The chamber walls breathed with power.
Mother Vyra stood alone in the sanctum beneath the main hall of Bloodroot House, the violet flames in the braziers casting long shadows that danced like ghosts. Incense smoldered in the air, thick with crushed moonroot and snakeweed. Ancient runes pulsed faintly on the floor—not for protection, but suppression.
At the center of the room, an obsidian basin reflected not water, but memories. Faded, fractured pieces of Saelwyn's final moments shimmered in the surface: a burning stake, the chanting circle, the glint of regret in Kaeln's eyes. Vyra's jaw tightened.
"The past," she whispered, "should have stayed buried."
Behind her, the chamber doors creaked open. Three robed witches entered, hoods drawn. Each belonged to the High Circle. They bowed their heads as one, but their silence was not obedience—it was tension.
"You summoned us," said Arynne, the eldest, voice brittle as dried leaves.
"The girl is awakening," Vyra said, turning from the basin. "She walks paths she should never remember."
Maedra, sharp-eyed and silver-tongued, lifted her chin. "You should have ended her when she returned."
"We couldn't confirm it was her," Vyra snapped. "Until now."
The third witch, Lys, said nothing. Her gaze flickered to the basin, to Vyra, to the flickering runes. Observing. Calculating.
"She entered the catacombs," Arynne said.
Vyra nodded. "And found the Grimoire. Saelwyn's memories are fusing with her soul."
"Then the seal is breaking," Maedra murmured.
A hiss of wind rushed through the chamber—no windows, no doors. Just magic responding to truth.
Vyra placed a hand over her chest. Her heart beat faster. She remembered the way Saelwyn defied her. The way her words stirred rebellion, even in the youngest witches. She remembered the child Saelwyn tried to protect. The child who grew into a spy.
"We cannot afford another rebellion," Vyra said.
Arynne stepped forward. "What of the Seer? She would have foreseen this."
"The Seer is dead," Vyra replied. "And her apprentice lies in a trance she cannot wake from."
"Convenient," Maedra muttered.
Lys finally spoke. "You speak of destiny, Vyra. But destiny is not so easily controlled."
Vyra turned to her slowly. "You question me?"
"No," Lys said. But her eyes were unreadable. "Only fate."
---
Later, alone again, Vyra stood before a mirror of onyx framed with bones of long-dead witches. The surface rippled like liquid.
A voice came from beyond.
"She breathes."
Vyra's lips thinned. "Yes."
"You made a promise."
"I am keeping it."
The mirror pulsed. "The blood of the marked cannot walk freely under the stars. Not again."
"She will not live to see the next moonrise."
A clawed hand pressed against the inside of the mirror, but did not break through.
"Then summon the Hollowborn."
Vyra's breath caught. "They're not ready."
"They will be. And if not... you will burn in her place."
---
Back in the High Circle, Lys returned to her chambers. She closed the door quietly, then pulled a small raven feather from her sleeve and whispered into it.
A shadowy raven formed in the air, its eyes glowing.
"The witch remembers," she told it. "The Grimoire is no longer hidden. And Vyra has called for blood."
The raven cawed once, then vanished into smoke.
Across the realm, in a distant forest untouched by coven eyes, an unseen ally opened her eyes.
"Then it's time," she whispered. "Let the Hunt begin."