The forest whispered as Malachi stepped through it.
Every branch he passed seemed to reach for him. The path to the Grove of Thorns was not one taken lightly—it never welcomed return. Twisting vines, blackened leaves, and air heavy with forgotten magic surrounded him as he approached the old boundary.
The coven's ward shimmered like heat on stone.
"Let him in," came a voice from nowhere—and then the enchantment broke.
Inside, the witches stood scattered like ghosts among the thorns. No fire. No warmth. Only judgmental stares and silent eyes.
Malachi stepped forward, breath catching in the thick air. "She's been taken," he said. "Isabel. They have her in the castle."
No one answered.
He turned to Maya, the High Witch. Her expression was unreadable.
"She lived among you," Malachi said. "She called you sisters. She cared for you. We were one of you—before you turned your backs on us."
A younger witch scoffed. "She let it happen. She gave in to what she turned into."
"She didn't ask for it," Malachi replied. "You abandoned her the moment you were afraid—when you saw what she became, you left her with no one."
The grove fell quiet again.
Finally, Maya stepped forward. Her voice was low and cold. "And what would you have me do?"
Malachi met her gaze. "Help me get her back."
"And face him?" Maya said. Her tone sharpened like a blade. "The one who walks in silence and leaves nothing behind? The one who holds shadows in his grasp?"
No one dared to speak.
Maya's voice lowered. "Lucian is more powerful than any of us now. More than we ever were. So tell me, Malachi—how exactly do you propose we bring down a monster like that?"
———
Baron Edevan stood at the window of his solar, jaw tight, hands clasped behind his back. The candles burned low, casting long shadows across the stone walls. The whisper of unrest had become a roar in his mind. He had heard what happened in the village. The old fears were no longer superstition—they were clawing their way back into the light.
He stepped out with a grim expression, his wife Alura following, her face taut with unease.
It was time for dinner.
The table was set, but the silence clung to it like dust. No chatter, no laughter. Just the sound of spoons against plates and the quiet crackle of fire.
For Vivienne, it was unbearable.
She finally leaned forward, trying to smile. "So… Father, how did your day go?"
Baron Edevan looked up from his plate, his voice clipped and steady. "You and your sister will leave for Aunt Morgan's village at dawn. You're going to Cranebrook."
Vivienne froze. "What?"
Alura turned to him, alarmed. "Edevan—"
"But why, Father?" Seraphina asked, eyes wide as she sat straight in her chair.
Baron Edevan's voice was firm, final. "Have you not heard of the calamity that has befallen us? This land is no longer safe for you. I will not have my daughters swallowed by darkness."
"But…" Alura tried again, gentler this time.
He raised his hand. "No buts. It's for your safety. It's for the good of everyone." He glanced at his daughters. "Now eat your meal."
The silence returned—heavier, colder.
Vivienne stared at her untouched plate, her appetite gone. Seraphina looked across the table at her sister. Neither spoke. The fear was real now. It wasn't just rumors or stories. Their father was sending them away.
The room felt smaller somehow, like the walls had crept inward.
Alura placed her hand on the table but said nothing.
And outside, beyond the walls of their home, the wind moaned low through the trees—like a warning.
———