Her boots made no sound on the worn floorboards—a charm she’d paid good money for. The pub’s spelled lanterns cast a warm glow that somehow managed to leave most faces in shadow. Perfect for those who preferred their business to remain private.

  Through the haze, she spotted Marcus at his usual table. The informant’s fingers tapped an endless rhythm against his glass of firewhisky, the liquid inside glowing faintly with each touch. His other hand stayed beneath the table—likely gripping whatever protective charm he carried these days.

  Blair noted the fresh burn marks on his sleeve cuffs, the way his eyes darted between the door and the windows. Whatever had him spooked this time went beyond his usual paranoia. The last time she’d seen him this jumpy, three warehouses of Empirical Order contraband had just gone up in flames.

  She wove between the tables, keeping her movements casual while cataloguing every patron in her peripheral vision. Two regulars missing tonight, replaced by strangers whose glamours were a touch too perfect. The barkeep’s shoulders tensed as she passed—another bad sign.

  Marcus spotted her approach, his fingers stilling on the glass. The firewhisky’s glow dimmed, matching the pallor of his face.

  Blair slid into the seat across from Marcus, noting how he flinched at her sudden proximity. The firewhisky in his glass rippled, its glow fluctuating with his unease.

  “Evening, Marcus. Lovely weather for burning things, isn’t it?” She nodded toward his singed cuffs.

  His shoulders hunched. “Not here to discuss my fashion choices, are you?”

  “No. I need information about three rather specific items.” Blair kept her voice low, though the pub’s privacy wards would mask their conversation. “A thorn from a first garden. Water from the Original Source. And a shadow-touched crystal.”

  The colour drained from Marcus’s face. His fingers curled around the glass, knuckles white. “Bloody hell, Blair. You can’t just—” He glanced over his shoulder, then leaned forward. “Those aren’t things you should be asking about. Not now. Not with everything that’s happening.”

  “But you’ve heard something.”

  “Whispers. Just whispers.” Marcus’s eyes darted between the strangers at the bar. “There’s been movement in the antiquities market. People looking for old things. Dangerous things.” He took a shaky sip of firewhisky. “The kind of people who make problems disappear. Permanently.”

  “Names, Marcus.”

  “No names. Not for this.” He rubbed his burnt sleeve. “Look, I like you, Blair. You’re fair, you pay well. But asking about these things… It’ll draw attention from people who make the Order look like children playing at magic.”

  Blair studied Marcus’s face, noting the way sweat beaded at his temples despite the pub’s chill. “You know I can protect my sources. Whatever you’ve heard, I need to know.”

  “There’s trouble about,” he went on. “Big trouble. Attacks, failing wards, mages working together, and now there’s talk of Threads being snapped.” Marcus drained his glass, the glow fading as he set it down. “My advice? Get out of Nightreach while you still can.”

  “That isn’t happening, Marcus.”

  He leaned closer, his eyes narrowing. “Notice anything different in here tonight?”

  Blair nodded. “New faces.”

  “Get out of Nightreach. Go back to your otherworld and forget about magic. You’ve got a lifeline…one that’s rapidly closing.”

  She chuckled. “I didn’t know you cared about me that much.”

  Marcus sighed and leaned back, running a finger around the rim of his empty glass. “You ain’t going to listen, are you?”

  “Nope, so if you know something, now’s the time to spit it out.”

  “Fine.” He leaned closer again, voice barely above a whisper. “There’s this collector, keeps to the shadows. Word is they’ve got a crystal that drinks light. Proper cursed thing, it is. Makes people go mad just looking at it.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Goes by the Nightweaver.”

  Blair’s ring grew warm against her finger. “And the other items?”

  “The water…” Marcus glanced around before continuing. “Deep under Nightreach, there’s this old well. Older than the city itself. The kind of place even shadow mages won’t go near. Some say it connects to the Original Source…but it could just be a hole.”

  His fingers drummed against the empty glass. “There’s a garden. Used to belong to one of the first magical families. Been abandoned for decades now. Story goes, they sealed it up after something went wrong with their wards. Really wrong.”

  Blair reached into her coat, pulling out a small pouch. The coins clinked as she placed them on the table, keeping the movement subtle. “You’ve been helpful, Marcus.”

  He snatched the pouch, tucking it away. “Just…be careful, yeah? These things you’re asking about—they’re not meant to be found.”

  She stood, her chair making no sound against the floorboards. “I always am.”

  Blair crossed the pub. The usual crowd of drinkers seemed too interested in their drinks, their studied indifference betraying their attention. Two mages at the bar turned their shoulders inward as she passed, their glamours flickering for a moment—Order trained by the looks of their posture.

  The door’s hinges creaked as she stepped out into the night air. Her ring warmed against her skin, sending a familiar warning pulse through her hand. Dark magic, close by. Blair’s muscles tensed as she scanned the empty street, cataloguing each shadow and doorway. The warmth from her ring faded as quickly as it had appeared, but the warning had been clear enough.

  She tugged her coat closer, the wool scratching against her neck. Marcus’s words echoed in her mind as she started toward the archive, taking a weaving path in case she had a tail. The Nightweaver, an ancient well, and a sealed garden—each lead more dangerous than the last. Any one of them could get her killed, or worse, considering what happened to her last partner.

  The cobblestones gleamed with frost beneath her feet as she walked. Being a non-magical person in Nightreach had always carried risks, but this felt different. The city’s usual dangers seemed trivial compared to what she was stepping into now. Still, walking away wasn’t an option—not when she was this close to answers about Selene’s death…and an even greater mystery.

  Ember’s knuckles rapped against the heavy oak door, each knock echoing through the corridor like a nail in her proverbial coffin. She turned the brass handle, wondering if she was going to leave the room in chains before the meeting was over.

  She couldn’t ignore a summons from the High Witch, not after she’d paid a visit to Marina Sinclair without permission. But she’d anticipated this and was prepared. It didn’t stop her from panicking a little, though.

  “Enter.”

  Ember stepped into Beatrice’s office, her gaze sweeping across the circular chamber. Centuries of magical knowledge lined the walls in floor-to-ceiling shelves of leather-bound books. The spines bore titles in languages long forgotten, their letters shifting and rearranging themselves when looked at directly.

  A massive desk of polished mahogany dominated the centre, its surface covered in precise arrangements of books, parchment, crystal instruments, and delicate silver devices that whirred and clicked. Behind it, tall windows stretched toward the vaulted ceiling, their stained glass casting pools of coloured light across the worn stone floor.

  The air itself felt different here—thicker, charged with centuries of accumulated magic that made Ember’s skin prickle. Incense curled from a brass burner in the corner, its smoke filling the room with the rosemary, pine sap, and sweet amber hues of frankincense.

  The room spoke of power—old power—carefully cultivated and maintained through generations of High Witches. But there was something else too, something that made Ember’s magical senses uneasy. Beneath the orderly surface lay hints of chaos: a scroll partially unrolled to reveal symbols that shouldn’t be there, a book lying open to a page filled with dark stains, crystals arranged in patterns that felt wrong somehow.

  “Ember,” Beatrice said, gesturing for her to close the door. “I received a report from the guard last night.”

  “Yes, I knew you would.”

  “You visited Marina.” No preamble, no pleasantries.

  “I did.” Ember lifted her chin, refusing to shrink beneath that penetrating gaze.

  “Without authorisation.” Beatrice’s fingers traced the edge of an open grimoire. “Rather presumptuous of you.”

  “The guards let me through.”

  “The guards answer to me.” Beatrice rose from her chair, her robes shimmering with subtle enchantments. “As do you, Ember. Or have you forgotten your place in the Concordat?”

  The temperature in the room climbed several degrees. “My place is to protect our coven. Marina mentioned inconsistencies about the third trial⁠—”

  “Marina says many things.” Beatrice circled her desk. “Most designed to sow discord. You should know better than to trust the words of a traitor.”

  “And what evidence is there to support her guilt? That she wanted to control Vesper?”

  “Careful, Ember.” Beatrice’s voice lowered in warning. “Your loyalty to Selene’s memory blinds you to current realities.”

  “My loyalty is to the truth.” The words burst from Ember’s lips before she could stop them. Flames danced at her fingertips, casting wild shadows across the walls.

  “Sit down, Ember.”

  Ember’s flames flickered out as Beatrice returned to her seat, the High Witch’s movements fluid and deliberate. The leather chair creaked beneath Ember’s weight as she sat, her heart pounding a painful rhythm.

  “Your work in apprehending Marina was…commendable. Not many witches would have entered a witch-house as you did.” Beatrice’s fingers traced the edge of an ornate letter opener. “The Concordat owes you a debt of gratitude for bringing a traitor to justice.”

  The words rang false in Ember’s ears. She’d heard Beatrice deliver enough political speeches to recognise the careful construction, the way each syllable served a purpose beyond its surface meaning. Her amber eyes fixed on Beatrice’s face, searching for any crack in that perfectly composed mask.

  “Thank you, High Witch.”

  “Such loyalty to the Concordat deserves recognition.” Beatrice’s blue eyes gleamed with something that made Ember’s skin crawl. “Though I must admit, your methods have grown…unconventional.”

  There it was. The real purpose behind the pleasantries. Ember’s fingers curled around the arms of her chair, her magic stirring beneath her skin like embers waiting to ignite. The compliment was nothing more than a sugar coating on a bitter pill, and they both knew it.

  “I’ve always believed that exceptional circumstances require exceptional measures.” Ember kept her voice steady, though heat bloomed in her chest.

  “Indeed.” Beatrice’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Though one might question what makes circumstances truly exceptional.” Her fingers stilled on the letter opener. “What exactly did you hope to achieve by visiting Marina?”

  “After the interrogation, there were questions that needed answers.”

  “Questions? Or doubts?”

  “Marina mentioned inconsistencies during the third trial. As head of security for⁠—”

  “The security of Thornhallow Manor falls under my purview. Your independent investigation undermines the very structure of authority we’ve maintained here for centuries.”

  Ember’s fingers twitched against the chair. The wood beneath her hands grew warm. “With respect, High Witch, if there’s even a chance that Marina spoke truth about⁠—”

  “About what?” Beatrice’s eyes narrowed. “About imagined conspiracies? About supposed threats to our coven?” She rose, her robes rippling with barely contained power. “Your actions suggest a concerning lack of faith in the Concordat’s leadership.”

  “I have faith in our traditions,” Ember said, choosing each word with care. The temperature around her continued to rise. “But I also believe we owe it to ourselves to verify⁠—”

  “We owe it to ourselves to maintain order.” Beatrice’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “Your little chat with Marina has already sparked whispers among the younger witches. They question why a senior member would need to speak with a traitor in secret.”

  The accusation hung in the air between them. Ember felt sweat bead along her hairline, unsure if it was from the heat she generated or the intensity of Beatrice’s gaze.

  “Marina accessed restricted areas of Thornhallow without detection. She corrupted wards that should have been impenetrable. The entropy she placed on Rafe Thorne was able to pass through undetected. These aren’t mere accusations—they’re proof of weaknesses in our defences.”

  “Weaknesses that have been addressed.” Beatrice’s fingers curled around the letter opener, her knuckles white against the silver handle.

  “Have they? Because I’ve seen no changes to our ward structure, no review of our security protocols.” Ember’s magic flared, causing the nearest candle flames to surge. “The same vulnerabilities Marina exploited still exist.”

  A muscle twitched in Beatrice’s jaw. For a heartbeat, her carefully maintained mask slipped, revealing something sharp and dangerous beneath.

  “You overstep, Ember.” Beatrice’s voice carried an edge that could have cut glass. “These matters are being handled at the highest levels of the Concordat. Your interference serves only to destabilise the very institution you claim to protect.”

  “With respect, High Witch, blind loyalty won’t shield us from real threats.” Ember met Beatrice’s icy stare. “The Concordat’s strength lies in our ability to adapt, to question⁠—”

  “The Concordat’s strength,” Beatrice cut in, “lies in our unity. In our members knowing their place and maintaining proper channels of authority.” Her lips curved into a smile that didn’t touch her eyes. “Something you seem to have forgotten. These are dangerous times, Ember. The coven needs its members to stand together, not waste energy chasing shadows and entertaining the lies of traitors.” She turned away, a clear dismissal. “Return to your duties. I trust there won’t be any more unauthorised visits to our prisoner.”

  “Of course, High Witch.” Ember rose from her chair, her legs stiff from sitting so rigidly.

  She closed the heavy oak door behind her, each step down the corridor echoing against stone walls as the conversation replayed in her mind. The way Beatrice had deflected questions about the wards, her insistence that everything had been handled…

  A portrait of a former High Witch tracked her movement as she passed, its painted eyes narrowing with suspicion. Ember’s fingers curled into fists. The whole meeting felt wrong. Beatrice’s carefully constructed responses, that flash of something else beneath her composed exterior when Marina was mentioned.

  Two initiates scurried past, heads bowed in deference. Ember barely noticed them, her thoughts churning. She’d expected a reprimand for visiting Marina, but Beatrice’s reaction went beyond simple disciplinary measures. The High Witch had been defensive, almost aggressively so.

  Ember paused at a window overlooking Thornhallow’s grounds. Sunlight filtered through ancient trees, casting dappled shadows across carefully tended gardens. Everything looked perfect, orderly, controlled.

  But underneath that pristine surface, something felt rotten. Marina’s warnings about hidden threats within Thornhallow took on new weight. Beatrice’s behaviour didn’t match someone concerned about security breaches—it matched someone desperate to maintain control of a narrative.

  For now, though, Ember would need to play her part. Keep her head down, attend to her duties, let Beatrice believe her warnings had landed. But she wouldn’t stop looking for answers. Too much didn’t add up, and Ember had never been good at ignoring things that didn’t make sense.

  She straightened her robes and headed toward the training grounds. Whatever Beatrice was hiding, Ember would find it. She just needed to be more careful about how she searched.

  Chapter 9

  Blair descended into Selene’s archive, grateful for the warmth that chased away the pre-dawn frost. The scent of old books and parchment wrapped around her. Though a little musty, it was better than the frosted rot of the damp winter air above. She’d barely noticed the change of seasons, not until the ice had begun to form.

  Vesper and Rafe were hunched over the central table, surrounded by stacks of books and scattered papers. Their heads snapped up at her entrance, Vesper’s fingers pausing mid-page-turn.

  “Blair!” she exclaimed. “You’re back.”

  “In one piece, too!” She pulled out a chair, its legs scraping against the floor. “My contact came through. There’s good news and complicated news about our ritual components. Also, there're more eyes and ears out there than usual, which means something big is brewing. The Black Kettle⁠—”

  “The Black Kettle?” Rafe straightened, pushing aside a pile of notes.

  “What’s that?” Vesper asked.

  “A pub,” Blair replied. “It’s an idiom. The pot calling the kettle black…”

  She smiled. “Clever.”

  Rafe snorted. “And is your informant equally as dodgy as the pub they frequent?”

  “Marcus never disappoints. He’s a coward and a drunk, but he knows the value of information. Truth, not rumour.” Blair withdrew her notebook, flipping it open to fresh annotations. “The shadow-touched crystal belongs to someone called the Nightweaver. He trades in the most dangerous and forbidden magical artefacts and is a bit of a recluse.”

  Vesper leant forward. “And the other components?”

  “The water source—there’s an ancient well beneath the city. Protected by old magic, but accessible if you know the right paths. It could be the Original Source, but no one is one hundred percent about it.”

  Blair watched Vesper’s eyes widen, that ethereal sheen intensifying as she absorbed the information. The girl’s hunger for knowledge reminded Blair of herself at that age—though she’d been chasing far more mundane mysteries back then.