Rolling my eyes, I adjusted the strap of my satchel, “You don’t like anything that doesn’t involve sleeping and eating.” His tail flicked against my leg, sharp but not hard enough to hurt.
“That’s not true, I also enjoy not dying.”
So dramatic.
I sighed, glancing down at him, and my brows lifted.Has he grown again?When I first found him over a week ago, he fit in my arms, a small hissing bundle of claws, scales and attitude. He now stood near my hip; his long, sinuous body coiled with lean muscle. Considering I was only five feet tall, that meant my little stowaway was quickly becoming not so little.
I crouched beside him, running a hand along his smooth head, feeling the slight rise of ridges forming along his crown, “You’ve been sneaking extra meals, haven’t you?” He huffed, looking away.
“The mice are small, but I was still hungry.”
I smirked, but my amusement faded as I turned my gaze back towards the dark, distant outline of the capital. I didn’t want to go; Xarothar wasn’t wrong. Something about tonight felt… off. The Whispering Woods were restless, the wind whispering secrets through the trees, and the usual nocturnal hum of the forest seemed almost… hesitant, but I didn’t have a choice.
Food was needed, and I was running low on some key ingredients for a healing potion. If I hesitated any longer, I wouldn’t make it back before dawn. Straightening, I pulled my cloak tighter around me and met Xarothar's gaze.
“I’ll be in and out. Quick and quiet.”
He didn’t look convinced. My daggers were strapped to my thighs, hidden beneath the flowing fabric of my cloak. The fitted black top and pants clung to my body, allowing for unrestricted movement, while my leather boots, buckled up to my knees, muffled my steps against the floor. The hood of my cloak was pulled low, casting a shadow over my face, concealing the stark white hair that could make me so damn recognisable.
"What about the vampire that's lurking around?" I sighed as I kept my gaze fixed ahead.
“He’s a blood mage, not a vampire.”
“Same thing.”
“Apparently not.” My voice was flat, but I could feel his disapproval like a weight on my shoulders.
“You had the chance to end him, but you let him walk away.”
I clenched my jaw. He wasn’t wrong, I know that. I should have killed him the moment he laid his hands on me, yet I didn’t. I had no idea why. Well, I might have a slight idea, but just the thought of him, his eyes, the way his fingers had pressed against my throat, the way his voice slithered through my veins like poison laced with something intoxicating.
I haven’t been able to get him out of my head all day.
Xarothar let out a deep, unimpressed huff, his tail flicking against my leg again.
“Unbelievable.”
I ignored him, pulling my hood lower and stepping forward, “Just go back to the cottage and stay low, just in case he’s lurking around.” I instructed, my voice firm but quiet, “And try not to break anything.” I added.
Without another word, I sprinted into the night, my cloak billowing behind me. The streets were eerily silent, the only light coming from the lanterns strung along the worn stone walls of the building. Most of the town was asleep by now, except for the hunters. They prowled the streets in the dead of night, watchful and ready to strike at anything deemed a threat. But it was a Sunday, meaning fewer would be stationed in Velmore.
Most of them were sent to the borders of Eclipsara, the vampire realm, hunting for those foolish or desperate enough to slip through into our realm. The king’s soldiers were the worst; they were monsters just like him, the kind of creatures that made even the bravest souls pray for mercy.
I pressed myself against the crumbling wall of an abandoned herb shop, the scent of dried lavender and aged parchment still lingering in the air. Peeking around the corner, my gaze was drawn to the imposing structure in the distance: the High Coven. The building was monstrous, an ancient fortress carved from obsidian stone that seemed to absorb the moonlight rather than reflect it. Jagged spires pierced the sky like twisted claws, and intricate enchantments pulsed faintly along the towering walls, humming with trapped magic. The outer gates were made of iron, laced with flickering enchantments that crackled like blue lightning, ensuring that no unwelcome guests could slip through unnoticed.
Beyond the gates, a winding path of black cobblestone led to the grand entrance, flanked on either side by rose bushes unlikeany others in this realm. Their deep crimson was velvety, rich, and almost unnaturally vibrant against the bleak surroundings. However, the thorns made them infamous. Razor-sharp and enchanted to burrow deeper into any flesh they touched, they served as both a warning and a reminder: beauty could be just as deadly as power.
This was the domain of Vespera, attached to the council building. As the merciless ruler of the High Coven and Velmore, she held control over the Anelite Council and the Veilguards. Vespera was a witch feared by all, and she thrived on that fear. The witches in Velmore were divided into factions, with their ranks determined by the strength and type of their magic. Younger witches attended the boarding school, Everknox Academy, to gain an education as well as learn to control their magic.
The Elementalists were part of the Emberthorn Order, a power that coursed through my veins. There was also the Astral Sanctum, a group of seers who could glimpse the threads of fate. Lastly, there was the Deathveil Covenant, a collection of necromancer witches who treated graves as their playground.
Those who are born with little to no magical power, or who fail to bond with a familiar, are cast aside to become Hollowborns, existing in the shadows of their unrealised potential. As for the rest of us—every witch with magic—our strength depends on our bloodlines. Some are more powerful, fierce, and deadly, while others barely possess a spark.
I think it’s wrong, and many others think so too, but nobody dared challenge her rule. Other realms all lived in peace together, apart from Zyphora, the shifter realm; they lived with their own species.
Vespera had reigned for a long time, her power unshaken, her cruelty unmatched. She was someone I needed to stay far awayfrom; it’s her fault my mother had lived the life she did, all because she was a low-level witch.
Oh, I would love nothing more than to see her head on a stick, but nobody powerful or brave enough dared attempt something like taking on Vespera had occurred, and I certainly wouldn’t be stupid enough to try.
