! You hate us, and you don't give a rat's ass what sort of sins I've committed or how I should be punished. All I've done is insult you, Cleo, and if you think I'm going to do a damned thing you say, you've got another thing coming. Besides, if you want a witch, you're going to remove the hazel eventually. What the hell do you think is going to be the first thing I do once I can use my powers again?" This was possibly the craziest thing she'd ever done, but Bronwyn couldn't see any other way out.

@ rosamarie
Cleo remembered what it felt like to be mortal and feisty like the witch was. Now, feisty was anger and anything past that was pure rage; being a vampire had its cons. She smirked though because in this instance, she did not feel deep rage. She felt powerful which was a feeling she was quite content with. She knew something that the little witch didn’t and if there anything she knew now, it was that information was power. She let the witch’s word tumble out of her lips as she spoke pure desperation.

Cleo turned her head, watching her almost passively. In truth, she expected to be angrier than she was."Verona," she said, looking up at the meek pretty blonde. "Leave us," she added. Verona's feet were almost silent as she crossed the cold stone floors and out the door. Cleo waited until the heavy wooden doors shut behind her. She waited, just a moment longer, to know that everyone was out of ear shot. Surely, her family was curious, but they would never disrespect her and her decisions. A benefit of being Queen Mother was ultimate control.

"If you're quite finished," she said, standing. "You are going to do this because I have something you need." She raised her hands quickly. When she was mortal, she was like this witch. She would have had something to say and Cleo didn't have time for her pointless whining and deliberate sass. "You will let me finish before you speak again," she said, as cold as the floor that the witch's knees rested on.

"See, you're right. I do hate witches, more than you know. Your kind placed the curse upon us that makes sunlight burn. Your kind protects the mortals in their homes so we cannot enter unless invited. Your kind will do anything to tip the balance in their favor and I do, indeed, hate that." She paused and began pacing. Cleo always had a flare for a drama; she used to wish to be an actress before her death. "And yes, you're right. I have made a name for myself as a ruthless Queen, but here's the thing."

She stopped in front of the witch, kneeled down to her level, and brought her finger to her chin. She tilted her face towards her. Underneath the grim, the droplets of blood, and a twisted look of desperation, she did have a pretty face. Even her purple eyes were striking as they proved she was both reckless and powerful. Cleo could almost get lost in those eyes. She could almost lean forward and lick that little bit of blood of her face, but she had more important things to say. She had positioned her people throughout the coven's land: some human and some vampire. She listened for whispers of weakness and, finally, she found it.

"I'm not stupid and word on the street is there was a witch from an Eastern coven who was just exiled for using dark magic. Now, I know, I know," she stood again and flared her hands. "That really could be anyone, except who do I find? A dark witch stumbling into my house, exiled from her coven. What would an exiled witch with no support be doing in our parts? One can only assume she'd be looking for fangs, for Greed." She waited, pausing for her words to take effect before she continued to stop the witch from speaking. "Here's the deal: you do our bidding and I will stop you from dying a most painful death. Or, you refuse and I let you withdrawal anyway. Either way, there will be no blood on my hands. Thank the Queen Mother for that. Your blood is down right filthy."

By now, she returned to her throne and sat back down. The coldness of the silver she laid upon stun her skin, but in a way that reminded her how excited she was. She was feeling quite confident and proud of herself. She was going to make changes for her family and it was going to start here. If life was a game of chess, she was going to be the Queen and stack her army of many different pawns.
There were many vampires who deserved to die or many who were rotting away in 'the Gardens' for 100 year punishments. It would be easy enough to extract what she needed in small enough doses. She'd be able to keep the witch alive and addicted. Eventually, she'd kill the witch anyway when she was no longer needed.

@ oldbook;

Nothing the Queen Mother could possibly say would lead Bronwyn away from her path of self-destruction, and she only endured the vampire's talk of her hatred of witches in silence out of disbelief... Or perhaps hope. While Bronwyn didn't exactly see unfathomable rage, the queen stalked towards her almost as if she were prey. But she stopped just inches short, their faces a breath away and Bronwyn felt her stomach twist as the woman spoke again.

Yes, while she had been exiled, it wasn't nearly as recently as Cleo thought. In fact, she'd yet to hear that there had been an exile. That was what came from a century of solitude frrom her people though; she either had to run into the wrong sort to catch any snippet of news or try to make out truth from fact from the humans' rumor mill, and neither option was to be absolutely believed as the truth. The Queen Mother didn't know anything worthwhile, apparently.

"--for Greed."

Bronwyn froze at the word, her entire body going cold. The very existence of Greed was a well-kept secret in the witch community, usually spoken of in terms of a monster under a bed if anything, its ingredients even harder to pin down. Those who knew how to make it had a steady source of income extorting the addicted, and even Bronwyn had had a hell of a time figuring out how to make it. Even if what Cleo revealed was all she knew, it was still far too much. So deep in shock was the witch that she never noticed the Queen Mother rise and return to her throne. Bronwyn blinked, and there she was, as if she'd teleported, and looking extremely pleased with herself.

It occurred to Bronwyn, of course, that Greed might only be a guess, but even if that was the case, Cleo could just lock her up and wait to see. The tables had turned... refusing would just lead to the very thing she'd been trying so hard to avoid. She felt something inside her shift, self-preservation at last allowed to take hold, her mind already working toward what she needed to do.

"Fine, I'll take your deal," Bronwyn finally said, pushing herself to her feet and meeting Cleo's cold gaze. "Since I'm sure I won't be allowed to leave and be watched at all times, you'll have to send your own to get my ingredients for me. I'll give you the address of where I've been living--I have some of it there already--and I'll make a list of what I don't have and where or how to get it. None of them are easy to get though." She paused a moment to consider her wording before she continued, "I also request that I not be bound in hazel." She lifted her hands in front of her for visual aid, which had long ago passed crazed itching and moved into something like burning, as if her wrists her raw. "Put metal manacles on me if it makes you feel better, but this has gone from irritating to painful. Apparently I'm allergic to it. And keeping my powers suppressed shouldn't be a problem since I'm one witch surrounded by a lot of vampires. Even if I thought I could manage something, I'd probably get caught, and then you'd just throw me in a cell and wait for the withdrawal to kill me."

None of that necessarily meant that Bronwyn planned on aiding the vampires indefinitely. She'd just play nice until she thought she could actually do something and get away with it. She'd need to learn the layout of her new environment, guard shifts, the way things worked in general, and most importantly, put some distance between herself and Cleo. She didn't like how much information the Queen Mother had, and she certainly didn't trust how she'd been reacting to her.

Maybe some research should be her first step.

@ rosamarie
Though it had not been long since Cleo took control, she was quite accustomed to it. Power fit her like the throne fit the curves of her back and the crown sat lovingly on her head. She quite enjoyed how people would quiver and their lips would tremble in front of her. It reminded her that she deserved her position and these people who she punished deserved that too. Bronwyn did not tremble, not even when Cleo played her strongest card. She resisted the urge to tilt her head. She was really hoping she would cry a little. For a moment, she wondered if she was wrong, which did not happen too often.

Like any good prisoner, Bronwyn switched and Cleo smirked. She knew she got the name right. She knew she had dug deep enough into the covens of witches to find out the latest gossip. She knew that she was exactly right and Bronwyn had confirmed it by taking her deal. She almost wanted to shine her crown. Instead, she had conditions. Cleo felt like she was sitting on a razor thin line between respecting her boldness and being disrespected. Bronwyn was interesting and it was enough to keep her entertained instead of angry.

“Fine,” she said. “Done.”

Cleo stood, walked past the little witch and smiled. She opened the door, summoning Verona who was only a hallway away. She instructed her to take Bronwyn to the room adjacent to her own. Verona walked in and her childlike features were a stark difference from her strength. Verona grabbed the witch, twisted her arms, and tied a blindfold on. Cleo listened for the sounds of screams as she herself walked back to her room. She was excited. The little witch would be so close that they could talk almost constantly if they wanted to and Cleo could keep tabs on her. She sauntered back to her room where she did, in fact, polish her crown.