Three nights passed. The moon waxed fuller, bathing the northern woods in a pale silver light. The mist no longer clung to the ground but lingered just above the treetops, like watchful spirits refusing to settle. Lillian traveled cloaked and alone, her hood drawn tight, her boots muffled against the mossy forest floor. She had waited until the coven had turned its attention elsewhere—rituals, politics, ancient feuds flaring like embers stirred. But her mind had not left the child. Not once.
She reached the healer's dwelling near midnight.
The cottage was hidden beneath an arch of root and stone, half-swallowed by the hill itself. Ivy veiled the doorway like curtains, and faint golden light spilled from a tiny, circular window. Smoke coiled from the chimney in lazy spirals. Lillian felt a warmth spread through her chest, soft and painful, like an ache from holding one's breath too long.
She knocked once, softly. Then twice.
The door creaked open before she could call out.
"Come in, witch-born," said a voice steeped in age and magic. "She's been waiting."
Lillian stepped inside. The air smelled of lavender and crushed juniper, dried herbs hanging in bundles from the ceiling. Shelves were lined with jars of salves, stones, and bones. And in the center of the room, by the fire, was a cradle woven of vine and wolf-hair thread, enchanted with spells of shielding and concealment.
The child lay sleeping within, her tiny chest rising and falling, her silver lashes brushing plump cheeks.
Lillian felt the tension in her shoulders melt into sorrowful awe. She knelt beside the cradle, hands trembling.
"She's strong," said the old healer as she stirred something in a pot. "More magic in her bones than I've seen in any child, even from your line. But there's wildness in her too. That's her father's mark."
Lillian nodded. "Has she… shown anything yet?"
The healer turned, one clouded eye catching the firelight. "She stopped a frostspider from biting her yesterday. Froze it mid-leap. Just… stared at it. No words, no incantation."
Lillian's breath hitched. The power awakening already.
She leaned forward, brushing a finger lightly along the baby's cheek. "She has Bella's eyes."
The healer hummed. "And your resolve."
For a long time, neither woman spoke. The fire crackled. A wind howled far in the distance.
Finally, Lillian said, "They'll come looking. Sooner or later. Serana doesn't believe me."
"She wouldn't," the healer replied. "The young ones never trust easy. They think suspicion is strength."
"I can't stay long," Lillian murmured. "I needed to see her. To be sure she was… safe."
"She is. For now. But this place won't hold forever. I can shield her for a few months more. Maybe a year. After that, her aura will outgrow my wards."
Lillian stood, hands clenching into fists. "Then I'll find another way. A safer place. I'll start making arrangements."
"You've already started something bigger than that," the healer said, eyeing her. "The threads are changing. The loom is moving. You saved a child, yes—but you also made a choice. A declaration."
Lillian looked back at the child, sleeping peacefully in the flickering light.
"I made a promise," she whispered.
She left just before dawn, the mist curling around her like ghostly veils.
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The next morning, a grim silence settled over the Bloodwood stronghold, heavy as a storm cloud before the lightning strike. The obsidian throne room, still cloaked in eternal twilight, bore witness once more to King Valoise's wrath. He sat unmoved, a statue carved from shadow and fury, his long fingers curling around the arms of his throne like talons ready to tear.
His crimson eyes scanned the gathered lords and night-knights before him—none dared to meet his gaze. The air was thick with the scent of blood and fear.
"Find him," the king growled, his voice echoing like thunder across the cold stone walls. "Find my son and bring him back to me. Alive, if possible."
His voice dropped into a venomous whisper, more terrifying than his roar. "And if he resists… drag him back in chains."
A shiver rippled through the court. The hunters were already preparing—blades sharpened, enchantments whispered in forgotten tongues, and the trail of Prince Raymond's escape growing colder by the hour. But no one dared question the king. No one dared speak the truth aloud:
Prince Raymond had not just deserted the clan—he had set something far more dangerous in motion.