“High Witch,” Lydia straightened, her dark eyes alert despite the early hour.

  “Lydia, I need something done. Discreetly.” Ember kept her voice low, aware of how sound carried in Thornhallow’s halls.

  “Of course.”

  “Find Marina Sinclair. She was in the city doing some work for me, but she’s gone dark. If she’s left Nightreach, I need to know when and where she went.”

  Lydia’s expression remained neutral, but Ember caught the slight narrowing of her eyes. Marina’s name still evoked strong reactions among those who remembered her role in the coven’s darkest days.

  “No alarms,” Ember added. “No whispers. Just answers. Report directly to me, no matter what you find.”

  “And if others ask?”

  “You’re handling a personal matter for me. Nothing more.”

  Lydia nodded once, her hand briefly touching the pendant at her throat. “I’ll find her,” she promised, and slipped away down the hall.

  Ember closed the door behind Lydia and leaned against it, suddenly aware of how the air inside her study had grown noticeably warmer, thick with spell residue and the char of recent castings.

  She returned to her desk, where Owen’s reports lay stacked in chronological order, a testament to her neglect. His handwriting had grown tighter over the weeks, the lines underlined with urgency and barely concealed frustration. She could almost feel his tension radiating from the pages.

  He wrote of ley lines warping near the city’s core, of magical fractures forming in the outer quarters, of pulses he’d tracked beneath the city’s foundations. The technical language didn’t mask his concern or his growing impatience with her silence.

  Ember flipped through the rest. More of the same. She’d read them all, though only in stolen moments between negotiations and council debates. She never answered. Not once. She thought he understood. Now she wasn’t sure.

  The Council had insisted on protocols after her ascension. “The High Witch cannot be disturbed for every minor fluctuation,” Deirdre had declared during one of their first meetings. Ember hadn’t fought it, too consumed with learning the scope of her new role to recognise what was being taken from her.

  Their relationship had transformed overnight—the closeness they once had, those late nights talking magic with shoulders touching, the stolen kisses between research sessions, all those moments when trust and desire blurred together—had hardened into something cold and professional. His reports came addressed to ‘High Witch’ now, not ‘Ember’.

  She traced her finger over his signature. There was a time when Owen would have brought these concerns to her directly, would have appeared at her door with that half-smile that meant he’d discovered something fascinating. Now there were only these stacks of parchment growing higher with each passing day.

  Ember crossed to the arched window overlooking Nightreach’s northern quarter that hugged the edge of the magenta heath surrounding Thornhallow. The northern district sprawled below, its ancient buildings now standing rigid where once they had shifted and changed with the ever expanding London on the other side of the Fold. From this height, she could see the repair crews as they worked. Dots of light and movement as Limina mages worked to reinforce failing wards and stabilise structures that had never before needed such attention.

  What did Owen see when he looked at her now? They once spoke freely, challenged each other, and burned with quiet attraction, but all of that felt distant now. His reports always reached her, each one more urgent than the last, yet he never requested an audience. Never pushed for more.

  Ember pressed her palm against the cool glass. “The High Witch cannot afford closeness,” she whispered to her reflection. The words tasted bitter, like the dregs of her cold tea. “The High Witch cannot afford uncertainty.”

  And yet Owen’s warnings weren’t without merit. Ember had felt the changes herself—the ley lines shifting beneath her feet during recent rituals, tremors running through Thornhallow’s foundations, the subtle wrongness in the flow of power. Nightreach’s foundation was fraying.

  She’d initially dismissed the signs as natural adjustments following the Fold’s collapse. The city had existed in magical isolation for two millennia; reconnection to the world’s ley line network was bound to cause disruptions. But the pattern Owen had documented pointed to something more deliberate.

  The pulse beneath Saint Aldwin’s. The dead zones spreading like rot through the outer quarters. The rhythm that defied natural explanation.

  Meanwhile, the political situation deteriorated by the day. The Concordat now resembled a house of cards, each faction threatening to bring the entire structure down with a single misstep.

  She massaged her temples, feeling the familiar throb of a headache building. Yesterday alone, the Artificers Guild had sent three representatives demanding greater access to the newly unstable ley lines for their experiments. The Merchant Quarter was in open revolt over new warding restrictions on the Bizarre. And the traditionalist covens whispered false rumours that Thornhallow itself rejected her leadership.

  “Politics,” Ember muttered, tossing another petition onto the growing pile. “Always bloody politics.”

  She’d become everything except the witch she’d trained to be—a negotiator, a peacekeeper, a judge. Every moment spent resolving petty disputes was a moment neglecting real dangers. Every compromise weakened her authority.

  Marina’s disappearance nagged at her, a persistent itch she couldn’t scratch. Owen’s reports warned of something breaking beneath the city’s surface. And here she sat, paralyzed by protocols and politeness.

  To acknowledge Marina’s disappearance publicly would invite questions about their connection, questions the Council wasn’t ready to hear answered. To prioritise Owen’s concerns would mean diverting resources from the immediate political fires consuming the city’s surface.

  Ember pressed her hands flat against the desk, feeling the wood grain beneath her fingers. The truth hit her like a physical blow: she was drowning. The High Witch’s mantle had transformed her into something she barely recognised.

  “This isn’t what Selene would have wanted,” she whispered to the empty room. The woman who had believed in a different future for the Concordat, who had died for that vision. She’d died for Vesper and the Echo. For Nightreach. For the world...and here was Ember, being controlled by her title instead of controlling it. She was High Witch. Her word was law.

  A sudden chill swept through the room, too sharp to ignore. Ember inhaled, steadying herself, but the air in the study had changed. There was a pressure now—subtle, ambient. Not quite magic, not the kind she commanded, but something older.

  The silver lines on her palm began to glow, more insistently this time. She flexed her fingers, watching as they caught the morning light.

  “What is it?” she asked quietly, her voice barely audible. “Do you agree with me?”

  The pressure in the room deepened until it felt almost physical. The air grew thick, almost syrupy, pressing against her skin. Ember felt the manor’s attention focus on her with an intensity that made the hairs on her arms rise. Thornhallow was trying to communicate.

  Ember closed her eyes, extending her senses beyond the physical. “Show me.”

  The silver mark on her palm flared hot, searing through her nerves, and Ember gasped as images flooded her mind. Darkness. Stone passages she’d never seen. The steady drip of water. And something pulsing in the depths, sending waves of energy through the ley lines.

  Four hours and seventeen minutes. The rhythm that Owen had documented.

  The pressure receded slightly, as if Thornhallow was satisfied she’d grasped the message. Protocol be damned.

  She would not be a High Witch who merely presided over meetings while Nightreach crumbled beneath her feet.

  Ember turned from the glass, gaze drawn upward to the cracked murals above the hearth, to the dark rafters where old wards slept. A thought surfaced that felt cold, focused, and not entirely her own.

  Take control. Enough compromise. Seize what is owed.

  It sounded like focus. Like ambition. Like her. But Ember didn’t remember thinking it. Her pulse skipped as the foreign thought settled in her mind with uncomfortable familiarity.

  She crossed to the table with sudden purpose, lifting a hand over the scattered papers. Owen’s reports lay there, his careful handwriting documenting the city’s slow collapse. Evidence of everything she’d neglected while playing politics. With a sharp gesture, she ignited the sigil-stamped correspondence in a controlled flare of fire. The flames danced across the parchment, turning warnings into ash.

  The silver mark on her palm transformed, lines shifting from silver to molten gold. Thornhallow’s approval washed over her like a warm current.

  “No more mediating,” Ember whispered as the last report curled black. “No more asking permission.”

  The Council had bound her with rules and protocols, turning her into their puppet. Eleanor had warned her that Thornhallow didn’t serve the High Witch, but perhaps the truth was simpler: the Council didn’t want the High Witch to serve Thornhallow.

  Ember straightened her spine, adjusting the leather cuffs at her wrists. The manor’s magic hummed around her, ancient and expectant.

  “Summon the Council,” she called, her voice ringing with newfound authority. “Emergency session. One hour.”

  The walls of Thornhallow contracted with a nearly audible sigh, as if the manor itself was drawing a breath in anticipation. The message would reach every council member instantly, carried by the manor’s own magic.

  Ember lifted her chin, watching the last of Owen’s reports dissolve into nothing. The time for compromise was over.

  She would not fail Nightreach. She’d defied the Council before and saved the city from the Echo. From Beatrice and her selfish machinations. And she would do it again.

  The mark on her palm pulsed in time with her heartbeat, and Ember closed her fingers into a fist. Let Thornhallow whisper. Let the ancient magic of the manor guide her if it must. But the decisions would be hers. The consequences would be hers.

  And if the cost was her own soul? So be it.

  Chapter 12

  Vesper walked where the forest was thickest, the morning air nipping at her exposed skin, carrying the scent of pine and decay. She needed space to breathe, to process the humiliation of another night spent wreaking magical havoc in her sleep.

  Process or ignore…she wasn’t sure which she was doing, actually.

  A branch cracked beneath her feet as she pushed deeper into the woods. The trees loomed overhead, the boughs filtering the weak sunlight. Her magic stirred restlessly beneath her skin like an annoying itch that came from nowhere.

  The trees thinned ahead, revealing a small break in the canopy. As she approached, the ground changed, hardening with exposed bedrock. The earth thrummed, the rhythm resonating through her bones. Here, the ley lines ran deep and strong, their power a constant pulse…kind of like that itch.

  Vesper knelt at the edge of the rock, pressing her palm against the cool stone. She closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath.

  She reached out with her senses, trying to grasp the current of energy that pulsed beneath the earth, but the magic slipped through her fingers yet again, refusing to be contained. Each time she tried to direct it, it twisted away, leaving her grasping at empty air.

  Frustration clawed its way up her throat, sharp and bitter. Her fingers curled against the stone, nails scraping the rough surface. The ley line’s energy danced just beyond her reach, taunting.

  “Come on,” she muttered, pushing harder with her magic. The ground beneath her stirred, pushing back against her frustration. It filled her with the raw taste of soil, the quiet movement of roots spreading underground, and the endless rhythm of changing seasons.

  The magic here didn’t want to be controlled. It was older than cities, older than the careful structures mages had built to channel it. It flowed according to its own rhythms, patterns laid down when the land itself was young. A time so distant, no living thing could comprehend it.

  Her shoulders tensed as she tried again, but the power simply flowed around her, leaving her empty-handed and increasingly annoyed.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she hissed.

  She furrowed her brow, jaw clenched as she pushed against the ancient power beneath the stone. The magic shifted, a brief flutter of response, but then it recoiled from her touch, retreating deeper into the bedrock.

  “Bloody hell.” She hissed, lifting her hands from the stone. The ley lines pulsed on, unbothered by her attempts to connect with them.

  Her fingers traced the rough surface of the rock, following the natural grooves and imperfections.

  The ley line’s rejection stung more than she cared to admit. Her own magic churned beneath her skin, responding to her mounting frustration. It sparked along her arms, causing the fine hairs to stand on end.

  The power was right there.

  “What am I doing wrong?” The forest offered no answer beyond the gentle rustling of leaves overhead.

  Vesper leaned back on her hands, tilting her face towards the patches of sky visible through the branches. A cool breeze rustled the leaves, carrying the earthy scent of moss and decay.

  She was such disappointment. All this trouble for what? Rafe was kind, but she knew there was something he wasn’t saying. Maybe she was broken, not just burnt out. And he’d come all this way, reliving a past that was obviously painful, to help her. It was always about her and never him.

  It should be about him, she thought. The Echo isn’t his problem to deal with. I’m not his problem…

  Rafe had changed since they’d arrived in Millbrook, like a shadow had settled over him. The easy confidence she’d grown used to in Nightreach had given way to something…hesitant, like he was smaller here.

  The cottage felt different, too. The air grew thick with unspoken words between him and Aldrick. At dinner the night before, they’d spoken about magic theory, the weather, how things had changed in the city, the Echo… And never once brought up anything else Rafe had been doing in the six years they hadn’t spoken.

  Aldrick’s reaction still caught her off guard. That other day, when they’d arrived…the way his expression had hardened at the sight of Rafe. Not surprise—he’d known they were coming—but something darker. Anger hiding behind his controlled expression, something she was beginning to realise he was a master at.

  Vesper picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. Everyone left home eventually, didn’t they? She certainly had, though her circumstances were different. Foster homes never felt permanent enough, but Rafe’d had a real home here. A mentor who’d taken him in, taught him magic, given him a place to belong.

  Perhaps that was it. Aldrick had given Rafe everything, and Rafe had walked away. But there had to be more to it than that. The tension between them felt older, deeper than a simple falling out over Rafe moving to Nightreach.

  Rafe has told her, back when she’d first arrived in the city, that he’d wanted to find answers about his past. Answers that weren’t forthcoming here in Millbrook.

  The branches swayed overhead, casting shifting shadows across the forest floor. In the cottage, Rafe moved through the rooms like a stranger, careful not to disturb anything. As if he no longer belonged in the space that had once been his home.

  She wanted to help him. The Echo was supposed to give him his past back, but she’d shattered it.

  The weight of guilt settled deeper in Vesper’s chest. She’d destroyed the Echo to save everyone, but in doing so, she might have destroyed Rafe’s only chance at recovering his memories. The fragments were out there somewhere, but scattered, broken. Like the pieces of his past.

  Then there was Blair, who could no longer go home to London. But it wasn’t just her. There were likely hundreds, if not thousands, of people who were now separated because the Fold was gone.

  Her magic prickled beneath her skin, a constant reminder of what she’d done. The power that had once felt so natural now felt foreign, unpredictable. Just like these ancient ley lines that refused her touch.

  She wasn’t a hero. She was a reject. Everyone around her knew it, the ley lines definitely knew it, and the only person who was living in denial was her.

  A rustle in the undergrowth shattered the silence. Vesper’s muscles tensed as she pushed to her feet, spinning towards the sound. Her magic flared instinctively, ready to defend—but it wasn’t Rafe standing at the edge of the trees.

  Aldrick’s broad frame cast a long shadow across the forest floor. His arms were crossed, face impossible to read in the dappled light. He stood perfectly still, watching her with that stern, measuring gaze that made her feel like a criminal.

  The silence stretched between them, broken only by the whisper of leaves overhead. Vesper’s magic settled beneath her skin, but the tension remained in her shoulders.

  “What do you want?” The words came out sharper than she’d intended. “We don’t have a lesson until later.”

  Her voice seemed to bounce off him, making no impression on his stoic expression. The way he watched her reminded her of a predator eyeing its prey—patient, calculating, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

  She fought the urge to shift under his scrutiny, to explain what she’d been doing out here alone. But something made her hold her ground, chin lifted slightly in defiance.

  Aldrick’s boots crunched over fallen leaves as he stepped into the clearing. His gaze swept to where Vesper’s hand had pressed against the stone, then back to her face.

  “Everything is a lesson,” he said. “And you’re going about it all wrong.”

  Vesper’s jaw clenched. “I was just⁠—”

  “Trying to force the magic to bend to your will.” He moved closer, his shadow falling across the bedrock. “Like a weapon to be wielded.”

  The accuracy of his assessment stung. Her magic stirred beneath her skin, responding to her irritation.