Paris, France: Sunday, September 8th, 2011.
The darkness fades, and light seeps into my vision, pulling me into a small, rustic cottage made of rough-hewn logs. The air feels thick, the walls close. A woman stands before me, her face etched with lines of worry. She's dressed in a long, worn grey dress, her brunette hair a mess, stray strands clinging to her damp face. Her hands come up to cup my cheeks. Her eyes, filled with fear and determination, locked onto mine.
"When the men come," she whispers, "set yourself on fire."
The words hit me, blunt and unforgiving.
"Why?" I ask, the word barely escaping my lips.
"It will hurt less than what they will do to you if you don't," she replies, her voice carrying a certainty that chills me.
And then, as quickly as it came, the scene slips away.
I jolt awake, my eyes snapping open to a world of shadows and blackened trees. The scent of smoke is thick in the air, curling into my lungs and clawing at my throat. The trees loom above, twisted and charred, their scorched branches reaching out like skeletal hands. The eerie silence presses in on me, broken only by the faint crackle of embers lingering on the forest floor.
The soft crunch of dead leaves echoes beneath my feet as I push myself upright, brushing ash from my clothes. The air hangs heavy with smoke and decay, thick enough to choke. Around me, the forest stretches endlessly—twisted blackened trees, their branches reaching like skeletal claws toward an overcast sky. My chest tightens, heart racing as I glance around. I have no idea where I am.
I start walking, following a narrow dirt path that cuts through the ash and charred remains of leaves. The mist clings to my skin, and every step feels heavier than the last. It's too quiet here, the kind of quiet that makes you question if you're alone. I keep going because stopping feels worse, though I don't know why. The path twists and turns, and just when I think it'll go on forever, something appears ahead.
A door.
Wooden, weathered, standing in the middle of the path like it grew out of the ground. Its iron handle gleams faintly in the dim light, and my stomach flips as I see the symbols carved into the wood—Aries, Taurus, Gemini, Cancer. They're familiar, but not in a comforting way. They're the kind of familiar that makes your skin crawl, like a half-remembered dream that's more nightmare than anything else.
I hesitated, my hand hovering over the handle, but there's no turning back now. Taking a deep breath, I pulled the door open. It groans on its hinges, revealing a dimly lit chamber. The walls are rough-hewn logs, the floor scattered with straw. It smells old, damp, like a place that's been forgotten for a long time. As I step inside, the door slams shut behind me. When I turn, it's gone—just blank wooden walls where it used to be.
My pulse quickens as I take a step forward, and that's when I hear it—a soft voice, barely more than a whisper.
"Art thou mine executioner?"
The voice makes my skin prickle, and I whirl toward the corner of the room. A girl steps into the faint light. She can't be more than fourteen. Tangled brown hair falls over her thin shoulders, and bruises paint her arms and legs. Her cream-colored tunic is stained and torn, hanging off her frail frame like a ghost of better days. But it's her eyes that stop me. Wide, unblinking, too calm for someone in her position.
"No," I manage, my voice cracking. "What is this place?"
She studies me, her gaze unflinching. "Thou art lost," she says simply, like it's a fact, not a question. "As am I."
Her words send a shiver down my spine, and I step closer, my eyes darting around the room. "Who are you?"
"Anne," she answers after a pause, the name almost hesitant, like she hasn't spoken it in a long time. "And thou?"
"Adrian," I say. My voice feels too loud in the stillness. "Anne, what's going on? Why are you here?"
Her eyes drift past me, toward the small barred window behind me.
"This place," she says, her voice quieter now, "is where they bring us to die. They come, day and night, to take what they will… until there is naught left but the gallows."
Her words sink in like ice water. I turn toward the window, pressing my hands against the cold iron bars. Outside, three men move methodically under the shadow of a massive tree. They toss thick nooses over the gnarled branches; their crimson crosses blazing like warnings against their black tunics. My stomach churns as I watch them work.
"What are they doing?" I whisper, though I already know.
"They come for witches," Anne says, her voice steady, emotionless.
I spin back to face her. "And you? Why are you here?"
Her lips twitch, almost like she's trying to smile but forgot how.
"I hath danced with the devil," she says softly. "I hath learnt the ways of old. I hath forsaken God's will."
Her words are distant, rehearsed, like she's reciting someone else's sins. My chest tightens as I look back at the men. The tree creaks under the weight of the ropes, and they're almost done. "They're going to kill you," I say, the words bitter on my tongue.
"Aye," she says simply, like it's the most natural thing in the world. "But I do not fear death. 'Tis freedom they cannot taketh from me."
"No," I mutter, shaking my head. The panic in my chest rises like a wave, threatening to crash over me. "No, we're getting out of here."
I raise my hands, trying to summon the magic that's always been there. But nothing happens. My wrists feel heavy, and when I glance down, I see the iron shackles biting into my skin. My stomach sinks.
"Tis no use," Anne says, standing slowly. Her dark eyes meet mine, calm and steady in a way that makes me feel anything but. "Stand tall, witch. Show them not thy fear. It is all we have left."
Before I can respond, the door slams open, its force rattling the walls. The men storm in, their hands grabbing at me with unrelenting force. I fight, twisting and thrashing, but it's no use. A heavy fist collides with the side of my head, and pain explodes in my skull. The world tilts as I'm dragged outside, the cold air biting at my skin. My bare feet scrape against the earth, and the noose is slipped over my head. The coarse rope digs into my neck.
A man stands before me, reciting a prayer in a flat, lifeless voice. My vision blurs, my heart pounding as I try to focus. Anne's words echo in my mind. Stand tall. Show them not thy fear.
As the prayer ends, an ear-piercing scream cuts through the air. My head snaps toward the cabin just in time to see Anne burst through the doorway. Flames engulf her body, licking at her skin like a living thing. The men stumble back, shouting, but she keeps moving, her burning figure staggering toward them. She collapses onto the ground, the fire consuming her until there's nothing left but a corpse smoldering atop the earth.
And then—impossibly—her voice echoes.
"Happy Hare, where have you buried all your children?
Tell me so, I say…"
Her words sing through the clearing, soft and haunting. My breath catches as her figure appears again, standing in the doorway, her eyes glowing crimson. She stares at me, her lips moving as the eerie melody continues.
"You cannot keep them all caged.
They will fight and run away…"
Her voice fades as she steps back into the flames, disappearing into the inferno. The rope tightens, and the world around me blurs. The forest fades, the smoke and fire melting into nothingness.
The scent of honeysuckle, soft and sweet, floods my senses as the ground beneath me shifts. My lungs burn as I gasp for air, my body trembling with the memory of the noose around my neck. But when I open my eyes, the forest is gone. No ash. No smoke. No charred trees clawing at the sky.
Instead, I'm standing in a sunlit field. The sun's warmth wraps around me, almost too gentle, too perfect. Grass, impossibly soft and green, cushions my bare feet. The sky stretches wide and open above me, a shade of blue so bright it's almost unreal.
For a moment, I just stand there, gulping down the fresh air, but my relief is short-lived. My heart hammers against my ribs as I glance around, searching for Anne, for the men, for anything that makes sense. The silence presses in, broken only by the distant rustle of leaves in the breeze. I'm alone.
The sound of children's laughter pulls me out of my panic. It's light, playful, and pure—a sound that doesn't belong to the world I've just come from. My eyes dart toward it, and then I see them. Two young girls with long, intricate braids bounce around a tall oak tree near a small cottage. Their giggles ring through the quiet field.
But the moment they notice me, their laughter stops. They freeze, wide-eyed with fear, before bolting for the cottage.
"Mama!" they cry, their small legs carrying them as fast as they can. The door slams shut behind them.
I stand rooted in place, my bare feet brushing against the soft dirt. My eyes drift to the cottage, and that's when I see them—the symbols carved into the weathered wood. Virgo. Scorpio. Leo. Libra. They're faint, scratched into the planks like they were meant to be hidden, but I see them clearly, glowing in my mind as if they're meant for me.
The door creaks open, and a woman steps out. She's shorter than me, her pale-yellow gown fluttering softly in the breeze. A long knife rests against her hip, its blade catching the sunlight. Her chestnut-colored eyes lock onto me, sharp and unyielding, like she's sizing me up for a fight. She moves with the kind of confidence that makes you hesitate—a lioness guarding her den.
"You're a long way from home, boy," she says, her voice steady and edged with warning. "If you're smart, you'll turn around and go back the way you came."
Her tone is calm, but the subtle shift of her hand toward the hilt of her knife says otherwise. I raise my hands slowly, palms out. "Uh—there's been a misunderstanding, I think—"
"Mama! He's wearing a pendant, Mama!" one of the girls shouts from the doorway.
The woman's head snaps toward the sound, her eyes narrowing.
"Nia!" she barks, her tone sharp as a blade. "Inside. Now."
The girl ducks back inside, and the woman's attention locks on me again. Her gaze zeroes in on my grandmother's necklace, partially exposed against the fabric of my robes. She takes a step closer, her fingers twitching toward her knife.
"Where did you get that?" she demands, her voice cold enough to make me flinch.
"It was a gift," I stammer. "From ma mémé."
Her eyes flicker between the pendant and my face, her jaw tightening as her fingers curl around the hilt of her blade. When she speaks again, it's in French, her words laced with a Creole dialect that I struggle to keep up with. "How careless of you to wear such a mark so openly. Those who bear it prepare themselves to die."
Her words send a chill down my spine, and my mind scrambles for something—anything—that might keep this from escalating.
"With perfect love and perfect trust," I murmur, my voice unsteady. "I am protected."
There's a beat of silence, and then—she laughs. Low, throaty, and full of something I can't quite place. It isn't kindness, but it isn't malice either.
"Ah, mon chér," she says, her grip on the knife easing as she steps back. "You will find neither here nor there. Come now, it's almost lunchtime. Wouldn't be right of me to send a fellow witch off with an empty stomach."
It's not a suggestion. She turns on her heel and walks back toward the cottage, leaving me to follow or be left behind. I hesitate for a moment before trailing after her, still unsure if this is kindness or some kind of elaborate trap.
Nia peeks her head out from the doorframe, her nose wrinkling. "Are we gonna feed him, Mama? He's funny-looking."
"Nia! Don't be rude!" the woman snaps without missing a beat. "Set the table with Imani."
The girl grumbles but scurries off, while Imani lingers, her gaze wary and curious. The woman places a gentle hand on her shoulder. "He's alright, Imani. Go help your sister."
Imani hesitates, then disappears inside. I step in after them, my eyes adjusting to the dim light.
The cottage is small, modest, but warm. An iron stove crackles in the corner, and the smell of something rich and savory fills the space. A wooden table with mismatched benches sits at the center, and a bed made of straw and cloth is tucked into the far corner.
The woman stirs the pot, her back to me. "What might I call you?" she asks without turning around.
"Adrian."
She glances over her shoulder, one brow arching. "Strange name for a strange boy. You may call me Zara."
She ladles the steaming contents of the pot into bowls and gestures for me to sit. Nia and Imani dig in enthusiastically, their giggles returning as they eat. Zara sits beside me, her eyes flicking toward me as I take a cautious bite.
Goddess, it's incredible. The rice is tender, the chicken perfectly cooked, and the rich, earthy flavor makes my mouth water. I don't realize how hungry I am until I'm halfway through my bowl. Zara notices and smiles, her expression softening for the first time.
"Glad you like it."
"It's delicious," I say between bites. "Thank you."
The meal passes in comfortable silence until I set my empty bowl down. "May I ask where I am?"
"Baton Rouge," she replies simply.
"What are you doing out here?" I ask.
Zara pauses, her spoon hovering over her bowl. "Living," she says finally, her tone matter-of-fact. "Like people do. Where are you from? You don't sound like you're from these parts."
"Michigan," I answer. "But I live in California now."
"I've heard there's gold out that way," she says, her eyes narrowing slightly.
I nod, unsure of what else to say. "I guess."
After the meal, Zara sends the girls to clear the table and takes me outside. The sun is warm on my skin, the scent of honeysuckle filling the air as Zara scatters feed for the hens and straw for the goats.
"This life isn't much," she says, breaking the silence. "But it's free."
Her words catch me off guard. "I'm not judging," I say quickly. "As long as you're happy, that's what matters."
She smiles, faint but genuine. "Happiness isn't a measure of value, mon chér."
"Maybe not," I admit. "But when it's all you have to hold onto, it's enough."
She studies me for a moment, her expression thoughtful.
"You are wise beyond your years," she says, her voice quieter as she gestures toward the fields. "Come. Help me tend to my fields. The crows have been at my corn again."
Zara leads me to a small plot of farmland near the cottage, where rows of corn, cabbage, and potatoes grow amidst weeds. The earth beneath my feet feels alive, humming faintly as if it recognizes the energy coursing through me. I focus on the tangled roots, summoning my magic to pull the weeds free. My fingers tingle with the familiar sensation as I guide the unruly plants from the soil with ease.
Beside me, Zara works with her hands, her fingers caked in dirt as she wrestles with the stubborn weeds one by one. She lets out an exaggerated sigh, rolling her eyes dramatically.
"Must be nice not to get your hands dirty," she mutters, tossing a handful of weeds over her shoulder.
I shrug, flicking my wrist to send a bundle of roots sailing into the growing pile beside me. "I'm not much of a farmer," I admit, smirking.
Zara stands, brushing off her hands with a dry laugh. "Could've fooled me with those soft hands of yours."
"My hands are not soft!" I protest, though the chuckle bubbling up in my throat betrays me.
"Smooth like a babe's," she teases, her grin sly as she stuffs straw into a sack. "Don't worry, mon chér. We'll toughen you up before you leave."
I laugh, shaking my head as I grab another handful of weeds. "Do you always put your guests to work?"
"Only the ones who talk too much," she quips, handing me a bundle of sticks. "Now, grab those limbs for the arms."
We move to the edge of the field, where a half-built scarecrow leans awkwardly against a tree stump. Zara shows me how to tie the straw bundles to the wooden frame, her hands swift and practiced as she guides me through the process. I fumble with the knots, my fingers clumsy compared to hers. She watches with amused patience, occasionally stepping in to tighten a loose string or adjust a crooked limb.
Zara steps back to admire the finished scarecrow, brushing her hands off on her apron.
"There," she says with satisfaction. "My crops are safe once more."
I tilt my head, squinting at the figure. "It's missing something."
Spotting a green gourd nearby, I walk over and place my hand on its cool surface. My magic hums in my palm, sparking to life as I focus on the gourd. It grows under my touch, swelling and rounding until it transforms into the perfect pumpkin. I lift it and hand it to Zara, who whistles softly, impressed.
"Show-off," she says, pulling out her knife. She carves a jagged face into the pumpkin with quick, confident strokes before passing it back to me. I hold it above the scarecrow's neck, using my magic to float it gently into place. The carved face glows faintly in the sunlight, completing the figure.
Zara smiles, placing her hands on her hips. "You'll have to teach me that next time."
"Deal,"
But the stillness is shattered by a distant rumble. It starts low, like the growl of an approaching storm, but grows sharper, louder. Hoofbeats.
I freeze, my stomach twisting in dread. Horses.
Beside me, Zara stiffens, her eyes narrowing as she stares toward the distant cottage. Her voice is sharp and urgent.
"Go," she orders. "Hide in the corn. If they find you, it'll be far worse."
I hesitate for a heartbeat before nodding and ducking into the stalks. My heart pounds as I crouch low, peering through the leaves. Four men ride into view, their white garments stark against the green. One taller than the rest wears a dark jacket with a sheriff's star pinned to his chest. Zara steps forward to meet them, her back straight, her shoulders set.
The sheriff dismounts with practiced ease, his expression cold and calculating. Though I can't hear their words, I see Zara's jaw tighten as she speaks. Her movements are measured, but there's no mistaking the tension radiating from her into the air.
Then, everything happens at once. The sheriff lunges forward, grabbing Nia by the arm. Zara cries out, rushing toward him, but the crack of a gunshot splits the air. Her body crumples to the ground, blood blooming across her chest like a dark, spreading flower.
"No," I whisper, my voice breaking as nausea grips me.
Nia screams, thrashing against the sheriff's grip, but he forces iron shackles onto her wrists with brutal efficiency. His voice rises in a sharp bark, threatening to kill Imani if she doesn't comply. The desperation in Nia's cries is raw, slicing through the air like a knife.
I can't move. My chest feels like it's caving in, my hands trembling uselessly at my sides. Zara is motionless on the ground, her blood staining the dirt, and the girls are being taken as if they're nothing. Anger boils up inside me, drowning out the fear. I can't let this happen. I won't.
Before I fully register what I'm doing, I surge forward, magic propelling me with a speed that blurs the world around me.
In an instant, I'm beside the sheriff.
"Get your hands off her!" I roar, swinging my fist with all the strength I can muster. My knuckles connect with his jaw, the force of my magic sending him sprawling backward. Nia stumbles free, and I whirl around, releasing a pulse of energy that knocks the other men from their horses.
"Nia, grab your sister and hide!" I yell, my voice sharp with urgency. Nia doesn't hesitate, pulling Imani toward the safety of the cornfield.
The sheriff scrambles for his gun, but I flick my wrist, sending it skidding across the dirt. I drive my foot into his chest, slamming him back against a tree. Heat builds in my palms, and I release it with a shout. "Arde!"
Flames erupt from my fingertips, engulfing one of the men. His screams echo as he rolls frantically on the ground, trying to extinguish the fire.
A rifle clicks behind me, and I spin, ready to strike. But before I can act, a wall of flames roars past me, consuming the deputy. Zara, bloodied but standing, steps forward, her hands wreathed in fire. Her eyes blaze with fury as she aims at the remaining man. Vines burst from the earth, trapping him before he can flee.
"Kill them all!" the sheriff bellows, his voice hoarse with desperation. He stumbles toward the cottage, and I hear glass shatter as flames erupt from within. A burst of fire erupts from within the cracked walls.
"Nia! Imani!" Zara screams, running toward the inferno.
"Zara, wait!" I call, but she doesn't stop. The sheriff raises his gun again, aiming at her. I freeze his arm mid-motion, but a shot rings out from behind me: Zara stumbles, a fresh wound blooming across her back.
"No!" I scream, rushing to her side. The sheriff's arm jerks under my control, his own finger pulling the trigger and ending the life of the deputy behind me. I send a wave of magic crashing into the sheriff, throwing him backward as I kneel beside Zara.
Her breaths come in shallow, ragged gasps. "Save… my girls," she chokes out, her voice barely a whisper.
I reach for the flames, desperation driving me as I try to pull them away from the cottage. But my magic falters, the fire raging on, unrelenting. Tears blur my vision as I scream, "I can't do this alone, Zara!"
But when I look down, her chest is still. She's gone.
I stare at her, and the world around me dissolves into a deafening void. My mind blanks, hollow and numb. But then it hits—the rage, a storm tearing through the emptiness, scorching everything in its path. My hands tremble as I rise, my gaze snapping to the sheriff. He's grinning, his revolver trained on me, but his confidence falters as he catches the look in my eyes.
"You did this," I snarl, my voice trembling with fury. The air hums, thick with the crackling energy pouring off me in waves.
The sheriff takes a step back, but it's too late. I'm already moving. With a sweep of my hand, his knees hit the dirt as if dragged down by unseen chains. His deputies shout, reaching for their weapons, but another flick of my wrist sends them sprawling, their guns clattering uselessly to the ground.
"Why?" I roar, the words tearing from my throat like a beast uncaged. "They were just kids!"
The sheriff spits blood, a sneer twisting his face. "Property, boy," he spits, his voice dripping with venom. "They were nothing more than property. It's just business."
His words tear into me, ripping away the fragile grip I have on my control. The power surges, wild and untamed, as if answering some primal call. My vision tunnels, my body vibrating with unbridled energy. The sheriff gasps, his smirk faltering as I force him lower, his forehead brushing the dirt.
"Kneel!" My voice is a thunderclap, rolling through the clearing. The other men buckle, their legs collapsing as though under the weight of an invisible tide. They fall beside their leader, their faces pale, eyes darting with panic.
The sheriff's smirk returns, weaker this time but defiant, his sweat-slick face twisting into something grotesque.
"You're fooling yourself," he sneers. "You think you're better? Your kind's always been filth, nothing but—"
His words die in his throat as my fist clenches, the air around us growing heavy, electric. The thought of letting the magic devour him is intoxicating. I can see it in my mind—the flames, the agony, his screams as his flesh melts.
For one tantalizing moment, I consider it. Just a moment.
Instead, I twist my hand, and the revolver in his grip jerks unnaturally, its barrel shifting toward his temple. His muscles fight against my control, but it's futile. My voice drops, low and cold.
"You're wrong," I whisper, the venom in my words striking deeper than any weapon. "Humans are the plague."
The gunshot shatters the tension like glass. The sheriff crumples, his body hitting the dirt in a lifeless heap. Blood pools beneath him, dark and seeping into the dirt. The silence is deafening, broken only by the ragged breaths of the two deputies. Their eyes widen in horror, their faces pale, but they don't dare move.
I turn to them, my fury a wildfire that refuses to die.
"You'll follow him," I snarl.
It's not a suggestion—it's a command. Their hands jerk upward, puppets bound to my will, pressing the barrels of their weapons under their chins. Their terror is palpable, but their bodies betray them. The gunshots come in quick succession, the bodies falling like broken dolls beside their leader.
For a moment, there's nothing but the faint crackle of burning wood, the acrid stench of gunpowder and blood.
The chaos of the battle vanishes in an instant. The gunfire fades into the distance, leaving behind a void filled only by the soft crackling of burning wood and the mournful cry of a crow overhead. The world feels suspended, the weight of death clinging to the air like a suffocating shroud.
Then, a sound slices through the oppressive stillness, soft and haunting—a voice, singing.
"Happy Hare, where have you buried all your children?"
The melody is delicate yet chilling, a lullaby wrapped in grief, echoing with a strange familiarity that sets my heart pounding.
"Tell me so I say."
I turn, my heart leaps to my throat as I see her. Zara stands beside me, but it's not the Zara I knew. Her body is pale, her yellow gown stained with blood that drips steadily onto the scorched earth. Her crimson eyes meet mine, freezing me in place. They glow faintly in the dim light, otherworldly and hollow.
"Zara," I whisper, my voice trembling, barely audible over the crackle of the fire.
She doesn't acknowledge me, doesn't even seem to hear. Her head tilts ever so slightly, her gaze sliding past me to the smoldering ruins of the cottage. Her lips part, and she begins to sing again.
"You can't keep them all caged
They will fight and run away.
Mother, tell me so I say…"
She takes a step toward the fire, her bare feet leaving faint, bloody prints on the dirt.
"Zara!" I call out, rushing to stop her, but she doesn't slow.
Her movements are deliberate, almost ethereal. She reaches the doorframe, brushing her fingers with the charred wood, and without hesitation, she steps into the blaze.
"No!"
The word tears from my throat as I lunge forward, grabbing for her. My fingers close around hers, icy cold despite the searing heat. For an instant, it feels as though I can pull her back. But then a force around her surges, an immense, otherworldly pull that yanks me off my feet.
The flames erupt, blinding and all-consuming. The heat is unbearable, licking at my skin, filling my lungs with scorching air. I scream as the inferno engulfs me, and everything—fire, pain, sound—explodes into nothingness.
The heat of the flames fades in an instant, replaced by cool, polished marble beneath my feet. My body feels unsteady, the contrast disorienting as I blink rapidly, forcing my breath to steady.
I'm standing in an opulent ballroom, the floor gleaming like a mirror, reflecting the soft glow of crystal chandeliers hanging high above. The room is vast, lined with gilded walls and intricate carvings that swirl like vines. The air smells faintly of aged wood and lavender, with no hint of the smoke and ash that clung to me moments ago. A single wooden door rests a few feet from me.
The silence here is deafening, broken only by the faint creak of the grand piano standing in the corner. It's as though the fire and chaos from before never existed. My heart races, confusion and unease swirling in my chest.
"Zara?" I whisper, but the name barely leaves my lips before the room's emptiness swallows it.
The commotion behind the door grows louder as I approach, my breath hitching at the sight of the symbols etched into the wood—Sagittarius, Capricorn, Aquarius, and Pisces. The inscriptions glow faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat. Without hesitation, I push open the doors, stepping into a grand hall.
The space is cavernous, bathed in the soft golden light of flickering chandeliers. High arches stretch toward a vaulted ceiling adorned with intricate carvings of constellations. The polished stone floor gleams beneath my feet, and long shadows dance along the walls. A heavy air hangs over the crowd. Dozens of figures, mostly women dressed in elegant black gowns and sharp suits, fill the hall. It feels like I've walked into a funeral—oppressive and suffocating.
As I move through the crowd, no one notices me. I'm a ghost among the living, their murmurs brushing past me like whispers on the wind.
At the foot of the grand staircase stands a woman who radiates authority. Her greying black hair is coiled elegantly, and her crimson eyes glow faintly, unsettling yet magnetic. She wears a scarlet robe embroidered with intricate black patterns, each movement exuding effortless power. Beside her, a younger woman leans in, whispering something urgent.
For a moment, the older woman's gaze shifts, her eyes locking directly onto me—or through me. My heart skips, but a sharp voice cuts through the air before I can react.
"Mother Ysandra!" A woman's southern drawl echoes from the crowd. "Matron Aurora's forces are nearly through our barriers! Command us!"
The hall erupts into chaos. The hum of fear scratches at the air, the congregation's voices rising in panic.
Ysandra raises her hand, and the room falls into immediate silence. Her voice is soft but carries the weight of steel.
"My children," she begins, her tone smooth as silk, "I ask for a moment of patience as we stand on the precipice of our ascension. Steel yourselves for the coming battle and know this—death is never the end for the children of House Cancer."
A murmur ripples through the crowd, and Ysandra's presence seems to soothe the tension. She turns and strides towards a door beside the staircase, her robe flowing behind her like blood spilled across the floor. A group of advisors follows closely, and, without thinking, I trail behind them.
She leads us into another room, eerily similar to the one where I first appeared. The grand ballroom stretches wide, its polished floors reflecting the faint golden glow of the chandeliers above. The advisors linger near the doorway until Ysandra dismisses them with a sharp gesture. The heavy doors close, leaving only her and me in suffocating silence.
The doors open moments after her advisors leave. A tall man steps inside, his dark suit perfectly highlighting his broad shoulders. His salt-and-pepper beard gives him a rugged charm, and his piercing dark eyes scan the room before settling on Ysandra.
The man strides forward, his polished boots echoing faintly against the ballroom floor. His sharp features soften as his gaze lingers on Ysandra, and the faintest of smiles tugs at the corner of his lips. But it's fleeting, gone as quickly as it appeared.
"Ysandra," he says, his voice carrying a hint of weariness. He stops a few feet away, his hands sliding into his coat pockets as though to steady himself. "Are you really going through with this? Let me talk to the High Table. Maybe I can make them see reason."
Ysandra tilts her head slightly, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips, though her crimson eyes betray her sorrow. She steps closer, her scarlet robes pooling like blood across the gleaming floor. Her hand reaches up, cupping his face with a tenderness that feels out of place amid the tension in the room.
"Oh, my sweet Beau," she murmurs. "I'm afraid it's far too late for negotiations."
Beau closes his eyes briefly, his jaw tightening. When he speaks again, his voice is rough, laced with desperation he can't quite hide.
"Then leave. Forget the High Table, forget all of this madness. We'll leave together. You said it yourself once—this world takes too much and gives nothing back. Let's go somewhere it can't reach us."
Ysandra's lips part, but no words come. For a moment, the mask she wears so effortlessly falters. She looks at him like he's offering her the world, but the weight of her choices pulls her back. "You don't understand, Beau. They'd never let me go. They'd hunt me, hunt us, until there was nothing left."
"Then let them come," he says, his voice breaking slightly. He steps closer, his hands finding her waist. "I've faced worse for far less than you, Ysandra. What you have to do, whatever it is, will it make you happy?"
Her crimson eyes glisten, but she doesn't cry.
"I don't know," she admits, her voice trembling. "But my heart tells me it's the only way."
Beau lowers his forehead to hers, his hands tightening around her waist as though anchoring her to him.
"Your heart's never known peace," he whispers. "Perhaps it's time we found it together."
Her fingers curl into his coat, clinging to him as though he's the only solid thing in a crumbling world.
"In a thousand lifetimes, I'd run away with you," she whispers, her voice cracking. "But this… this is something I must do. Not just for me, but for all of us."
He pulls back slightly, studying her face like he's memorizing it. "When the smoke clears, I'll find you," he says firmly.
"And if I'm not here," Ysandra breathes, "I'll find you. In this life and the next, I'd always choose you."
Beau kisses her, slow and deliberate, his hands framing her face like he's trying to hold onto the moment for as long as he can. When they part, it feels like the world holds its breath.
"Go," Ysandra says softly, placing her hands on his chest. "See to the children first."
Beau nods, his movements reluctant. His hands slide away from her, and he takes a step back. His eyes linger on her one last time before he turns, his boots echoing through the room as he walks to the door. He pauses in the doorway, looking over his shoulder as though to etch her image into his memory. Then, without a word, he slips through the door, closing it silently behind him.
The silence that follows is suffocating. Ysandra doesn't move for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the spot where Beau had stood. Her composure returns gradually, her crimson eyes hardening as she turns back to the room.
She walks toward a painting on the wall, her heels clicking against the polished floor like a metronome. The scene is haunting: a log cabin consumed by flames, skeletal trees clawing at a blood-red sky. Her fingers brush the edge of the frame, and her voice, when she speaks, is sharper than the blade she wields.
"I hope you enjoyed the show, spirit," she says without turning. "I sensed the death clinging to you the moment you stepped into my chambers. I should have known Aurora would send something like you."
Before I can reply, she spins to face me, her crimson eyes blazing. A flick of her wrist, and a rapier materializes in her hand, its silver blade glinting like a shard of moonlight.
"Come then," she murmurs, her tone dripping with disdain. "Let's see if you're worth the trouble."
"Listen, lady, I'm not—" My protest dies on my lips as she lunges, the blade slicing through the air with precision. I barely dodge, my movements clumsy in comparison to her deadly grace.
"Come now, spirit," she taunts, sidestepping effortlessly. The sharp clicks of her heels echo in the room like a countdown. "My enchanted blade will put you to rest."
"Lady, you've got serious issues," I snap, huffing as I evade another strike. Her movements are relentless, driving me back until my shoulders hit the wall.
I raise my hand instinctively, summoning a shield of shimmering energy. Her rapier clashes against it with a sharp ding, the impact reverberating through my arm.
"Enough!" I snarl, releasing a pulse of energy that sends her staggering back. Ysandra straightens, brushing off her robe as though she hasn't just been thrown halfway across the room. Her glowing eyes narrow, curiosity flickering in their depths.
"A spirit with magic," she muses, her voice tinged with amusement. "Now I've truly seen it all."
"For the love of the Goddess," I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "I'm not a ghost, you dumbass."
She sneers, raising her blade again. "You cannot lie to me—"
I snap my fingers, summoning a flickering flame to my palm. "Do ghosts summon fire?"
Her gaze narrows.
"Plenty of demons do," she counters sharply, but there's a flicker of doubt in her voice.
I raise an eyebrow, gesturing to myself with the hand still holding the flame. "So, what is it, lady? Am I a ghost or a demon? Pick a lane."
Ysandra falters, her crimson eyes narrowing as she studies me, her rapier still hovering mid-air. For a moment, the tension crackles like static, thick and unrelenting. Slowly, I step forward, extinguishing the flame dancing in my fingers with a flick.
"Look," I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair.
My voice shakes, caught between anger and exhaustion. "I don't have time for this. I've been through hell—literal and figurative—and I'm done fighting every lunatic with a superiority complex who crosses my path. You have issues—serious ones—and I'm not sticking around to unpack them." I motion to the door. "So if you'll excuse me—"
"Zara," she says softly, her voice slicing through the air like a blade.
The name lands like a weight in my chest, freezing me mid-step. My breath catches, my heart pounding as I slowly turn back to face her. Her gaze isn't on me anymore—it's fixed on a painting across the room. I follow her line of sight, and the world seems to tilt under my feet.
It's a warm, golden-hued image of a summer cottage, nestled beneath a canopy of lush trees. The foreground shows a woman holding two small children, her figure bathed in soft sunlight. My throat tightens, an ache blooming in my chest.
"She called to you," Ysandra murmurs, her fingers brushing the edge of the frame. Her voice is softer now, almost wistful. "I heard her name in the chamber. You said it. Zara."
My legs carry me forward without thinking, my breath shallow. "What do you know about her?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Ysandra's hand lingers on the painting, her sharp expression momentarily softening, though it doesn't make her any less intimidating. "I had nearly forgotten her," she says, the words heavy with something close to regret. "Zara, Nia, Imani… Of all the memories I've encountered, theirs are among the few I find no pleasure in remembering."
"What are you talking about?" I ask, my pulse quickening. The edges of the room feel like they're closing in.
Ysandra's rapier vanishes with a flick of her wrist, her focus now entirely on me. Her eyes—crimson, unyielding—are unreadable, holding secrets she has no intention of spilling easily.
"You see them, don't you?" she asks, her voice low, almost gentle. "The vestiges."
I blinked, caught off guard. "The what?"
She moves to another painting near the door. My stomach drops as I take it in—a vivid depiction of Notre Dame, its bell towers towering against a backdrop of flames. The stained-glass windows shimmer with eerie brilliance, their colors distorted by the fiery destruction.
My voice trembles. "That's mine… That's my art project. How… how is that here?"
Ysandra steps closer, her heels clicking against the floor, the sound impossibly loud in the silence. Her presence feels suffocating, like the air is bending to accommodate her.
"Our minds have strange ways of revealing our truths," she says, her tone deliberate. "You see her, don't you? The one with eyes like mine. Crimson, like blood."
I nod, though my throat feels too tight to speak. The world spins as fragmented memories and emotions churn in my mind, threatening to drown me.
A dry laugh escapes her lips, sharp and cutting.
"Then it's true," she murmurs, taking another step toward me. "She doesn't need this vessel anymore. A pity she didn't choose a girl. You won't look nearly as fabulous in my dresses."
The flippancy in her tone snaps something in me. "Are you going to explain, or are you just here to keep being cryptic?" I snap, my frustration boiling over.
Ysandra smirks, shaking her head like I'm a naive child. "What fun would a trial be if you didn't have to make hard decisions?"
"Fun? You think this is fun?!" I shout, my voice breaking as the weight of everything crashes down on me. "People have died! Zara, Nia, Imani, Anne—I felt every single one of them. Every loss, every ounce of their pain. And you're standing here, treating it like some game!"
Her smirk fades, replaced by something colder.
"Then it is almost done," she says, her voice steady and detached. "You've embraced your identity in the face of death—as the Maiden. You've carried the weight of loss and fury as the Mother. And now, you must learn what true leadership demands—sacrifice, beyond personal comfort or desire. You must rise, as the Crone."
Her words hit like a punch to the chest. My head pounds, the meanings twisting and turning in my mind, too big to grasp.
"Why me?!" I manage, my voice cracking. "Why is this happening to me?"
"You are her chosen," Ysandra replies, her tone devoid of pity. "You signed her contract."
"I did no such thing!" I shout, my desperation bubbling over into anger.
Ysandra tilts her head, her crimson eyes glinting with something unreadable. "You cannot lie to me, witch. Not here. Not to yourself. Think hard."
Her words send a dagger of dread straight through me. And then it happens—the splitting, searing pain in my skull, like my mind is tearing itself apart. Memories flood in, sharp and vivid. Aurora's chateau. Rose, pleading to save me. The silver vial forced between my lips. The shadowed figure with crimson eyes, watching from above.
Her low and seductive voice echoes in my mind: "What would you give to live? What price would you pay?"
"I'll do anything," I had whispered, desperate, broken, and clinging to life.
The memory shatters, and I collapse to my knees, clutching at my chest as the truth suffocates me. She's been with me all along. Her power is in my veins. She's the reason I'm alive—the reason I can do magic. My breaths come in ragged gasps, my body trembling under the weight of it all.
Ysandra watches, her expression unreadable. "You remember now."
I nod, my arms wrapping tightly around myself, as though I could hold the pieces of me together. "Who… who is she?" I whisper, my voice barely audible.
"All will be revealed in time," Ysandra replies, her tone maddeningly calm. But before I can press further, a thunderous explosion rocks the room. The walls shudder with its force, and the sound reverberates like the beating of war drums.
Ysandra's demeanor shifts instantly, her spine straightening, her expression sharpening. "Now, we must save my people."
"From who?" I manage, forcing myself to stand on shaky legs.
"The Concord," Ysandra says, her voice as sharp as the blade she conjures again in her hand. "Led by Matron Aurora of House Libra. She plans to enslave my House and strip them of their magic after she claims my head."
"Why?" I demand, though my voice feels small against the chaos growing louder.
"Because people fear what they cannot understand or control," she says, her crimson eyes darkening. "My power—and yours—threaten the High Table. We are the rebellion against their fragile, brittle order."
The echoes of shouting grow louder, the storm of war closing in. Ysandra turns to me, her piercing gaze burning like fire.
"Now, little witch," she says, her voice cutting through the rising noise, "tell me—how do we save my people?"
My chest tightens, panic swirling in my veins. "We… we fight back?" I stammer, barely believing my own words.
Ysandra's laugh is sharp and cruel.
"Do you know what happens if we lose?" she snaps. "The women of my House will become handmaidens and broodmares, their magic stolen, their spirits broken. The men and children? They'll be flayed alive, their corpses paraded as a warning."
Her words hit like a sledgehammer, crushing the breath from my lungs. "Then why are you asking me?!" I shout, my voice breaking under the strain. "They're dead either way!"
Ysandra steps closer, her crimson eyes boring into mine with an inescapable gravity.
"Because, little witch," she says, her voice calm and cutting, "you signed the contract. And now, you must decide what kind of leader you will be."
"I didn't ask for this," I whisper, the words catching in my throat, trembling like the rest of me. "I didn't ask for any of this."
The silence that follows is heavier than the words I've spoken, pressing down on me with a force that makes my knees weak. A low, resonant hum vibrates through the room, the sound of magic winding tighter, coiling in the air between us like a predator waiting to strike. My breath comes in shallow gasps, as if my lungs are trying to reject this moment.
This isn't what I wanted.
I just wanted a chance—a new life, a fresh start. A way to be something more, something free of the weight that has always followed me. But now, even that feels like a lie. My magic isn't even my own; it's hers. And now I'm supposed to wield it, command it, make choices I don't understand? I can barely keep myself from falling apart, let alone decide the fate of others.
My thoughts spiral, chaotic and jagged like broken glass slicing through my mind. Are these even my thoughts? Or are they hers? How much of me is still me, and how much of this—this crushing dread, this power that feels like a storm I can't control—is her? The lines blur until I can't tell where I end and she begins, if there's even a difference anymore.
I want to shut it all out. Push it away. Lock it in a dark corner of my mind and throw away the key. But deep beneath the chaos, there's a thread of something else—something faint but steady. It whispers to me, reminding me that I'm stronger than this.
I cling to it, desperate, letting it pull me back from the edge. It's the same feeling Anne held onto, kneading dough with her mother on a winter morning. The same feeling Zara carried, watching Nia and Imani laugh and chase each other through honeysuckle fields. The feeling Ysandra clung to, buried in Beau's arms. It's the same feeling I've known, too—sitting with my mom at Rudy's Diner, watching Lydia and Rose spin drunkenly around the kitchen, eating shitty pizza with Stiles and Scott, laughing over things that didn't matter but made everything feel okay.
It grounds me. It's enough to quiet the storm.
The air shifts. The oppressive tension recedes just enough for me to breathe again. I let the breath out slowly, meeting Ysandra's gaze. She watches me, patient and unmoving like she's been waiting for this moment all along.
"I know what we have to do," I say finally. My voice is soft, but it doesn't waver.
Ysandra's lips curve into a knowing smile. "Then speak it."
"We trick them," I say, the plan forming as I speak. "A deathless sleep. When the battle is over, the bodies of the survivors will escape into the dark."
Her head tilts slightly, a flicker of amusement dancing across her sharp features. "Clever. A bit of Shakespearean flair, no?"
"It's the best shot we've got," I reply, though doubt still nags at the edges of my mind. "But I don't know a spell strong enough to pull it off."
"Leave that to me," Ysandra says, stepping closer. She extends her hand, her voice soft but commanding. "Two witches are better than one."
I hesitate, staring at her outstretched hand. My chest tightens.
"They're still going to kill you," I whisper.
Her smile falters, replaced by something softer—acceptance.
"I've always known how this ends," she says, her tone carrying a weight that I feel in my bones. "Focus now. Close your eyes and let your breath become mist."
Her hands clasp mine, warm and steady, and for a moment, I forget the weight pressing down on me. I close my eyes, forcing my breath to slow, letting her presence anchor me. Each inhale feels heavier, each exhale harder to release.
"Somnum Aeternum Evoco," Ysandra intones, her voice rich with power.
The air shifts again, this time filling with the delicate, sweet scent of lavender. It wraps around me, soothing and strange. A rush of wind tears through the room, and the doors to the ballroom burst open with a force that rattles the chandeliers.
I open my eyes to find the room transformed. A lavender mist blankets everything, curling like smoke through the golden light. The hum of magic is deafening now, a crescendo that vibrates in my chest. Beyond the mist, I hear the rush of footsteps, the distant clash of weapons, and the muffled cries of people falling.
The mist thickens, wrapping around me like a cocoon. My limbs grow impossibly heavy, my vision blurring at the edges.
"Ysandra… what?" My voice is weak, a gasp as the world tilts beneath me.
Her arms catch me as my knees buckle, lowering me gently to the floor.
"Rest now, little witch," she whispers, her voice softer than I've ever heard it. "Your final battle is upon you."
I try to speak, to protest, but the weight of the spell presses down, smothering the words before they can form. My vision flickers, Ysandra's figure the last thing I see—a silhouette bathed in mist, her crimson eyes glowing like embers.
The sound of footsteps grows louder, boots pounding against the polished floor. Ysandra steps toward the door, her scarlet robe flowing behind her like a river of blood. Her voice, low and resolute, carries through the haze as my consciousness slips away.
"Let them come."
My mind is a foggy mess when I finally awaken. It isn't the polished ballroom floor beneath me, but cold, damp earth caked with brittle, decaying leaves—the air stinks of honeysuckle, sickly sweet, twisted with the acrid bite of sulfur. I can barely move as I force myself up, every muscle screaming in protest. My breaths come in shallow gasps, the weight of the air suffocating.
Then I see it.
The tree looms over me, monstrous and alive. Its gnarled branches twist violently, clawing at the blood-red sky like the hands of the damned. Veins of black ichor pulse through the bark, dripping down in thick rivulets that stain the ground. Roots as thick as my body churn the earth like writhing serpents, ripping up chunks of soil as they spread outward. At its base stands a throne of thorns and twisted vines, sharp enough to shred flesh, dripping with something dark and viscous.
The entire thing groans as though it's alive and in pain, the sounds cutting through the suffocating silence.
"You survived," a voice snarls, dripping with venom.
My gaze snaps to the figure seated on the throne. She's wrapped in bloodied bandages, her crimson eyes gleaming like fresh wounds beneath the layers of gore-streaked cloth. Her body radiates malice, and her presence is a physical weight that crushes me where I kneel. She taps one clawed finger against the roots of the throne, the sound sharp and deliberate, a predator toying with prey.
"Pathetic," she hisses, her lips curling into a sharp grin. "I didn't think a vessel this weak could survive me."
Rage surges through me, cutting through the haze of confusion and fear. I claw my way to my feet, my legs trembling but refusing to buckle.
"I'm done with your games!" I shout, my voice raw and cracking. "I've walked the Witches' Road. Now tell me who the hell you are!"
Her laughter is like the shattering of glass—jagged and relentless. It builds, louder and louder, shaking the ground beneath me as the tree's branches lash at the air, their twisted forms creaking and groaning like the dying gasps of a hundred tortured souls.
"This isn't the Witches' Road, child," she hisses, her voice wrapping around me like barbed wire. She leans forward, her eyes blazing with cruel amusement. "Did you truly think I would let you walk such a sacred path? Did you think you earned that right?"
The red sky churns, growing darker, heavier, suffocating. Her bandaged smile spreads wider, revealing teeth like jagged shards of bone. The earth beneath me cracks and shifts, the roots curling toward me like fingers eager to seize their prize.
"No," she says, her voice dropping into a guttural growl. "This is my domain. And here, you are nothing."
With a flick of her wrist, I'm slammed to the ground. The impact rattles my skull, sharp pain exploding down my spine. Invisible chains tighten around my arms and legs, dragging me flat against the cold earth as I gasp for air. The roots coil tighter, their barbs ripping into my skin, drawing blood that pools and soaks into the ground beneath me.
"I have been called many names," she says, her voice heavy with malice as she steps down from her throne, her bare feet leaving searing imprints in the earth. "Naamah. Lilith. Machalat."
Her bandaged hands begin to unravel as she speaks, the bloody cloth falling away in strips, revealing flesh that glows like molten starlight. "But here, in this wretched place you dare to trespass, I am something far greater."
The last of the bandages falls, and I recoil. Her crimson body shifts and flickers, radiating power like an open wound bleeding into the air. Her eyes burn brighter than anything I've ever seen, twin suns of searing rage. The ground quakes beneath her, and the roots writhe with renewed hunger, their barbs tearing deeper into my flesh.
"I am chaos incarnate," she declares, her voice shaking the very air. "The Queen of Ruin. The Empress of Magic. I am the Scarlet Witch."
Her hand lashes out, claws slicing through the air as she grabs my face, forcing me to look into her burning eyes. Her grip is iron, her nails digging into my cheeks with such force I feel the skin split.
"And you," she growls, her voice low and venomous, "are mine. Your power. Your soul. All of it is mine."
I try to wrench free, but the roots dig deeper, pinning me in place as they twist and crush my limbs. A sharp and unrelenting pain rips through me, and I scream.
"What… what do you want from me?" I choke out, the words barely audible over the pounding of blood in my ears.
"Freedom," she says, her smile widening into something feral. "Speak the words, and I will leave this prison. The world will bow before me, or it will burn."
Visions slam into me like a tidal wave. Cities reduced to ash. Rivers running red with blood. Shadows consuming everything, leaving behind only emptiness and silence. The screams—the endless, agonized screams—are unbearable, clawing at my mind until I want to rip my own ears off to make them stop.
"No," I gasp, my voice shaking as tears blur my vision. "I won't let you. You'll destroy everything."
Her smile curdles into a sneer.
"So naive," she says, her tone mocking. "The world you cling to so desperately is broken. I will fix it. Whether through fire or fear, the choice is mine to make."
Her grip tightens, her claws sinking deeper into my flesh. Her magic coils around me like a noose, crimson tendrils slithering into my veins. They burrow deep, wrapping around my heart, my lungs, suffocating me from the inside out.
She leans closer, her voice a hiss against my ear. "You're nothing without me. Just a flickering spark waiting to be snuffed out. Let me show you how small you really are."
But somewhere within the pain, within the suffocating darkness, a spark flickers. Memories flood back—Anne's laughter, Zara's joy, Ysandra's strength, my mother's warmth. The people I've fought for, the lives I've tried to protect. They're more than just memories. They're pieces of me, pieces she can't touch.
"You don't own me," I snarl through gritted teeth, my voice ragged but defiant. "You never did."
The spark ignites, flaring into a blinding inferno. Golden light bursts from my chest, ripping through the vines and forcing her back. Her scream is a guttural roar, her crimson form flickering and splintering as the light tears into her.
"You dare—" she begins, but I cut her off, the light growing brighter, stronger. It surges forward, slamming into her with the force of a tidal wave. Her form shatters, fragments of crimson scattering into the air like embers caught in a storm.
But even as she disintegrates, her laughter lingers, cruel and mocking. Her voice echoes in my mind, soft and insidious.
"You cannot kill chaos," she whispers, the words burrowing into me like a parasite. "I am always with you."
I collapse to the ground, the golden light fading as exhaustion takes hold. My limbs tremble, blood pooling beneath me where the vines had pierced my flesh. The air is still, the red sky softening into a muted gray, but the words echo endlessly in my mind, a shadow I cannot shake.
My vision blurs as the screams around me twist and echo, melting into the crackling roar of crimson flames. Heat licks at my skin, but it's not the inferno that makes me choke—it's the weight. The unbearable weight of whatever just happened. I look down, my chest heaving, and see the charred remains of what used to be my robes. Black as night, shredded and scorched. The white mask I wore lies at my feet, cracked and buried in the dirt.
The air reeks of sulfur and smoke, choking out any semblance of the lush gardens that once stood here. The plants are no longer green but decayed, twisted into grotesque shapes. Flames rise in spiraling pillars, licking at the sky as witches rush to douse them with magic. The ground beneath my feet feels wrong—alive, but in the worst possible way, writhing with decay and thorns.
I look at the dais, and my stomach churns. The bodies of two witches—one in a fox mask, the other in a crab mask—lie motionless, their blood staining the earth beneath them.
"Adrian!"
Rose's voice pierces through the haze, trembling and raw. I turn toward her, finding her crouched near the hedges. She's beside Aurora, her hands trembling as they glow faintly with magic. Blood streaks her face, smeared with soot, and her eyes are wild as they dart between Aurora's pale form and me.
Aurora isn't moving much. There's blood pooling at the corner of her mouth, staining the elegant fabric of her robes. Her breathing is shallow, each exhale like a whisper of life trying to escape her body.
I try to call out, but my voice feels foreign in my throat, cracked and hollow.
"Don't you dare take another step!"
The voice snaps like a whip. I turn sharply, my blood freezing as Gabriel stands a few feet away, his sword drawn and pointed directly at me. His face is a mask of rage, but his hands are shaking.
"You attacked us!" Gabriel snarls, his voice breaking as he takes a threatening step closer. "You killed them! By order of the Concord of the Arcane, your life is forfeit."
"No," I whisper, stumbling back a step. My eyes dart between him and the destruction around me—the scorched earth, the twisted vines, the suffocating smoke. "No, I didn't… I wouldn't—"
"You would!" Gabriel's voice cracks, his grip tightening on the sword. "I watched you do it. You…"
"Stop," Aurora chokes out, her voice barely audible but cutting through the tension like a knife. Her bloodied hand presses against Rose's, trying to sit up. "Gabriel, he is himself now."
"Wait," Aurora rasps, her voice weak but commanding. She struggles to sit up, blood staining her lips as she glares at Gabriel. "Gabriel… he is himself."
"Matron," Gabriel says, his tone sharp with disbelief. "Three lie dead because of him!"
Aurora's gaze hardens, though her body trembles under its own weight. "And as Matron, I order you to stand down."
The tension between them crackles like the flames around us. Gabriel's knuckles whiten on his sword, but slowly, reluctantly, he lowers it. His eyes, however, remain locked on me, burning with unspoken fury. The silence is unbearable, broken only by the crackle of flames and the distant sound of witches scrambling through the smoke.
Aurora's voice softens, but there's a weight behind it, an undeniable authority. "Listen now, all of you. You must leave." She coughs again, her voice strained. "As leader of the Seventh House, I deem you three absolutus a vinculis."
Rose stiffens beside her. "You're releasing us from our bond?"
Aurora nods weakly, her hand trembling as she presses it to her abdomen. A soft glow emanates from her fingertips, her magic sluggish but steady.
"Yes," she says, her voice firm despite the pain. "I release you from your commitments to me and House Libra. Take Adrian and go. Immediately."
Gabriel steps forward, his jaw tightens. "I will not leave you."
Aurora's eyes meet his, steady and unyielding. "If you stay, your fate will rest with the High Table."
I shuffle forward, my steps unsteady as I struggle to process what's happening. "You…" My voice rises, raw and trembling. "You put her inside me… why?"
Rose freezes, her healing magic faltering as Gabriel's grip tightens on his hilt, his stance shifting defensively.
"Matron," Rose whispers, her voice filled with uncertainty. "What… what does he mean?"
Aurora's expression falters, a shadow of regret flickering across her face.
"Our world is filled with secrets," she says softly, her voice laced with exhaustion. "The less you know, the safer—"
"Shut up!" I snap, my voice rising, raw and venomous. "Don't you dare keep hiding behind your riddles. You sent me to meet her. You let her inside me! She almost killed me!"
I step forward, my voice breaking as the anger swells. "You will tell me everything. Now."
Aurora doesn't flinch, though the weight of my words hangs heavily in the air.
Her bloodied lips part, and she exhales slowly.
"Her power," she begins, her voice strained, "is the spark that brought you back to life. She is ancient, older than any magic we know. She has empowered witches for centuries. When the opportunity arose to place her in a vessel…"
She meets my eyes, her gaze steady. "I took it."
"She's evil," I snap, the words dripping with venom. "She wants to destroy the—"
"Yes," Aurora says, cutting me off. Her honesty stops me cold, and for a moment, the crackling flames are the only sound. "It's true. But contained, and in the right hands, her power can change the world."
A commotion stirs beyond the flames, voices rising in the distance. Aurora's gaze flickers toward the sound. "You must leave," she says firmly. "I will send for you when the time is right."
Gabriel steps forward, his anger boiling over. "No! He must face his—"
Aurora's voice cuts him off like a blade.
"Gabriel." Her tone softens, her eyes shining with something I can't quite name. "Son… he is the only one who can save us from ourselves."
Gabriel's expression twists, betrayal and pain flashing across his face as his sword dissolves into sand. He doesn't speak, but his silence is deafening.
Aurora turns to Rose, her expression unreadable. "Rosaline," she says softly. "Everything I've done has been for the betterment of our people."
Rose hesitates, her voice trembling. "Matron…"
Aurora cuts her off with a wave of her hand. "Take him. The center of the hedge maze is a port key. It will take you wherever your heart desires."
Rose nods reluctantly, standing and moving toward me. "Come on, Adrian," she says softly.
I hesitate, my gaze lingering on Aurora. "You killed Ysandra,"
Aurora closes her eyes for a brief moment. "I killed my friend," she admits. "In all my years, I've learned that we are nothing more than extensions of those who lead us, and that a golden cage is still a cage."
Her words sting, but Rose tugs at my arm, pulling me away. "Adrian, we have to go."
I give Aurora one last look, my mind a storm of questions and betrayal, before turning and following Rose and Gabriel into the maze. The smoke thickens behind us, and the chaos fades as we push forward, silent and tense.
When we finally reach the center, a small fountain gurgles softly, its waters untouched by the flames. Rose grabs Gabriel's hand and mine, pulling us into the circle.
The world blurs, the ground falling away beneath me. When we land, I collapse onto Rose's apartment floor, my knees hitting the hardwood as my stomach lurches. I retch, the weight of everything crashing down on me.
Rose kneels beside me, her voice soft and uncertain. "Adrian… what happens now?"
I don't answer. I can't. Because I don't know.