It wasn’t just old; it felt… unnatural. She pressed her palm against the cover, and for the briefest moment, a faint hum vibrated beneath her touch. Not like the dark pulse she had felt when she touched the ancient sigil—no, this was different. It was as if the book wanted to be opened.
Cillian had borrowed this. She was sure of it. He must have taken it from Velenshire’s library while visiting their father. It had meant something to him.
Shoving her collected books and notes into a bundle, she turned and left the room.
Back in her chambers, Evelyne shut the door to and slid the lock into place. Exhaustion weighed heavily on her, but she pushed it aside. She had work to do.
She spread Cillian’s sketches across her desk, each a puzzle piece that had yet to fit into place. Again and again, she traced the symbols—the gnarled tree, the haunting pair of eyes, the moon. The more she stared at them, the more they seemed to pulse with some hidden urgency, like they were waiting to be understood. At some point, Seraphine knocked and left a tray of tea and lunch by her door, but Evelyne ignored it, too lost in her frantic search for answers.
She openedThe Concord of Shadows,its brittle pages crackling as she turned them. Dread prickled under her skin as she spotted folded corners marking specific passages. Cillian had been here before her, searching for something in these words.
The first marked page revealed an illustration—a tree, ancient and massive, its branches stretching toward the heavens. Unlike Cillian’s darkand lifeless sketches, this one was vibrant, depicting something powerful and alive.
The Solwyn Tree of Velenshire. Evelyne skimmed the text, devouring the words.A sacred tree. A vessel of power. Witches gathered beneath its boughs to honor its gifts, believing it protected the southern lands. Seers cast visions in its shade. Rituals were performed beneath its roots. It was the source of balance.
Magic wasn’t just whispers of superstition. It was woven into the land, into the bones of Velenshire itself. She folded the page as Cillian had and turned to the next marked section. Her eyes landed on a bold chapter heading:The Twins of Power.
Her fingers clenched the book as she read.
Twin witches, Vaelora and Kaya, were born under a rare celestial alignment, which occurs once every thousand years. In the world of witches, twins are an anomaly of immense power. Together, their magic could rival the gods, their bond unbreakable. But such power was both a blessing and a curse. As children, they were inseparable. As they grew older, their hunger for knowledge deepened, pushing them toward the edges of magic’s limits. Then, they found it—a forbidden tome detailing the siphoning of magic from living beings.
They drained others of their gifts: shifters, seers, witches. Their power grew as they inherited the powers of other magical beings. When their dark practices were discovered, Velenshire cast them out, banishing them to the northern lands of Nerathar. But the damage had already begun. Fear of their growing magic led the witches to ally with a powerful shifter pack. Together, they forged a sacred rite: a final safeguard against the resurgence of blood magic, the most powerful and dangerous of all.
Evelyne pressed a trembling hand to her forehead. None of this had ever been spoken of at court. Not in the noble circles. Not inany history she had ever read. Witches. Blood magic. Shifter packs. How had this knowledge been buried so deep? Her world had been built on nobility, wealth, and marriage contracts. But now, all of it seemed insignificant.
She closed the book and looked up. Her tea was surely cold by now, and her untouched lunch remained forgotten at her door. She knew she needed to eat, to steady herself, but her mind refused to rest.
Outside, the wind howled against the window panes, rattling them like invisible fingers scraping against the glass. Evelyne exhaled slowly, pressing her palms against the desk, grounding herself. She needed answers—more than scattered pages and stories of ancient magic could give her. Her gaze drifted to the books she had gathered.Heraldry and Sacred Signsstood out, its worn exterior promising knowledge of symbols and sigils. But books alone wouldn’t be enough. She needed to speak with someone who understood the true history of these lands, someone who could confirm what she had just read.
Velenshire.
The word settled in her mind like a whisper of fate. If there was any place that held the answers she sought, it was there. Deep in her bones, she knew she had only begun to scratch the surface of something far more sinister. And whatever darkness she was chasing had already taken Cillian.
After barely touching her cold lunch, Evelyne pushed the tray aside and stacked the books in a hurried pile. She needed a bag, a portmanteau, a valise, anything to carry them. Her hands trembled as she gathered Cillian’s sketches, folding them hastily before tossing them alongside the tomes. She had no time to be careful—every second wasted felt like another step further from finding him.
She turned quickly, eyes scanning her room, her mind racing. Clothes. She needed the right clothes. But how long would she be gone? A fewhours? A day? More? She had no idea. The uncertainty gnawed at her, making her movements erratic as she rifled through her drawers, yanking dresses from their hangers and scattering them across the floor. None of them felt right. She couldn’t be corseted and tripping over skirts if she needed to move fast.
Just as her frustration began bubbling into panic, a quiet knock sounded at the door before it eased open. Seraphine.
Evelyne exhaled in relief. “Oh, good. I need your help,” she blurted, barely pausing to look at her handmaid before returning to the whirlwind of fabric around her. She grabbed a pair of boots and threw them onto the pile before digging through her drawers again.
Seraphine, ever calm, stepped further inside. “Lady Evelyne… what can I help with?”
“I need to find him. I need clothes. Help me pack clothes,” Evelyne said hurriedly, her voice fraying at the edges as she threw more garments into the bag. She wasn’t thinking—just grabbing. Tunics, pants, boots. Anything that felt remotely useful.
Seraphine’s voice remained steady. “Yes, dear, but tell me what is happening first so I can help properly.”
Evelyne didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The words felt like an admission of how lost she was. So she kept moving, shoving more into the bag, refusing to slow down. If she slowed down, she’d think. And if she thought, she’d feel.
“Evelyne.” Seraphine’s voice was gentle, and a warm hand settled on Evelyne’s forearm, stopping her mid-motion. “Please explain.”
Evelyne stopped for the first time since she’d entered her brother’s room. The pressure in her chest tightened like a vise, and when she finally met Seraphine’s gaze, she saw nothing but patience and worry. It nearly undid her.
She swallowed hard and closed her eyes, willing herself to focus.
“I need to find Cillian.” She paused. “I’m sure you’ve heard about his disappearance. I need to find him.”
Her words felt heavier than she expected, and her composure suddenly cracked. Fear clawed its way up, suffocating her.
