Camille’s form manifested in a burst of consuming fire. She landed between me and the spear, her presence sudden and startling. Her blade was already igniting as she roared, the sound carrying the fury of a warrior who had seen too much and refused to see more. The shadow spear disintegrated mid-air, dissolving into harmless wisps under the force of her magic.

But Camille didn’t stop there. The flames didn’t simply neutralize the attack. They followed its trajectory, surging forward like a predator locked onto its prey. They tore through the courtyard, blazing a path straight to the witch who had thrown the spear. It moved so fast there was barely anytime for her to dodge it. The flames struck the witch, consuming her in an instant. Her piercing scream cut through the night before her form collapsed into ash, leaving nothing but silence in its wake.

Good. One was dead.

Camille turned to face the remaining witches, the firelight reflecting off her armour. The heat of her magic dwarfing even the combined force of Mother’s and mine. Her curved blade pulsed with fire as she raised it, her voice slicing through the courtyard.

“Who dares to stand against the Le Torneau Fire Orientals?” she bellowed, her words a challenge that crackled like a flame ready to ignite. The inferno around her roared, the very heat forcing me back a bit.

The witches hesistated. Their formation broke, shadows curling and recoiling like frightened animals. But their elder remained rooted, her masked face calm, her body unmoving. The lack of reaction was maddening.

Oh, that is your sister? Mouriana’s voice slurred in my mind with lazy surprise. Interesting. She seems far more direct than I expected.

“Gaia’s mercy’” My mother’s voice trembled beside us. I turned to her, startled by how much smaller she appeared. Camille’s presence had diminished her. Her flames flickered, dimming as she took an uncertain step back. Her hands trembled faintly at her sides as though she’d been struck.

“Camille?” The name escaped her lips in a whisper, like a prayer spoken too late.

Camille turned slowly, the light on her blade casting shadows across her face. “Mother,” she said with a slight bow.

Mother’s crimson hair whipped in the breeze of residual magic as she took another step back. Her eyes swept over Camille, searching, questioning, as though afraid the image might vanish if she blinked too hard. “How is this”? You died,” she said, her voice cracking. “I” I buried you.”

Tears stung at the corners of my eyes as I watched her. I had seen my mother face down armies without flinching, but now, in the presence of her greatest loss returned, she looked vulnerable. Her voice shook, her hands flexing as if she wanted to reach for Camille but couldn’t bring herself to move.

Camille stepped closer. “I never left you,” she said to mother.

Mother’s breath hitched, her hands twitching at her sides. She shook her head once, as if trying to steady herself against the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. “You” you’re’” Her words broke apart, lost to the chaos in her mind.

The witches moved before either could speak. One of them hissed, her shadow curling upward like a serpent preparing to strike. The hesitation was over. Sharp grit had replaced their fear.

“Later,” Camille said, her blade igniting in her hand again as she turned back to the witches. The tenderness in her voice disappeared. “We’ll talk later. Right now, we fight.”

The elder witch finally spoke, her voice was almost muffled by her mask, “The last of the Fire Orientals,” she said. “I never thought it would be my destiny to rid the world of the igw’s.”

Her use of mother’s oriental family name, and the casual arrogance in her tone, was almost as unsettling as her lack of action. She hadn’t struck while Mother was distracted, hadn’t commanded her witches to exploit the moment. She just stood there, unbothered by anything. I could see that Mother’s flames were waning, her exhaustion was obvious now, and yet, this witch didn’t move. What was her plan?

“Who in Gaia’s name are you?” Mother growled.

The elder shrugged, and again, her movements maddeningly calm. “Does it matter?” she replied.

Mother’s jaw tightened, the flames around her flickering with the tension coiled in her frame. “It does if you expect to leave this courtyard alive.”

The elder’s head tilted slightly as if considering the threat. “And yet,” she said, “I am still standing. Your flames waver, Le Torneau. You may carry the title of Raging Inferno, but even infernos burn out.”

Mother’s gaze burned hotter, her magic surging briefly in response, but even I knew the elder was speaking the truth. The fight had taken its toll. The fight had taken its toll on her. Her stance was no less commanding, but her hands trembled from exhaustion. Her flames still roared fiercely, but not with the same ferocity as when the battle started. And the elder knew it.

“You speak as though you’ve already won,” Camille said, stepping forward. Her blade burned bright, casting rippling waves of heat across the stone. “But standing in the shadow of victory is not the same as holding it.”

The elder’s shoulders lifted in a languid shrug. “You think your return changes anything, fire child? This isn’t a battle you can win.”

There wasn’t time to dwell on her words, which were loaded with meaning I couldn’t quite understand. The elder raised her hand, her fingers curling into a fist, and the vortex above rotated violently. The shadows descended, taking form as they landed. These were not clumsy tendrils or erratic constructions like before. They were solid, humanoid constructs cloaked in darkness.

“Let’s see if you burn as brightly as your reputation claims,” the elder said.

“Odd thing is,” I interjected before she could unleash her shadow constructs, “you haven’t said a word about what you want.” Every second she spent speaking was another moment to find an opening, a plan.

Camille, we need to destroy that vortex, I said, reaching for her through our bond. It’s sapping the strength from everyone under it. We can’t win unless it’s gone.

There was a pause, and then Camille turned her head slightly, her fiery eyes meeting mine. Her voice filled my mind, I see it. It’s tied to you now, Celeste. You’ve been in the darkness, and it’s left a mark.

I stared at her, and her presence hit me in a way it hadn’t before. She was truly here. Not just a fleeting echo or a trick of memory. This was my sister, tethered to me in a way I hadn’t fully recognized until now. It felt almost unreal, like a cheat code to bring her back into my life, a loophole I hadn’t meant to exploit.

I opened my mouth to question her, to ask her what she meant, but the elder spoke first.

“None of that matters. Dead people don’t talk,” she said with a dismissive shrug, her tone almost bored. Her gaze shifted to me, her blue eyes gleaming faintly through the slits of her mask. “You’ve been in the darkness, little one. It touched you.”

“I’m starting to take offence to being called little,” I huffed, narrowing my eyes at her. The urge to tell her to shut up was strong, but I pushed it aside. “It might not matter to you, but humour me. Like you said, we’ll be dead soon. It wouldn’t hurt to share a little, would it? I’d hate to think I was killed by a witch too cowardly to show her face.”

The elder tilted her head again. Her smile was hidden behind the mask, but you could hear it in her voice. “Brave words for someone marked by the very thing they fear. But you’ll learn soon enough, little one. The veil is patient. It doesn’t need to rush.”

That bloody witch had the audacity to stress little one, as if it were a title she’d bestowed upon me. My teeth clenched, the words scraping against my pride like nails on glass. For a moment, irritation drowned out the unease curling in my gut. As much as her tone grated on me, it was impossible to miss the subtle undercurrent of purpose in her words. She was waiting for something. Stalling.

“You sound awfully philosophical for someone lobbing curses at innocent people and picking unnecessary fights,” I nearly growled. “It must be exhausting to hear yourself talk. I asked what you want, not for a lecture.”

Her reply came as smoothly as the shadows curling around her. “You’ll see soon enough.”

The simplicity of her answer only irritated me more. That smug calm, the way she spoke as though victory was already hers set my nerves on edge. She was saying the exact amount she wanted us to know. No more, no less.

Camille’s voice pierced my thoughts again. Celeste, focus. Ignore it. She’s stalling for something.

Stalling for what? I wanted to ask, but Camille’s tone made it clear she wasn’t in the mood for speculation. My fingers flexed at my sides, my magic stirring under my skin as I steadied myself. The elder’s confidence wasn’t just an act; she had something up her sleeve, and whatever it was, it was big enough to make her immune to fear.

By the way, where are you, Mouriana? I sent the question into the tangled space of my mind, grasping for the familiar sharpness of her presence. But there was nothing. No snarly retort. No sly commentary. Just an empty, disconcerting silence.

The vortex churned above us, the shadows around it thickening, spiralling into a tighter, faster rotation. The pressure in the courtyard grew unbearable, and for a moment, I felt an insidious pull wrapping around my core, and dragging me toward the darkness. My knees wavered, but I shoved back, forcing myself to stand firm, grounding myself in the elements coursing through me. Whatever the vortex wanted, it wasn’t going to take me.

“You’re stalling,” I said, stepping forward against the oppressive force pressing on my body. “I asked you what you wanted, and all you’ve done is talk. Is it because you don’t actually have a plan? Or is it because you know you’ll lose?”

The elder tilted her head slightly, her movements unhurried as she raised a hand. The swirling shadows around her stilled, their restless energy coiling like snakes awaiting her command. “I want to remake Wridel into a visionary dominion,” she said. “It’s time to snuff out the flame that threatens the wave of shadows destined to cleanse this land.”

“Remake?” my mother asked in a snide tone. She scoffed, her battle crimson hair turning black as she stepped forward, her eyes narrowing. “You speak of dominion, yet you hide behind a mask. That is not vision. It’s cowardice.”

The elder’s head turned toward her. “Think what you want. It is well within your right,” she replied smoothly. “But since the Le Toreau fire is the only thing that stands in our way, none of you will leave here alive.”

I opened my mouth to respond, a sharp retort ready to tear her composure apart, but another voice cut through the courtyard with a quiet authority that silenced everything.

“Is that a threat?”

All eyes turned toward the steps leading into the courtyard. Devon stood there, his eyes fixed on the elder with a focus so sharp it made the shadows recoil. He descended slowly, the hem of his tunic brushing against his boots as he moved. The Le Torneau Lycan sentinels flanked him, while my father and brothers followed close behind, their expressions grim.

I felt his presence before I saw him fully—the warmth that radiated from him.

He didn’t stop until he was level with me, the faintest glimmer of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You threaten Wridel,” he continued. “Its General. Its people. And now you dare to stand here and threaten my mate?”

He stepped forward, unhurried, cutting through the swirling darkness like it wasn’t there. The shadows recoiled from him as if they recognized a force they couldn’t touch. The elder shifted for the first time, her composure faltering ever so slightly as Devon advanced.

“Igris,” he spat her name like a curse on his tongue. “I ask you again: is. That. A. Threat?”

He came to a stop directly in front of her, close enough that I could feel my pulse thunder in my ears as I watched him, every muscle in my body taut. My magic stirred without my bidding, rising like an ember caught in a sudden wind. It responded to him—his strength, his fury—as if the connection between us was a living thing.

The elder tilted her head. The shadows around her quivered, no longer steady in their form. She lifted her chin, masking whatever crack had begun to show in her confidence but said nothing.

Igris didn’t move immediately. When she finally spoke, her voice was still quite calm, like the tone of someone who had more pieces to play.

“So what if you’ve stepped out of the darkness,” she said to Devon. “That only means you’re already part of it.”

“You silly witch,” Camille hissed, stepping forward, her blade flaring as the air rippled with heat around her. “Trying to spin that tired tale like it holds any power. Isn’t stepping out of the darkness the only way for a witch to wield it? Isn’t that why you can direct it?”

Igris turned her head slightly. “Being a part of it makes you both a master and a slave,” she countered.

Camille’s response was laced with contempt. “No, you’re too weak, too insignificant to be its master. You’re either one or the other, never both.”

“You’re very skilled at not answering what’s asked,” I said with irritation. I wanted to remind everyone, including her, that she still hadn’t addressed Devon’s question. She wasn’t just stalling now—she was dodging.

Then Cullen’s shocked voice suddenly cut through the yard. “Sweet Gaia, Camille?” His tone was a mix of disbelief and shock, his gaze darting between her and me, his eyes wide with horror.

“Yes, it is I, Cullen,” Camille replied coolly, but she didn’t spare him a glance. Her focus was locked on the witches. “We can talk later. Let’s get rid of this vortex.”

Igris chuckled. “That will be over my dead body,” she said with an unshakable conviction.

Interesting.

I inhaled deeply, making use of the momentary distraction. Something about her calmness was unsettling. She wasn’t acting like someone staring down defeat. I could feel it behind her stillness, and in how she responded. My magic stirred, a restless energy seeking answers. I pushed it outward, letting it stretch toward her as I reached for her mind. I needed to know what she was hiding. Why wasn’t she afraid? Why wasn’t she retreating?

The connection was immediate, almost too easy, as though her mind had been left unguarded. My breath caught as I slipped into her thoughts, the access disturbingly effortless.

Her mind was cold, a labyrinth of jagged stone. But there were cracks—small, uneven fractures—and through them, I caught glimpses. Flashes of something terrible. Shadows consuming Wridel. A veil of impenetrable darkness spreading across the land, choking out every light, silencing every voice. The vortex above was a trigger. The witches” deaths would fuel the curse, unleashing it completely, their blood the final offering to drown Wridel in shadow.

My breath hitched, and my pulse pounded in my ears. This was a trap. They’d attacked Mother and me because they knew our fire would destroy them, sealing their fate and activating the veil.

“Witches of the Dark Veil Cult!” Devon’s voice boomed across the courtyard, pulling me from the storm of Igris’s mind. “This is your one chance to surrender and answer for the crimes you’ve wrought across Wridel. There will not be another.”

I looked at Igris, standing calm and poised in the face of his fury. She wasn’t worried about surrender. She wasn’t worried about death. Because her death would complete the curse.

I tried to pull back from her mind, to warn Devon, but she spoke first. “Surrender?” she repeated. “Wridel is already ours, General. You just don’t know it yet.”

Devon’s jaw tightened, the glow in his eyes flaring with fury as he stepped closer. The shadows around him recoiled, shrinking back. “Then let me enlighten you,” he said coldly.

“No!” The word tore from my throat, panic surging as the pieces snapped into place. “Devon, stop!”

It was too late. His claws moved in a blur, a flash of deadly precision slicing through the air toward the elder’s throat. Time slowed as I watched, my horror mounting. Igris’s eyes locked onto mine in her final moment, and I could almost feel her lips curling into a triumphant smile before that stupid mask.

The strike was perfect. His claws struck true, tearing through her with lethal finality. Igris crumpled, her body dissolving into ash before it even touched the ground.

Then the other witches fell after her, their forms collapsing in eerie unison, their bodies disintegrating like hers, as though they’d all been tied to her in some unholy bond.

For a moment, the courtyard was silent, the suffocating quiet nearly drowning us.

Then the vortex roared to life.