Swiftcurrent Creek witchlore

Lestan inquired—Akavir, like his cousin only moments before, shut his eyes—that weight ever crushing on his shoulders. His cousin was a man who desired to share in grief and victory—of feelings, and emotions and thoughts.

Akavir had always remained a wall—impenetrable.

But now broken.

He couldn’t begin to explain the ways in which he had struggled. Where had it all began? When, finally would it end? Instead, he gave a shallow nod, opening his eyes to study the dark features of the other Mayfair once more. “Much.”

A Mayfair curse, Lestan had told him once. The belief of it had slowly settled in over the past year—and he found his thoughts drifting to Deirdre and Emaleth of Donnelaith—his aunts. Rumored witches.