The dark veil had crumbled, leaving Wridel in an eerie quiet. I didn’t trust the peace; it felt like a pause before another battle.

Once I was strong enough to move, I returned to Wridel Island with Devon, Julia, and Luciana. Two days later, Devon took me through the Ostonia Gate to Odristan to visit Azriel and Lady Bernadette. I planned to visit Zaria’s hometown once I was sure Azriel was well.

The Circle of the Willow coven was in quarantine, and the Nelwost government was not revealing why. It was unusual for an entire coven to be taken, but the High Council and Devon were trying to evaluate those still infected and those who had recovered. However, the Nelwost sector was not providing any information about Zaria’s coven, which was very frustrating.

I clenched my fists as I felt Camille stir in my mind—a whisper, a ghost of a sister who refused to let me collapse under the weight of everything. Then, she retreated deeper, no longer a separate presence but woven into my very being, like Mouriana had been.

But it terrified me in a new way, not because I feared her, but because I couldn’t bear the heartbreak of losing her again. That was the difference between Camille and Mouriana.

Mouriana had left because she chose to, but Camille had been taken from me. And even now, even knowing she was still here in some way, I knew one truth with a certainty that made my chest tighten.

One day, she would be gone again.

And that was something I wasn’t sure I could survive twice. But I didn’t have time to dwell on it. I had another promise to keep.

“This is a terrible idea.” Devon stood with his arms crossed, looking at me with a furious look. “You shouldn’t be out of bed, let alone doing advanced spellwork.”

I ignored him, mostly because if I didn’t, I might start agreeing with him. I had insisted—demanded, really—that we come to Odristan. I was the one who could remove the last of the magic eater’s darkness from Azriel.

My argument had won, but Devon had argued. It wasn’t something the healers could fix. I owed Azriel and Zaria this because I knew they would move Wridel for me too if the roles were reversed. It took only a couple of minutes to heal him, and I owed that to the Dyak healers and water mages, who had done their best to slow the curse’s creep.

When we were done, we walked to the beautiful creek behind the Bloodworth estate ruins. Near the creek, Azriel stared at his own hands, like he was afraid his powers would fail him again.

I watched as he flexed his fingers. Then a flicker. A rush of magic, water bursting from his palm, crackling with revived life.

“It’s back!” he almost screamed.

I let out a breath, my own exhaustion almost weighing me down.

“It should be,” I muttered, but the relief I felt was incredible. It’s a good thing Gaia preserved his magic.

“Was it worth it?” Devon asked me, his grip suddenly on my arm, steadying me when my legs nearly buckled under me.

I sighed, leaning into him for a moment, letting his presence support me, before straightening up.

“Yes,” I replied.

His jaw tightened, his storm-gray eyes darkening. “Celeste’”

“Devon.” I tilted my head up, my words slightly slurred from exhaustion. “I’m not fragile.”

“No, but you are reckless,” he said, exhaling slowly. I could feel his anxiety. “You shouldn’t have done this.”

“And yet, I did,” I replied.

Azriel exhaled sharply, flexing his newly restored magic, then turned to me with an expression that almost looked like gratitude.

“Not to interrupt your lover’s quarrel,” he said, “but I get to keep my magic, so thanks.”

I huffed a small laugh, too drained to tease him back. “Just don’t make me regret it, Bloodworth.”

Azriel smirked. “No promises.”

Devon still watched me, his grip firm on my waist, as if expecting me to collapse at any moment. Lady Bernadette was not so lucky. She knelt by the creek, staring at the water as if it might grant her the answers she desperately sought. I didn’t need to ask what was wrong. I could feel it—the absence, the void where her magic had once been.

“It’s gone,” she whispered. “Like a limb severed from my body.”

I had no sympathy. I simply watched as she sat there, a woman who had once wielded power without question, now just another casualty of a world that didn’t care who it left behind. It pained me that there was nothing I could do for her. While my mother believed she’d rather be dead than without her magic, I believed that being alive was a victory in itself—especially given what Lady Bernadette had survived.

There was a lot of whispering going on across Wridel after the dark veil came down. The Great Houses scrambled to hold onto their crumbling authority, while the city itself teetered on the brink of revolt. Whispers echoed through alleyways and overcrowded market stalls—the kind of subtle murmurs that fed revolutions. For too long, the powerful had turned a blind eye to the suffering of the people. Wridel didn’t need figureheads draped in gilded arrogance; it needed a Sovereign willing to look into the shadows and confront the darkness creeping into their homes.

Mouriana’s decision to force the high council into recognizing me as the next supreme successor had set that fire alight. Doubt that Gaia still listened or cared had plagued Wridel for generations. Two centuries without a named successor had diminished their faith. But now they see hope where there was once doubt. They saw a chance to wrest power from the hands that had wielded it with cold indifference.

That’s where my parents came in. Along with Devon, they had wasted no time in setting the wheels in motion to dethrone Lady Loreleia. The Sovereign had been exposed as a brittle facade of authority, desperate to cling to power long past her time. But she still had allies, men and women who clung just as fiercely to the illusion of control. They wouldn’t give up without a fight.

My coronation was two days away. It wouldn’t be easy. But I’d faced worse. I’d stood in the dark’s domain and survived the full force of Mouriana’s power. Since returning, my fire and mind-bending abilities had sharpened, expanded beyond anything I’d thought possible.

People weren’t cowering in their homes anymore. Those old Wridel banners, long tucked away in dusty corners, were back on balconies and street corners. The sigil of Gaia’s Prism fluttered proudly over bakeries, workshops, and taverns. Wridel was waking up, and I would not let them down.

The problem with revolutions is that they don’t come neatly packaged. They are unpredictable forces of nature. And the storm gathering here would either cleanse Wridel of its corruption or shatter it entirely.

I had to ensure it was the former.

But before I could worry about my coronation in front of Wridel’s entire population, there was something I needed to do. Something far more terrifying than politics or power.

I turned to Devon. He didn’t ask me what I was thinking. He never did. He simply watched, waiting, knowing I would speak when I was ready.

I took a breath. “I wonder if you know how deeply I have fallen in love with you.”

Now that I’d said them, I couldn’t take them back, even if I wanted to; they had slipped out like something I held too close for too long.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, and the silence stretched like a blade poised to fall. I could feel my heart pounding against my ribs.

Then, slowly, so slowly it almost made me scream, he reached for my hand. His fingers, rough from years of battle and bloodshed, curled around mine.

“You are the only war I’ve ever wanted to lose.” He brought my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against my knuckles.

I exhaled the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, a shuddering release that felt like it had been locked in my chest for far too long. Did I really think he would reject his mate’s confession? Honestly” I didn’t know because even though I felt it—as surely as night followed day—that he loved me as fiercely, as desperately, as I had come to love him, the words had never been spoken aloud.

Maybe that was why my chest felt so tight, why my hands trembled even as he held them steady. Even though the battle for Wridel was far from over, in this stolen pocket of time, I had won something far greater than any throne, any crown, any fleeting moment of power.

I had won Alpha Devon Irving. Who would have thought?

“I would,” he said before I could finish my thought. A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, like he remembered something I couldn’t glean. “I knew it from the first moment you walked into the High Council’s keep in Gaia’s Sanctum,” he whispered to me.

The cynic in me wanted to roll my eyes. Romantic words from a man who’d sooner gut an enemy than whisper sweet nothings. But I couldn’t deny the warmth his confession sent coursing through me.

“We should leave for the Nelwost District while there is still daylight to burn,” Azriel interrupted.

His fingers twitched at his sides, still thrumming with the return of his magic, as if he was afraid it might slip through his grasp if he stayed still for too long.

Devon gave him a hard look, the kind that could make lesser men crumble. But Azriel wasn’t a lesser man. He stared right back, but not with challenge. I knew he was just as anxious as I was to get to Zaria.

“The gate won’t hold indefinitely,” Devon said, his tone reverting to the cool, commanding authority I’d grown to resent. That voice meant our moment was over. We had to file it away with the other rare, fragile things we never enjoyed for long.

He glanced back at me, his eyes softening a bit, like a whispered apology for the interruption. “Let’s go.”

Just like that, the moment was over. Locked away in the quiet recesses of my mind. Maybe one day we’d have the luxury of revisiting it. Maybe not.

Azriel turned to Lady Bernadette, his usual bravado tempered with concern. “We shall take our leave now.” He lingered just a moment too long, his gaze flickering over her as if debating whether to say more. But he said nothing, just turned sharply on his heel and walked toward the front gate.

I cast a final glance at Lady Bernadette. She remained by the edge of the creek, her fingers grazing the surface, as if hoping to pull some lingering trace of magic from the depths. But she did not look up. Did not acknowledge us. Stripped of her power, she was a ghost of herself, adrift in a world that no longer recognized her.

If only I could help her.

The journey from Bloodworth Oriental Manor to Way of Water Academy was short, but agonizingly slow. Devon took the opportunity to remind me—again—of my political role, as if I needed the lecture.

I knew, logically, that I couldn’t just slip in and out of places unnoticed any more. I was the Supreme Successor, Wridel’s future. My days of unceremonious entrances and quiet departures were over. Even stepping foot in my old academy meant a procession of tutors, professors, and sentinels from the Odristan regional house had to greet me. The ones who had once been my mentors now bowed their heads, murmuring formalities like I was something distant, something untouchable.

Appearances had to be maintained. Whether I liked it or not.

Azriel, who’s usually annoyingly confident, sat eerily still beside me. His fingers twitched against the hilt of his dagger, a nervous habit I hadn’t seen in years. And yet, for all his tension, he refused to look at me.

Devon’s words from before came back to me. That Azriel was in love with me.

Was that why he wouldn’t meet my gaze? Because I had managed to do the impossible—not just become Wridel’s chosen ruler, but also mate with the magnificent Alpha Devon Irving? I would have laughed at the absurdity if all of it weren’t pressing down on me.

Devon, as always, was watching everything, his eyes flickering between the guards, the road, the carriage, never missing a single movement.

I braced myself for the worst. The Circle of the Willow Coven had been quarantined since the dark veil smothered Wridel. Even with the veil lifted, the regional council and governor had wrapped them in political red tape, keeping them sealed behind layers of barriers and bureaucratic nonsense.

It was clear what awaited me with Zaria wasn’t going to be as easy as it had been with Azriel.

When we got there, the formalities were quick and to the point. The gate was open and waiting. Without stopping, we made our way through.

The magical gate port of Nelwost was a study in forced civility. Structured and unwelcoming in the way only political necessity could be. The first thing I noticed wasn’t the landscape or the architecture but the silent, armed convoy waiting for us.

A line of Nelwost sentinels stood in perfect formation, their silver-trimmed navy uniforms crisp and unmoving despite the damp, salted air drifting in from the nearby sea. Among them were Nelwost’s governance officials, and their robes had insignias marking their rank. And in the centre, flanking the governor’s emissary, were two elder witches.

A reception, then. But not a welcome.

The emissary, a water witch draped in ceremonial navy blue robes, stepped forward as we dismounted from the port. A black haired older woman with aquamarine eyes. Her posture was rigid with a degree of discipline that came with knowing too much about the people in power.

“Lady Celeste Le Torneau,” she greeted, every syllable flawless. Then she looked at Devon, then Azriel, assessing. “General Irving. Lord Bloodworth.”

No pleasantries or excessive deference. Just an impersonal acknowledgment.

“Governor Rael sends his regards and has assigned a political escort to ensure your arrival and stay at the Circle of the Willow Coven is both safe and’” she hesitated, her lips curled in a thin line, “efficient.”

I smiled just a little, letting my head incline a little bit. “How considerate.”

I could tell she caught the sarcasm in my words by the way she looked at me, but she chose not to respond. Instead, she gestured to the waiting carriages. Same sleek, polished exteriors stamped with Nelwost’s water and moonlight sigil.

“We leave immediately,” she said, turning sharply, already done with this exchange.

But she had barely taken a step when Devon’s voice sliced through the air.

“Your name.”

The single, growled demand stopped her mid-stride.

She turned slowly, her eyes narrowing as she met Devon’s stare. Whatever calculation had led her through this interaction up to this point now recalibrated.

Now she bowed her head just enough to show respect, or maybe just enough to avoid making things worse. “General Irving?”

Devon didn’t move from his place beside me, but his presence alone made the sentinels shift on their feet, stealing uneasy glances at the man who commanded entire armies with a word.

“Or have the sentinels of Nelwost forgotten the correct protocol for welcoming higher-ranking officials from the capital?” Devon’s voice was deceptively calm. “Especially their general and the Supreme Successor.”

The sentinels standing behind her stiffened, their hands twitching toward their weapons before common sense prevailed. Because Devon hadn’t simply asked for her name, he was reminding everyone present of his authority. As General, he outranked every sentinel squad in Wridel, including those stationed in Nelwost. Witch-populated or not, this district was still subject to the capital’s command.

And this sentinel, whoever she was, had just committed a political faux pas that could get her reassigned—or worse.

She cleared her throat, and while her expression was schooled into neutrality, the tightness in her shoulders betrayed her. “High Sentinel Amara Lyenne of Nelwost, General.”

Even though her voice didn’t crack, I felt the slightest tremor, and Devon most definitely did too.

His storm-gray eyes moved over her with the kind of intentional slowness that made even the most seasoned soldiers question their choices. He didn’t need to shout or posture. He only needed to look.

“Interesting,” he drawled. “How you made sure to announce your rank, Lyenne, yet failed to afford us the respect ours commands.”

Every sentinel behind her now stood at full attention, spines locked in place, as if stillness alone might make them invisible.

“If the witches of Nelwost are considering a challenge to the capital’s authority,” Devon continued, stepping forward just enough to make her take a reflexive step back, “I’d suggest they choose someone more competent for the task.”

Her eyes flared, fury sparking for a single heartbeat before she crushed it under a mask of obedience. She knew better than to let defiance linger.

I could feel the magic humming now. A defensive reflex for witches. The power of a witch always responded instinctively to their surroundings, even if they didn’t mean to be defiant.

Amara bowed her head slightly. “No challenge, General,” she said quickly. “Merely an oversight.”

Devon’s lips curled into an amused smile. “Correct yourself and your sentinels at once,” he commanded, and his growl boomed through the gathering. Even the wind scattered in response.

Amara reacted immediately, clapping her hands together in a single, sharp motion. The sound cracked like a whip through the tense courtyard. She bent low, her head nearly touching her chest.

“Your grace, Lady Irving. High Lord Irving. Lord Bloodworth. Welcome to Nelwost.”

The sentinels and convoy behind her mirrored her bow with synchronized precision.

“Welcome to Nelwost,” they intoned in unison.

There it was.

The not-so-subtle reminder that no matter how loudly the witches of Nelwost whispered about independence, or how fiercely they clung to their regional power, the General’s authority dominated all. While power might shift, there are some lines that can’t be crossed. And to go against Gaia’s Noblesse Oblige was to die.

Devon turned away without a word, dismissing Amara and her sentinels as if they were no more than shadows on the stone. His stride was unhurried as he moved toward the waiting carriage.

I followed, the hem of my cloak whispering across the damp cobblestones. There was a thin sheen of moisture on the stones, saturated with the power of water magic.

Azriel trailed behind us, his steps soundless and his expression vacant. But the faint twitch of his lips betrayed his enjoyment. Trust Azriel to find entertainment in political posturing.

Devon helped me into the carriage, his hand warm and solid against mine. As I settled into the cushioned seat, I watched him.

The port faded behind us as the carriage lurched forward, the wheels clattering over uneven cobblestones. Magic pulsed like a sluggish heartbeat, as the hum of ward stones buzzed weakly through the carriage. Nelwost’s magical defences had waned, probably from the dark veil.

As I leaned back, tired from saving Azriel, my body still felt depleted from the magic I’d expended. Devon sat beside me with that maddening ease; back straight, shoulders relaxed, like nothing was wrong.

He caught me watching him and one corner of his mouth twitched upward.

“What?” I asked, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze.

“You’re smiling,” he said.

I blinked. “Am I?”

Even though his expression remained neutral, his eyes brightened. Devon never gave smiles away without purpose; he rationed them like arrows, wielding them for maximum effect. Kind of like my mother. I was surprised they didn’t get along.

“You like it when I remind people why they should fear me,” he said.

I let my fingers brush against his. “It’s my favourite part.”

His laugh was soft, low, and far too knowing. He didn’t speak—he didn’t need to. Instead, he shifted closer, eyes locked on mine with that predatory focus that never failed to unravel me. His hand slid along the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair as he leaned in.

My heart stuttered, a fleeting betrayal. His breath brushed my lips, the world narrowing to the space between us”

“Ahem.”

The sound shattered the moment like glass dropped on marble.

Azriel coughed again, louder this time, as if we might have somehow missed the first interruption. “I am here too, High Lord Irving and co.”

Devon froze. I sighed. Azriel grinned.

Devon’s shoulders tightened, the shift imperceptible unless you knew him like I did. Slowly, he turned his head, his expression smoothing into that polished, glacial calm that usually preceded violence.

The grin on Azriel’s face faded, his bravado slipping away. “I mean,” he stammered, inching back in his seat, “by all means, don’t mind me. Pretend I’m not here.”

Devon didn’t blink. I felt the silence stretch like a bowstring as the distant crackle of dying magic outside the carriage accompanied us.

Then, just as Azriel shifted nervously, Devon turned back to me. His voice dropped to a mutter. “I’m going to throw him out of this carriage before we reach the coven.”

“You won’t,” I said, hiding a smile as I leaned into his side.

“Give me one reason.”

“I don’t need to. Azriel’s existence is its own punishment.”

“Hey,” Azriel drawled angrily, as he straightened his collar with exaggerated flair. “I can still hear you.”

“Good.” Devon leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes, like he was mentally cataloguing potential ditches to deposit Azriel in along the route.

I followed suit, letting my eyes drift shut. The carriage rocked with each uneven pathway, the faint scent of saltwater and damp earth seeping through the windows. But behind the mundane smells of the district, tainted magic pulsed. It coiled around my senses like a snake dragging itself out of a fetid swamp.

The darkness hadn’t fully released its hold on Nelwost. Not yet.

Devon’s breathing evened beside me, but I knew he wasn’t asleep. His mind never truly rested, especially not when we were walking into a potentially dangerous situation.

Azriel shifted again, the leather of his jacket creaking softly. “The magic here feels wrong,” he said quietly.

I opened my eyes, meeting his dazzling blue eyes for the first time across the dim carriage.

He wasn’t wrong. This magic wasn’t the familiar hum of water magic we’re used to, and that alone spelled trouble.