Being an Arcane witch should come with a rulebook. Or at least hazard pay. My magic is changing, again, and not in the fun, “look what I can do now” way. More like the “hope you enjoy staring into the void” kind of way. The Morven curse is awake under my skin, whispering, waiting, and I’m doing my best not to unravel in public. Then a boy drops into a magical coma at the Carnival of Masks, and everything goes to hell. The magic clinging to him isn’t witch, fae, demon, or anything else I’ve ever seen. It’s something older. Wrong. Hungry. To find whoever, or whatever, did this, I’ll have to chase shadows through Gallows Gate, play nice with people I don’t trust, and deal with the very inconvenient fact that a certain dragonborne warrior keeps getting under my skin. And through it all, the curse inside me is shifting. Growing. If I can’t figure out how to control it… It will control me. No pressure. Just another day on the job.