Witch Born by Amber Argyle Page A

her head, she stumbled backwards. Something cracked beneath her weight. She’d stepped on a framed map that had tipped over during the earth tremor.
    Absently, she picked it up. It was the desert nation they’d been learning about, Harshen. The frame had broken in the fall. The corner was crushed and part of the canvas ripped. Rain had stolen through the smashed windows and made the parchment swell and the ink run. It was ruined. Discarding the frame, Senna carefully picked up the board the canvas was attached to and set it on the table to keep anyone else from stepping on it.
    As she turned to leave, a bit of color caught her eye. Peeking behind the dirty brown of the desert was a splash of faded blue. Carefully, she peeled back the map. There was another canvas beneath this one.
    Curiosity suddenly seizing her, Senna tugged back the corner of the top canvas. Sepia had stained the canvas below with age, and the ink had faded. The shores were bound in what must have once been emerald green. Lakes and rivers dotted the land. Senna studied the coastline—one that looked hauntingly familiar.
    Horror clutched her throat in an icy fist as Senna laid the newer map over the older one. She folded the desert canvas back to follow the outline of the newer coast. They were the same shoreline. But the rivers, lakes, and green were gone.
    Her breathing came fast and hard. With Witch song to control nature, this kind of destruction didn’t happen unless Haven made it happen.
    Suddenly not caring, Senna ripped the newer canvas off and threw it. It spun before settling on the floor. She stared at the map before her. Rolling hills of green, with high mountain peaks capped in white. Rivers and lakes. Cities and rich fields. And in the far right corner, “Harshen” was written in fine calligraphy. Senna reached toward the ornate lettering, but stopped as if touching it might burn her.
    Cities dotted the canvas, their buildings enlarged to show strange architecture—roofs with turned up corners and wide porches. She scanned the names of cities written in smaller script. Pennil, Upton, Webick…she froze. In the center of the snow-capped mountains was a city with the most ornate buildings yet, Rinnish—the Sacred City.
    “Tarten was not the first.” Her gaze darted around the walls of the room, at all the other maps, all the other nations. And she wondered what horrors were hidden beneath fresh canvas—how many dead the Witches had heaped upon the world. “No wonder they hate us.”
    Filled with a sudden rage, she pulled down another map. Ignoring the pain in her hand, she dug her fingers into the gap between wood backing and frame. It pulled apart with a screech of protesting nails. She peeled back the top canvas. There was nothing behind it.
    Senna pulled down another and separated the frame. Nothing. She took down a third map—another desert. The frame gave with a crack, leaving a jagged edge of wood that left splinters in her fingers. Blood dripped onto the maps, leaving garish rivers of red.
    She barely felt the pain. There was another map beneath, a verdant land bustling with cities that had been transformed into a desert. Her bloody fingerprints left tracks across it.
    Skipping the lands with rich green fields and plenteous water, she pulled down every map featuring a desert. Each had a map of green beneath. Her fingers were raw and her healing hand burned by the time she was done.
    There were six of them. Six times the Witches had annihilated an entire region.
    Senna leaned against one of the scattered desks, her mind numb with horror. This destruction was not common knowledge. Of that, Senna was sure. The Heads would know the truth, but she had a gut feeling they’d never admit it.
    But there was one woman who might. With a deep breath, Senna gathered herself and ran from the tree house. Outside, it was already past midday. The path she’d chosen was completely blocked by a felled tree. Flying past Witches and Guardians