Feathered: Swan Maiden Book 1

Chapter One: The Change

I've had many fond memories in my life, but dying will not be one of them.

I've never liked being made a spectacle of, and a public execution is hardly a quiet affair. And today, it seems the entire village of Araketh has come to witness my death.

The guardsman tows me up to the platform and the dark shadow of the guillotine looming overhead. Trembling, I incline my head as the slanted blade catches in the rising sun—sun I will never see again. My feet trip up the stone steps to the structure, but I will not show myself to be afraid. Not when he's watching.

The executioner stands poised beside the contraption, his face veiled behind black cloth. With his raised hand, a hush of morbid anticipation befalls the gathered crowd.

"Marion DuVal," he bellows so loudly that I flinch. "You have been found guilty of the practice of witchcraft. This is an act of treason. In accordance with the laws of Talleth, as passed by Queen Rosamund, you have been sentenced to death."

I hold back a whimper as someone else—one of the guardsmen—proceeds to tie my hands behind my back. Even in my last breaths, I strive to keep my dignity intact. The rope scrapes at my skin, but burns are the last things on my mind. It's not like I need nice wrists where I'm going.

The guards at my sides never let go of me as they shove me onto the plinth, tying down my legs with rope to stop me from escaping. I don't struggle. Despite everything, I still have a sliver of dignity remaining. I feel the thud of the wooden stock clamping around my neck. Damp with early morning dew, the wood is cold against my exposed skin. I keep my attention on that and not the executioner's voice as he continues to address the crowd.

I raise my head, daring to take one last look at the world I will never see again. At the village I call my home, and the people I've grown to almost tolerate. Some say you never truly appreciate something until it's gone. They're right. I may not have liked these people very much, and they certainly don't like me now, but a part of me is going to miss their disapproving glares. As my eyes sweep over the sea of faces, I notice some of them wear smirks. No doubt they've been waiting for this moment for some time.

My eyes catch on something in the crowd. Something purple. A waistcoat. There is no mistaking the wearer. If it weren't for him . . .

In my last living moments, as the blade screams downwards, I give the sneering man the filthiest look a dying girl can muster.

Then I die. I'm sure of it.

But then I open my eyes. Eyes on a head that should be detached from the rest of my body. I can't see my body, but I can feel it. Somehow, I remain intact.

I wonder for a moment if this is heaven, or—most likely for me—hell.

The sun burns in my eyes. From its position, I can tell it's still morning. I try to block out the glare with a hand, but I struggle to lift my arms. It's like I've forgotten how to move them. Like they aren't even mine.

And my arms aren't the only things that feel off. My whole body feels wrong; distorted, aching, weak. I feel like I've been dropped from a great height, my bones all crushed in on themselves, leaving me nothing but a crumpled mess on the ground. The world spins and I close my eyes, dropping my head back to the floor. I think the surface beneath me is grassy, but I don't dwell on it long enough to be certain. I'm too exhausted to do anything but thank the Gods I'm still alive.

It takes me a long time to find the energy to rouse myself from my groggy state. Though I still struggle to move, my eyes are open, and I take the opportunity to survey my surroundings. The guillotine and roaring streets of the village are nowhere in sight, but this new landscape is familiar. The fields, forest, and undulations of the mountains are generic to Talleth, but unmistakable is the towering structure of Galbrahn Castle, rearing its beastly head from the centre of its moat. Here on the bank, I'm a mere tumble from falling into the murky water.