But there is no fear in her eyes.
Magic stirs—not wild, not frantic—but precise. Like a blade sharpened instead of swung.
Thoughtful. The way it always does when she chooses instead of reacts.
“You’ll all stop,” she breathes, voice low, but unmistakable.
The witches bark humorless laughs—they don’t answer to her.But they will.
Winds whip through the cavern, her magic raging against the protection of the bone walls.
A wicked glint forms in Seren’s eyes—the kind born of devious, clever plans.
The waters surge as her friends step forward again, faces tightening, bodies coiling as if preparing to strike.
Seren lifts her hand. Not in warning. In command.
Gold-threaded bindings whip from her left palm, power drawn from the answer of The Widow’s Waters. The bindings form. Golden coils wrap ankles, wrists, waists, holding her friends gently but inexorably at the edge of the pool. Bound together, bound to the Waters.
They fight it.Of course they do.
Seren’s throat tightens as she watches them thrash against their bindings. But she’s not sorry.
Seren risks a glance at Lara, her mouth fighting a wicked smile, her amethyst eyes smug. The kind of expression that only comes from victory.
But Seren isn’t done. And Lara has not won.
The coven sneer, hands relaxing at their sides.
They think she’s chosen. They think obedience is so easily forced.
Seren raises her right hand, dragging more life force to her palm.
Her eyes transform into pools of obsidian—she can feel it. The way her witch blood courses through her veins like a summoning.
Her friends fight against the binding, the frustration dragging noises that are pure animal from their lips. So Seren pulls tighter, silencing them in a heartbeat.
And gods help her—she doesn’t hate it.
She snaps her eyes to the coven.
“You asked me a question,” she growls, her voice dragging across the room like a blade.
The coven stare back at her, all righteous venom and arrogance. Like they can squash her under their boot and force her to submit with one challenge from the Waters.
Seren bares her teeth, but she doesn’t wait for an answer.
“Ask it again,” she challenges, and her hand snaps out.
Bindings whip from her right hand, lassoing ankles, wrists, throats, and driving the coven toward the bone wall.
They thrash against it, desperate to pry their hands free.
So she tightens the bindings around their wrists, pinning them to the wall so their skin snags on the splintered bone.
Black-red blood runs in rivulets down their palms, gathering at their fingertips before dripping to the cavern floor.
“ASK IT AGAIN!” Seren demands, voice a hoarse scream.
