carried across 87

87 Do It 

Sera 

“Set the bowl on the table. Do not spill the water.” 

My mother’s voice was completely steady. The panicked, stammering Queen was gone. The witch had 

taken over. 

The second Ironmaw guard hurried into the council chamber. He carried a wide, heavy stone basin in his left hand and a thick iron kettle wrapped in leather in his right. Steam billowed from the spout of the kettle. He set both items down on the cracked wooden table and immediately took a large step back. 

Irina didn’t look at him. She walked up to the table. She untied the cloth bundle I had given her and dumped the dark, wet soil from the hidden garden directly into the stone bowl. She grabbed the small clay jar of raw animal fat from my hands and scooped the thick, white grease out with her bare fingers, dropping it into the dirt. 

“Pour the water,” Irina ordered the guard. 

The guard looked at Fenris for permission. Fenris gave a single, tight nod. 

The guard lifted the heavy kettle and poured the boiling water over the fat and soil. 

The reaction was instant. The mixture hissed violently. A thick, grey plume of steam rose from the bowl, hitting the ceiling. The smell hit the back of my throat. It didn’t smell like dirt. It smelled like burning ozone, struck flint, and hot copper. 

Irina pulled the thick-veined leaves from her pocket. She crushed them in her fist and dropped the fragments into the boiling water. 

She plunged her bare hands directly into the scalding mixture. 

I flinched. The water was literally bubbling, but my mother didn’t scream. She didn’t even wince. She kneaded the dirt, the melting fat, and the crushed leaves together, her fingers moving with rapid, practiced efficiency. The water evaporated quickly, binding the ingredients into a thick, dark grey clay. 

“Is this permanent?” Yvara asked. She stood three feet away, her hand resting on the hilt of her dagger. She watched the magic with deep, unfiltered suspicion. 

“The clay binds to the bone,” Irina answered without looking up. She scooped the heavy, steaming mass of clay out of the bowl. “It forces the cartilage and the flesh to reshape themselves to the exact mold. Once it sets, it does not wash off. It does not fade.” 

Irina turned around. She held the steaming grey mass in her bare hands. She looked down at Kael. 

Kael was lying on his back. The healer was still pressing his bloody hands against Kael’s broken neck. Kael’s chest heaved. He stared up at my mother, his eyes wide, manic, and completely terrified. 

“Move,” Irina told the healer. 

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The healer looked completely horrified. He scrambled backward, sliding on the bloody stone floor to get away from the southern witch. 

Irina dropped to her knees right beside Kael’s head. 

Kael tried to thrash. He tried to turn his head away, letting out a wet, desperate gurgle, but the jagged piece of bone sticking out of his throat completely paralyzed him. He couldn’t move his neck. 

Irina leaned over him. She pressed the scalding hot clay directly over Kael’s face. 

Kael let out a muffled, agonizing shriek. The heat instantly blistered his skin. Irina didn’t pause. She used her thumbs to aggressively pack the hot clay into his eye sockets, keeping his eyelids forced shut. She molded the dark sludge over the bridge of his nose, pressing it tight against his cheekbones. 

She covered his mouth completely. She shoved a thick wad of the clay past his lips, packing it behind his teeth. Kael choked. His body convulsed on the floor as the clay cut off his airway. 

I felt a sharp, violent wave of nausea hit my stomach. My mouth watered with bile. I dug my fingernails into my palms, forcing myself to stand perfectly still. I orchestrated this. I could not look away. 

Fenris stood right beside me. He didn’t watch Kael. He watched me. He studied my face, watching me swallow down the physical sickness and hold my ground. 

Irina closed her eyes. She began to chant. 

The language was harsh and guttural. The clay covering Kael’s face started to smoke. Thin, dark tendrils of vapor rose from the hardened edges. 

Kael’s body gave one final, violent jerk against the floorboards. Then, he went completely limp. 

He wasn’t dead. His chest still twitched with shallow, agonizing attempts to drag air through the tiny gaps Irina had left around his nostrils. But the fight was completely drained out of him. 

The chanting stopped. The room was dead quiet. 

Irina picked up a clean linen cloth from the table. She dipped it into the remaining hot water in the kettle. She wrung it out and pressed the wet cloth against the hardened edge of the clay mask under Kael’s 

chin. 

The water dissolved the magical seal instantly. 

Irina dug her fingers under the edge of the mask and pulled upward. There was a sickening, wet tearing sound, like raw meat separating from a butcher’s block. The clay peeled off his face in one solid, perfect piece. 

I looked down at Kael. 

My breath caught in my throat. His face was a raw, indistinct ruin. The magic hadn’t just copied his features; it had stripped them completely away. His nose was a flattened lump of cartilage. His lips were fused and completely undefined. His heavy brow was gone. He looked like a mannequin made of melted 

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wax and raw muscle. He was still breathing, but his identity was entirely erased. 

Irina stood up. She held the hardened grey mask in her hands. She turned to Bram. 

“Sit in the chair,” Irina ordered. 

Bram didn’t hesitate. He walked to the cracked wooden table and sat down in the heavy oak chair. He kept his massive hands resting flat on his knees. His face was a mask of cold iron. I couldn’t tell if he was scared, and just keeping a strong front, or just genuinely hated Kael to be able to do anything even if 

it hurts him. 

Irina stepped directly in front of him. 

“This is going to feel like your skull is being crushed in a vice,” Irina told him bluntly. “Do not move. Do not pull away, or the bone will set crooked.” 

Bram gave a single nod. “Do it.” 

*** 

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