“Come,” Ember said, smiling at Clara. “Let’s take our places.”

  The two witches slipped into the council chamber, the familiar scent of beeswax and old magic hanging heavy in the air. Witches filed in, their robes rustling against the ancient floorboards as they found their places.

  Ember settled into her assigned seat, Clara joining Agnes with the younger witches across the room, conscious of the empty throne-like chair at the head of the chamber where Beatrice should have presided. The gilded wood gleamed dully in the morning light filtering through the high windows.

  Sarah caught her eye from across the chamber and gave a slight nod. Dark circles shadowed her eyes—she’d likely been up all night helping secure the manor’s compromised wards.

  “Order.” Eleanor Cleary’s voice cut through the murmured conversations. The elderly witch stood before Beatrice’s vacant chair, her silver hair catching the light. “The Emergency Council is now in session.”

  The room fell silent. Ember’s fingers curled around the worn wooden armrests of her seat as Eleanor unrolled a scroll bearing the Concordat’s seal.

  “In light of High Witch Beatrice Ashworth’s betrayal and subsequent arrest, the Council hereby invokes Article Seven of our ancient charter.” Eleanor’s voice carried clear across the chamber. “Leadership shall transfer immediately to a collective council of seven senior witches until such time as a new High Witch can be properly selected and appointed.”

  A ripple of unease moved through the gathered witches. Ember watched several of the more conservative members shift uncomfortably in their seats. This hadn’t happened in over two centuries—not since the Great Schism had torn the magical community apart.

  “The following witches will form the Emergency Council…” Eleanor began reading names.

  Ember observed the faces around her as the announcement settled in. Some nodded in grim acceptance, while others exchanged worried glances. Clara, seated near the back, wrung her hands in her lap. Even the portraits of former High Witches seemed to look down on the proceedings with newfound gravity.

  Ember’s heart skipped as Eleanor’s steady voice continued down the list.

  “…Johanna Singer, Fiona Good, and Ember Vance.”

  The chamber’s weight pressed against her chest. Several witches turned to look at her, their expressions a mix of approval and scrutiny. Heat crept up her neck—not from embarrassment, but from the surge of magical energy that always accompanied strong emotion.

  Eleanor’s eyes met hers across the chamber. “Rise, Council Member Vance.”

  Ember’s legs felt wooden as she stood. The worn floorboards creaked beneath her feet, and she forced herself to keep her chin level. Her scorched robes suddenly felt inadequate for such a moment, but there’d been no time to change after the fight with Beatrice.

  Ember moved to join the other Council members at the front of the chamber, her footsteps echoing in the silence. The magical current that always flowed through Thornhallow seemed to hum beneath her feet, acknowledging the shift in power.

  As she turned to face the assembled witches, Ember felt the responsibility settle on her tired heart. She thought of Marina, still under house arrest, and the blood oath that bound them. Whatever came next, she’d have to navigate it carefully.

  Ember shifted her weight as Eleanor unfurled another scroll, the parchment crackling in the hushed chamber. The morning light caught the dust motes dancing around them, creating halos around the other Council members.

  “The Emergency Council shall operate under strict guidelines laid down during the Great Schism,” Eleanor’s voice carried across the chamber. “All decisions must be reached by majority vote. No single member may act unilaterally in matters affecting the Concordat.”

  The rules continued. No Council member could leave Nightreach without another accompanying them. All communications with outside covens required oversight. Weekly reports on the state of the wards. Regular inspections of the holding cells.

  Ember’s fingers brushed against the spot where Marina’s blood oath tingled beneath her skin. She kept her expression neutral as Eleanor detailed the protocols for prisoner oversight.

  “The Council will meet daily.” Eleanor rolled the scroll closed with a snap. “All other matters shall be addressed as they arise.”

  The assembled witches shifted in their seats, exhaustion evident in their drawn faces. Some had been awake since the alarm bells first rang through Thornhallow.

  “You are dismissed to your duties,” Eleanor announced. “The wards require attention, and our apprentices need reassurance. The Council shall convene immediately to address our most pressing concerns.”

  Chairs scraped against wooden floors as witches rose. They filed out in small groups, their whispered conversations echoing off the panelled walls. Clara caught Ember’s eye as she left, offering a small smile of encouragement, while Agnes nodded, her lips thin.

  When the chamber door closed behind the last witch, Eleanor turned to face the newly formed council. The seven of them stood in a loose circle, the weight of centuries of tradition pressing down on their shoulders.

  “Well then,” Eleanor said, her weathered hands clasping together. “Shall we begin?”

  Ember watched the Council members settle into their seats around the ancient oak table. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, casting long shadows across faces lined with exhaustion and worry.

  “We must address Marina Sinclair.” Johanna Singer’s voice cut through the silence. “The execution was scheduled for dawn.”

  “And it should proceed.” Fiona Good’s fingers drummed against the polished wood. “We cannot appear weak, not when the Concordat’s very foundations have been shaken.”

  Deirdre Kröger nodded. “Marina broke our most sacred laws. The penalty is clear.”

  Ember’s wrist tingled where Marina’s blood oath pulsed beneath her skin. The magic that bound them together felt alive, a constant reminder of their desperate alliance in Beatrice’s study.

  “Marina possesses vital information about Beatrice’s conspiracy.” Bridget Winterbourne’s soft voice carried unexpected weight. “To execute her now would be shortsighted.”

  “And risk her causing more chaos?” Ingrid Wiccombe scoffed. “She’s proven herself dangerous.”

  Ember rose from her seat, the chair scraping against the floor. Six pairs of eyes turned to her, some suspicious, others curious.

  “Marina Sinclair is bound to me through blood magic.” Her voice remained steady despite her racing heart. “She cannot betray us, not while our oath holds.”

  Eleanor’s dark eyes narrowed. “Blood oaths are forbidden, Council Member Vance.”

  “As is conspiring with dark mages, yet here we are.” Ember met Eleanor’s gaze. “Marina’s knowledge could prove invaluable. We’d be fools to waste such an asset.”

  Silence fell over the chamber. Johanna and Fiona exchanged glances while Bridget nodded slowly.

  “You propose we use her?” Deirdre’s voice held a mix of distaste and grudging interest.

  “I propose we be practical.” Ember flexed her fingers, feeling the oath’s magic pulse. “Marina knows things about Beatrice’s plans that even the High Witch herself might not reveal under questioning.”

  “And what are the parameters of this oath?” Ingrid asked.

  Ember fixed her gaze on each of the Council members as she spoke. “That she will help me stop D’Arco, help Vesper, and expose Beatrice’s manipulation for the good of Nightreach. No betrayals, no hidden agendas.”

  She watched the witches process her words, their expressions a mix of concern and calculation. The morning light streaming through the windows had grown stronger, casting long shadows across the ancient chamber floor. Her wrist tingled where Marina’s blood oath pulsed beneath her skin.

  “The terms are…specific,” Eleanor said, her weathered hands folded on the table. “But blood magic is unpredictable. How can we trust your judgement in this matter?”

  “Because I was right about Beatrice.” Ember kept her voice level despite the exhaustion weighing on her bones. “And I’m right about this. Marina may have acted against the Concordat’s laws, but her goal was to expose the real threat.”

  “And grab power for herself.” Johanna Singer leaned forward, her silver rings catching the light. “What about the witch-house incident? The shadow constructs she commanded nearly killed three of our own.”

  “I know. I was there,” Ember said. “While she may have acted from a place of self-interest, she intended to take control of the Concordat to arm it for war.”

  “That’s rather convenient,” Deirdre muttered.

  Ember’s fingers curled against the polished wood of the table. “Everything Marina did was to protect Nightreach from Beatrice’s schemes, which would have doomed the Concordat and handed Vesper Ainsley and the Echo to our enemy. No one double-crosses Lucian D’Arco. Beatrice would have doomed us all.”

  A ripple of unease passed through the Council members.

  “We need to vote,” Eleanor announced, her dark eyes fixed on Ember. “On whether to stay Marina Sinclair’s execution and utilise her under Council Member Vance’s blood oath.” Her gaze lowered monetarily. “I fear you are right about one thing. A war is coming to Nightreach and we must be armed for it. Please…cast your votes as your own conscious dictates, but keep in mind the greater forces in play.”

  Ember sat as the Council members’ faces as they cast their votes. The blood oath tingled beneath her skin, a constant reminder of the precarious position she’d placed herself in.

  “Four in favour, three opposed.” Eleanor’s weathered hands folded the voting parchment. “Marina Sinclair’s execution is hereby suspended.”

  Relief flooded through Ember’s chest, though she kept her expression neutral. Across the table, Deirdre’s lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval.

  “She’ll be confined to the east wing,” Johanna declared, her tone clipped. “Under constant guard, with restricted access to magical implements.”

  “And what of Council Member Vance’s…connection to the prisoner?” Ingrid’s words dripped with barely concealed suspicion.

  Heat crept up Ember’s neck as the other Council members studied her. Their gazes held varying degrees of mistrust, from Eleanor’s sharp scrutiny to Bridget’s careful observation.

  “I stand by my actions,” Ember said, lifting her chin. “The blood oath ensures Marina cannot work against the Concordat’s interests.”

  “Or perhaps it ensures your loyalty to her,” Fiona muttered.

  “Enough.” Eleanor’s voice cut through the tension. “What’s done is done. Marina Sinclair lives, but she remains our prisoner. Council Member Vance, you will document every interaction with her. No private conversations, no unmonitored exchanges. Thornhallow itself spoke for her. That is enough on its own.”

  Ember nodded, feeling the weight of their distrust settle across her shoulders. But she’d known the cost when she’d bound herself to Marina. She pulled the bundle of letters from her robes. “These letters prove Beatrice’s collusion with Cassandra.” She spread the parchments across the table, the elegant script catching the morning light. “They detail plans for the third trial attack, among other things. This was the evidence I planned to present with Marina before we were discovered…and Thornhallow stepped in.”

  Eleanor leaned forward, her weathered fingers tracing the silver-inked signatures. “Cassandra. That name keeps surfacing.”

  “She’s one of D’Arco’s agents and the mage who led the attack on the third trial.” Ember’s fingers brushed against a particularly damning letter. “These letters show she’s been working to destabilise our wards for months.”

  “Through Beatrice’s access to our defensive systems.” Johanna’s voice held barely contained fury as she examined the correspondence.

  “We need to find her.” Ember met each Council member’s gaze in turn. “And we need concrete proof of D’Arco’s return. These letters hint at his involvement, but we need more to convince the other factions. We’ll need more than the Concordat to go up against him this time.”

  Bridget nodded slowly. “Both tasks require our most skilled witches.”

  “I suggest two teams,” Ember said, spreading out a map of Nightreach. “One to track Cassandra’s movements through the city, another to investigate known locations where D’Arco’s magic has been detected.”

  “The scope is considerable.” Eleanor’s fingers drummed against the table. “But we cannot ignore this threat.”

  “I’ll assemble a list of our most capable trackers,” Deirdre offered, her earlier hostility softening in the face of immediate action.

  “And I know which witches have experience with shadow magic detection,” Fiona added.

  The council chamber hummed with renewed purpose as they began listing names and discussing team compositions. Ember felt some of the tension ease from her shoulders as the other Council members embraced the urgency of the situation. For once, something was being done, and it was a refreshing change.

  “There’s another matter we need to address,” Ingrid said, pulling out a folded map from her robes. She spread it across the ancient oak table, revealing the intricate network of Threads that connected London and Nightreach through the Fold. Red marks crossed out several paths, while others bore question marks. “The Threads are failing and the Fold is in disarray.”

  Eleanor leaned forward, her weathered fingers tracing the marked routes. “How many have we lost?”

  “Three major pathways completely corrupted in the past week alone.” Ingrid tapped specific locations on the map. “The corruption spreads faster than we can contain it. If we lose the Threads, we lose our connection to London entirely.”

  “Impossible,” Deirdre scoffed. “The Threads have existed since Nightreach’s founding.”

  “I spoke with several witches this morning who confirmed the reports.” Ingrid’s voice hardened. “Threads completely corrupted and severed from the Fold.”

  Johanna’s rings clinked against the table as she studied the map. “These patterns…they’re not random.”

  “No,” Ember agreed. “They’re systematic. Someone’s targeting our infrastructure.”

  The Council members exchanged worried glances. Bridget pulled the map closer, her brow furrowed. “Our pathways are being cut off and controlled. Could the Fold be… Could they be trying to weaponise it?”

  The Council fell silent. The implications of the Fold merging with Nightreach were catastrophic, let alone the carnage that would unfold if the Hunters came into the city.

  “We need to act now,” Ember pressed. “Before we lose more Threads. The Fold is vital—we can’t risk losing control.”

  “Agreed,” Eleanor said, her dark eyes scanning the faces around the table. “We’ll need teams to assess and stabilise the remaining Threads…and protect them. How many witches can be spared from ward maintenance?”

  “Three teams of four,” Johanna replied. “If we rotate shifts, we can cover the major pathways.”

  “Make it happen,” Eleanor ordered. “Priority goes to the supply routes with London. We can’t afford to lose those connections.”

  Ember watched the Council members gather their papers, their movements betraying varying levels of exhaustion and tension. Eleanor’s weathered hands trembled slightly as she rolled up the maps—the first sign of weakness Ember had ever seen in the formidable witch. Beside her, Johanna kept glancing at Fiona, their shared looks speaking volumes about their developing alliance.

  The morning light cast long shadows across the chamber floor, highlighting the deep lines of worry etched into each face. Deirdre Kröger stood apart from the others, her rigid posture and tight lips making her disapproval clear. She’d voted against Marina’s reprieve, and Ember knew she’d gained a powerful opponent.

  Bridget caught Ember’s eye and offered a slight nod—a silent acknowledgment of support that didn’t go unnoticed by the others. The gesture caused Ingrid to shift closer to Deirdre, the two witches exchanging whispered words.

  Ember felt the weight of Eleanor’s gaze. The elder witch studied her with an unreadable expression, neither hostile nor friendly. They’d worked together for years, but Beatrice’s betrayal had shattered old certainties. Trust would need to be rebuilt, carefully and slowly, no matter what Thornhallow’s magic decreed.

  The blood oath pulsed beneath Ember’s skin as she gathered her own documents. She noticed how the other Council members tracked her movements, their eyes drawn to her wrist where the magical binding lay hidden. Their wariness was understandable—blood magic had always been forbidden. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and they all knew it.

  As scrolls were rolled and chairs pushed back, the power dynamics crystallised before Ember’s eyes. Eleanor commanded respect, but not absolute authority. Johanna and Fiona had formed a pragmatic partnership. Deirdre and Ingrid stood as a conservative block, while Bridget walked a careful line between factions. And Ember… Ember stood alone, marked by her connection to Marina and her role in exposing Beatrice.

  The unity they desperately needed felt as fragile as spun glass.

  Suddenly, the ancient wood beneath Ember’s fingers thrummed with unfamiliar magic. She jerked her hand back from the table as energy rippled through Thornhallow’s stones. The manor’s usual protective magic felt warped, twisted into something that made her skin crawl.

  Eleanor gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white. “That’s not possible.”

  “The wards,” Johanna breathed, her rings clicking against wood as she steadied herself.

  Ember’s blood oath pulsed in response to the disturbance, Marina’s magic resonating with whatever had just torn through Thornhallow’s defences. She caught Bridget’s worried glance across the table.