The closer we got, the thicker the air became—not just with magic, but with a sickly, malignant wrongness that slithered along my skin like wet silk.

Nelwost had always been a haven of lush, twisting willows, their roots entwined with the subterranean ley lines that pulsed through the district’s water-rich soil. Zaria had once told me that the trees here literally bustled with life, their branches whispering secrets to anyone who knew how to listen.

But now, those trees stood barren and brittle. Their branches twisted skyward like skeletal arms, and their leaves, reduced to charred husks, clung stubbornly to dying limbs. The air reeked of damp decay, not natural rot, but the acrid, metallic stench of magic being destroyed by its core being forcibly unravelled.

I pressed my palm to the carriage window, the enchanted glass cool against my skin. The magic flowing within it felt weak, resentful, like the land was fighting to stitch itself back together after being gutted.

The curse had not yet left Nelwost. And as we crossed the crumbling outer wards of the coven’s perimeter, the depth of the damage became disturbingly clear.

The magic here was wrong. Twisted in on itself like a snake devouring its tail. The dark veil had blanketed all of Wridel, yes, but here, it had sunk its claws deeper. It was like the curse had found something in Nelwost worth anchoring itself to.

“Prepare yourself.” Camille’s voice crashed through my mind.

My body jolted upright. The carriage rocked slightly as the wheels hit uneven stone.

Why? I sent through the bond, panic lacing my thoughts.

Silence.

Across from me, Devon shifted. His eyes locked on mine, nostrils flaring slightly. As a Lycan, his senses were sharper than mine. He’d already detected the shift, the wrongness saturating the air like invisible fog.

He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees. His gaze sharpened, and I didn’t need to hear his thoughts to know what he was thinking: danger.

I dropped my eyes to my hands, trying to ignore the ache blooming beneath my sternum. I still hadn’t told him about Mouriana.

The carriage slowed. The hum of the ward stones crackled louder as we entered the coven’s courtyard. Devon’s hand went to the silver-forged dagger at his waist, his grip casual but ready. Azriel, seated beside him, exhaled a slow breath, thin coils of water magic unfurling from his fingers.

“Feels like a trap,” Azriel muttered.

“That’s because it probably is,” Devon answered.

The Circle of the Willow Coven was supposed to be one of the safest havens for non-Oriental water witches in Wridel. A place where witches could hone their craft to the highest rank below the orientals. Those who did well here helped maintain the magical balance that kept Wridel’s aquatic ley lines stable.

But the magic here didn’t flow any more. It congealed. Thick, heavy, and corrupted, clogging the currents that should have been flowing cleanly under the sector.

The carriage halted with a groan. The door creaked open.

Devon stepped out first, then turned to lift me down. His grip was strong, but the anxiety in his frame coiled like a spring. Azriel followed, landing lightly beside us. The courtyard was dominated by a central altar—a stone monolith surrounded by warped, hollowed-out willows.

“Something’s off,” Devon said, more to himself than to us.

I moved toward the altar. The ground shifted under me as if trying to swallow my steps.

Azriel hissed beside me, yanking his foot back with a grimace. “What the hell?” he muttered, shaking his boot like he’d stepped into wet cement.

I knelt, brushing my fingers across the stone’s surface. It was unnaturally cold. The magic there pulsed like a dying heartbeat.

“The curse mutated,” I said. “It’s using the coven’s water magic as a conduit.”

Devon crouched beside me. “Explain.”

I swallowed hard. “The curse didn’t just infect them. It adapted.”

His jaw tightened. “Which means?”

“It means,” I said, rising, dread settling in my gut like lead, “the Circle wasn’t just damaged by the curse. They are the curse now.”

The willows overhead rustled, their dry branches whispering like eavesdroppers. Then the ground began to crack open, hairline fractures racing toward the central altar like veins reaching for a heart.

Azriel inhaled sharply. “It senses us.” His gaze snapped toward Amara Lyenne and her sentinels lingering near the gate. “Get out of here. Now.”

Amara hesitated for half a second, her eyes darting toward Devon. He gave her a single nod of agreement, and that was all it took.

“Fall back!” she shouted, clapping her hands together. Magic snapped through the air like lightning. The witches didn’t need to be told twice. They retreated, boots skimming the ground to avoid the grasping, corrupted magic.

Within seconds, they were gone. But the magic didn’t recede. It grew stronger, almost as if our presence had triggered something dormant.

“This isn’t the magic-eater curse,” Azriel said.

He didn’t look at me when he said it—he was too busy watching the fissures spread across the ground. The tendrils of water magic he’d conjured earlier were now coiled tightly around his wrists, vibrating with power.

I glanced at him. “Then what is it?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. But it’s hungry.”

The cracks widened with a deep, hollow groan. Magic hissed from the fractures like steam escaping a pressurized valve.

“We have to burn this place to the ground,” Azriel said. “The Circle of the Willow Coven is lost.”

I spun toward him, the force of my fury like a whip. “How dare you?!” The snarl ripped from my throat unrestrained.

The willows groaned in response, their hollow limbs creaking as though stirred by my anger. I crossed the space between us in two strides, my face inches from his.

“Zaria is in there!” I hissed, voice trembling with rage. “And if there’s even a chance we can save her’”

“There isn’t!” Azriel snapped, his tone slicing through my rage. His eyes, usually glinting with lazy amusement, were now cold and serious. His jaw locked with the effort of keeping his temper in check.

“And you know it.”

The certainty in his words made me recoil, my breath catching mid-inhale.

“Every witch in there is lost, Celeste,” he continued, and his voice vibrated with conviction. “And if they get out—if this thing spreads beyond the Circle—they’ll infect every ley line below Nelwost and Wridel will fall.”

I shook my head, denying the truth even as icy dread coiled around my ribs. “No. No, we don’t know that for sure.”

Azriel stepped closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Yes, we do. I know you feel it too.”

His gaze locked on mine, challenging me to lie. But I couldn’t. I felt it too.

The gnawing hunger beneath us, the malignant consciousness threading through the earth like a parasite, burrowing deeper with every second. The Circle was already gone—but accepting that meant letting go of hope. And I wasn’t ready.

“You know I care about Zaria,” Azriel said, voice cracking with what I assumed was Azriel’s version of grief. “But think of the greater good. One for the many.”

“Fuck your greater good!” The words exploded from me as I shoved him with a pulse of magic.

The ground shuddered underfoot. Dark water shot from the cracks, spraying into the air like poisoned geysers. Azriel staggered, his eyes wide with disbelief at the force I’d unleashed.

The cursed magic surged in response, thick tendrils of shadowed water climbing the willow trunks, wrapping around the brittle branches like strangling vines.

I turned to Devon, my pulse a frantic drumbeat in my ears. “I didn’t come this far to lose her.”

Devon said nothing at first. His gaze was locked on mine as he considered the situation. His jaw tightened in silent resignation as he struggled with the decision. He didn’t want to be the one to tell me we had to leave Zaria behind. But we both knew the truth was already circling us like a vulture.

The ground trembled again, cracks widening with an audible snap. From the heart of the altar, something shifted.

A creature surfaced.

It rose from the earth, wrapped in shadow and mist, its form blurry but certainly human in shape—tall, broad-shouldered. Its eyes glowed molten silver, twin beacons against the dark haze. The cursed witches surrounding the altar didn’t react. They swayed gently, their heads tilted toward the figure like marionettes waiting for a puppet master’s command.

But Zaria wasn’t among them.

“General Irving.” The voice rolled across the courtyard like a wave breaking against a jagged shoreline.

Beside me, Devon went rigid. The thing hadn’t just spoken his name. It recognized him. His hand shifted to the dagger at his waist, fingers flexing around the hilt.

“Identify yourself,” Devon commanded, with the authority of someone used to being obeyed.

The figure tilted its head, shadows rippling like liquid silk. “I answer to no mortal,” it replied.

Odd, but this wasn’t a fragment of the dark I’d faced with Mouriana. This was something else entirely, a predator cloaked in mist and malice. Why was it here using the Circle of the Willow Coven as its anchor to Wridel’s core magic? Those damn Shadow Oriental had surely succeeded in letting darkness into our sovereignty one way or another.

Devon stepped forward, placing himself slightly ahead of me in that instinctive, protective motion I knew so well. Surprisingly, he was poised to shift which made me wonder if he didn’t see this thing as a threat. “You answer to Gaia,” he said. “And therefore, to me.”

The creature laughed. The sound wasn’t loud, but it vibrated through the ground, sending fractures spiderwebbing across the courtyard stones. The altar stone groaned under the strain before splitting cleanly in half.

“You still cling to that lie, Noblesse Oblige?”

It knew Devon’s title. It knew exactly who and what he was. And it didn’t care.

The shadows peeled away slightly, revealing the faintest impression of a face beneath the mist. The features were indistinct, blurred at the edges as though reality itself rejected its presence. But the eyes, molten silver, unyielding, locked onto mine.

“You are too late,” it whispered to me like it knew why I was here.

The ground under the willow trees convulsed. Roots burst from the soil, snapping like brittle bones. The earth heaved, vomiting forth the twisted, corrupted bodies of the witches of the Circle.

And in the middle stood Zaria.

Her eyes glowed with the same molten-silver brilliance as the figure’s.

“No,” I whispered, the word tearing from me like a broken thread.

I couldn’t look away from Zaria. Her posture was unnervingly familiar—shoulders squared, chin lifted, the same stubborn defiance she’d worn when challenging the tutor or chancellor’s decisions or attempting spells far beyond her peers.

But her eyes, those eyes weren’t hers. They were empty of her warmth. No flicker of recognition, no spark of life. Just cold, endless silver.

“No,” I whispered again, taking a step forward.

The ground shifted under my foot, but I didn’t stop. I reached out, instinct driving me toward Zaria. Magic stirred beneath my fingertips, hesitant but willing.

Behind me, Devon’s voice cut through the thickening haze. “Celeste, don’t!”

I didn’t listen. I couldn’t. I took another step.

Zaria’s lips moved. A faint whisper. “Too late,” she said.

Devon reached me in a blink, his Lycan instincts taking over. His massive hand clamped around my arm, yanking me back with a force that stole my breath. My feet skidded across the cracked stone as he dragged me away from the creature and the witches.

“Stay here,” he ordered, voice guttural as he shifted back to human form.

“That’s Zaria’”

“That’s not Zaria any more,” he growled. His grip tightened like a steel vice, anchoring me in place. The rage in his tone cut deeper than his strength.

The creature near the altar shifted, the shadows clinging to it like mist over dark water. It tilted its head slightly, regarding us with a detached curiosity.

“Fascinating,” it murmured.

Its voice wasn’t deep or monstrous as I’d expected. It was soft. Human-like. Calm, almost conversational, as if it were making a passing observation at a lecture. Somehow, that made it worse.

“I anticipated her,” it said, eyes flickering from me to Devon to Azriel. “But not you, Irving. Nor you, Bloodworth.” The shadows trembled with something close to amusement. “The more the merrier, I suppose.”

The entire courtyard groaned, magic threading through the cracks like veins under skin. Tendrils of dull silver and black coiled upward, wrapping around my ankles before I could react.

I tried to pull free, summoning flames to my palms”

But the fire sputtered the moment it touched the tendrils, like water putting out fire. The magic didn’t just block me; it consumed the energy mid-creation, devouring the fire at its core.

“Azriel!” I shouted, panic sharpening my voice.

He was already moving. A spear of water shot from his hands, surging toward the figure like a wave crashing against jagged cliffs. The liquid struck the figure’s chest with a sharp, wet snap”

And froze instantly. The water crystallized into jagged shards, suspended in the air. The creature didn’t flinch.

It chuckled.

A flick of its wrist sent the ice shards hurtling back toward Azriel. He conjured a shield of ice in response, but the impact knocked him backward into the trunk of a splintered willow. The breath whooshed from his lungs, and he crumpled to the ground with a groan.

“Weak,” it said softly and this was starting to feel like deja vu. It turned toward me, its molten eyes narrowing. “But you’re not the one I came for.”

The ground vibrated under us, the corrupted willows groaning like tortured bones. The figure took a step forward.

“Call Mouriana forth,” it commanded.

I froze. Ice sluiced through my veins, colder than any magic. Mouriana. It wanted her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied.

It smiled, a thin curl of shadow at the edges of its indistinct lips. “Yes, you do. I can feel her in you. Her power. Her mark.”

Bold of him to think Mouriana would come for me. The thought almost made me scoff.

Devon shifted now, sensing exactly where this was headed. He took on his massive, primal, and magnificent Lycan form. His brown fur bristled with the crackling vibrations of restrained violence. I felt the ground give under his heft when he moved to stand in front of me.

He threw his head back and howled—a powerful sound that rippled through the courtyard like a battle hymn. The effect was immediate. The shadows recoiled from the force of it, slithering back toward the creature as if retreating to their master. It tilted its head slightly, like a scholar encountering an unexpected variable.

The altar groaned again, its stone surface splitting wide with a deafening crack. Magic surged from the fissure in thick waves, dense enough to steal the air from my lungs and leave a metallic tang on my tongue.

From that jagged crevice, the witches rose. Dozens of them. Their limbs stiff, their eyes vacant pools of molten silver. They swayed in eerie synchrony, mouths moving in soundless incantations, their collective magic pooling into the tainted ley lines beneath us.

The figure raised a shadowed hand and gestured toward me. The witches” movements ceased in unison.

“Call her,” it commanded again. “Or watch this city drown.”

The magic pressed down harder, curling around my ribs like a constrictor. But under the pressure was something worse: familiarity. This magic recognized me, and I recognized it in turn.

Mouriana’s legacy.

Devon’s growl vibrated through the air. He widened his stance, muscles coiled like steel cables, ready to attack. Azriel staggered to his feet beside him, swaying for half a second before steadying himself. His eyes darkened with rage as he raised his arms, summoning the Bloodworth-renowned Whips of Judgment.

The whips manifested with a sharp crack, twin serpents of shimmering water coiling around his forearms. They pulsed with power, the liquid edges glinting like steel under the oppressive magic pressing down on us. Azriel flexed his wrists, and the whips responded with an eager, predatory snap.

The creature shifted, shadows rippling like ink dispersing in water. Its gaze lingered on Azriel’s weapons for a moment before returning to me.

“Ah,” it said softly. “The heirs of Wridel, clinging to their tricks.”

Devon’s snarl deepened, and Azriel’s grip tightened on the whips.

The creature smiled—or at least, the shadows bent in a way that suggested one. “This should be entertaining.”