Charise reached forward, her fingers ghosting over the faded illustration on the page. “Yes,” she said softly. “Our ancestors needed a source of balance to conduct the spell. They surrendered nearly all their magic to the ritual… and in return, the tree’s life was drained, though not completely.” She traced the image one last time, then let her hand fall away. “I wish I’d seen it like this,” she murmured. “So alive and full of power. It’s hard to imagine the Solwyn Grove once held such magic hidden deep beneath the soil, woven through the roots of Velenshire’s ancient heart.”
The Solwyn Grove must be where the tree stood—not hidden, but set apart, sacred and removed from the market’s din. Evelyne must have walked past it once, never knowing how near she had come.
She tried to make sense of it all. If Vaelora had turned to blood magic, making herself the most powerful witch ever to exist, and if Cillian had somehow become tangled in her web, he was in grave danger. And he had been right all along. He wasn’t ill. His mind had been invaded, tainted by Vaelora’s blood magic. But to what end? Why seek to control him?
Was it the Solwyn Tree that continued to appear in his visions? And what of the other two symbols: the eyes and the moon? What could they signify? She still had no clear starting point.
Evelyne turned to Charise. “You said a prophecy was awakened when Vaelora turned to blood magic. What does it say? What could possibly have the power to destroy her?”
“We don’t know. Not even our ancestors fully understood it. We have spent generations trying to decipher its meaning, but the Rite itself never explicitly stated what the prophecy would be. Only that it was the key to saving our people.” Charise reached toward the book. “May I?”
Evelyne paused only a moment before handing it over.
Charise flipped through the worn pages with careful hands, stopping at an aged section filled with symbols and descriptions of ancient rituals. Her eyes traced the inked words before she read aloud: “When the darkest power is unleashed, a force long tied to the roots of this world shall rise—a key forged in shadow and light, bound by fate to break what has been made. Await the moon bathed in crimson, for it shall mark the beginning or the end.” She closed the book. “This is all that remains of the prophecy.”
Evelyne’s fingers curled into the fabric of her skirts. It wasn’t enough.
Alaric finally spoke. “Why would she be interested in corrupting Cillian’s mind?”
Charise shook her head. “I can’t say for certain. Perhaps he uncovered something, or perhaps she sensed a vulnerability in him. Someone she could manipulate to do her searching for her.”
Evelyne’s head snapped toward her. “My brother is not weak.”
“I meant no offense,” Charise said gently. “But something was different about him when he visited Velenshire. I sensed it immediately. Like a strong energy surrounded him, but was hidden beneath the surface. I couldn’t quite place it, but it made me… curious.” She paused briefly. “Later, I learned he had visited the library and spoken with my mother. But more importantly, he found a book that called to him. This book”—she pointed—“about the Forgotten Rite. Combined with the whispers of darkness spreading across the land, that suddenly made sense.”
Her expression darkened.
“The magical shift felt across the world nearly twenty-five years ago… That was Vaelora. That was the moment she tapped into blood magic. And now, she must have discovered that the covens performed a ritual capable of limiting her power.”
“And your mother—does she possess magic?” Evelyne asked.
“She does,” Charise replied, “though it’s not as strong as it once was. These days, her duty lies with the library.” She folded her hands neatly in her lap. “When the Rite was performed, it weakened the covens. And after Vaelora turned to blood magic, all of our power began to dim. The Hallowell coven has long served as the guardians of Velenshire’s great library, preserving what remains of our knowledge. One day, when my mother passes, I will take her place.” She glanced around the small shop,where relics and artifacts hummed softly with residual power. “Until then, I will practice small spells and stay here, in this shop.”
“So we go north to Nerathar?” Alaric interrupted.
“I believe that’s where Cillian may be. But understand this… Vaelora is too powerful. You won’t simply retrieve him and walk away. She will see through any deception before you even step on her land.”
Evelyne pushed back her chair and stood. “I don’t care. I will find my brother and bring him home.”
Charise’s expression tightened. “Miss, I strongly urge you to stay. To learn more about Vaelora and the prophecy. You may stand a chance if we can uncover what it truly means.”
Evelyne lifted her bag, securing the strap over her shoulder. “I cannot waste another moment.” She dipped her head respectfully. “Thank you for your kindness, but I must leave. Now.”
Alaric rose beside her, nodding in gratitude. “I’m going with her. Thank you for your help.”
Just as he turned to leave, Charise caught his wrist, her grip firm, her voice a whisper only he could hear. Whatever she said, his face blanched for the briefest moment. Then, without a word, he followed Evelyne out of the shop and back into the market.
Evelyne strode briskly toward her carriage. She needed to get inside, to breathe, to think. The books tucked away in her luggage held more answers, and she intended to find them.
Footsteps quickened behind her. “Where are you going, Evelyne?” Alaric’s voice chased after her as he caught up to her side.
“What do you mean? I’m going to my carriage. I told you—I’m leaving to find Cillian.”
“Yes, I understand that. But what about me?”
She froze mid-step. “What about you?” Her words came sharp.
“Did you not hear Charise? We need to do this together.”
