The witch-flames flickered, casting Marina’s face in sharp relief as she knelt before the council. Despite her chains, despite her capture, she looked anything but defeated.

  “Did you tamper with the second trial?” Beatrice demanded.

  “I observed. Nothing more.” Marina’s dark eyes narrowed. “I expected the council to act once Vesper’s nature became clear. A Resonant, walking our halls—surely that warranted investigation?”

  The word ‘Resonant’ sent ripples through the assembled witches. Ember felt her own magic respond, a warmth building beneath her skin. She remembered watching Vesper during that trial, and how easy it had been for her to compete the artefacts.

  “When the council remained silent,” Marina continued, her voice gaining strength, “I knew the third trial would force the traitor’s hand. Those who sought to destabilise us would not resist such an opportunity.”

  Beatrice’s fingers curled around her chair’s arm. “You speak of threats, yet offer no proof.”

  “The attack in the Bizarre wasn’t proof enough?” Marina’s laugh held no humour. “Mages, breaching our territory with such precision? They knew exactly when to strike, exactly where to find her. While the council debated procedure, our enemies grew bold. The attack proved I couldn’t wait any longer.”

  Ember watched the tension build in Beatrice’s shoulders as the High Witch rose from her chair and stepped closer to Marina. The witch-flames cast strange shadows across the chamber floor, dancing with each pulse of contained magic. “What of Rafe Thorne?”

  Marina’s composure cracked—just slightly—but Ember caught the flicker of unease across her face. The manacles clinked as Marina shifted her weight.

  “A calculated risk.”

  “A spell to destabilise his magic.” Beatrice’s words struck like physical blows. “Designed to tear through Thornhallow’s wards from within.”

  The council’s collective magic pressed down, heavy and insistent. Ember felt it join with her own power, weaving together until the pressure became impossible to resist. Marina’s shoulders hunched beneath the weight of it.

  “Yes.” Marina’s admission came through gritted teeth. “A precise enchantment. His magic would have cascaded, creating enough chaos to⁠—”

  “To what?” Beatrice’s voice cracked like lightning.

  “To force your hand.” Marina’s chains rattled as she straightened. “The Concordat needed to remember its strength. Your leadership had grown too cautious, too willing to watch while threats gathered at our borders.”

  “You wanted chaos.” Beatrice’s accusation cut through the chamber.

  “I wanted action.” Marina’s composure slipped further. “When the spell failed, I—” She swallowed hard. “There wasn’t time. The attack during the third trial—I couldn’t counter it. There was no time.”

  Ember noted the tremor in Marina’s voice, the way her fingers twisted against her chains. For the first time since her capture, uncertainty showed clearly on her face.

  “Your plan failed,” Beatrice said, her words sharp as glass. “So you retreated.”

  Marina’s silence was answer enough. Ember felt the shift in the council’s magic—judgement crystallising into certainty.

  Ember shifted in her seat, her fingers tracing the scorched edges of her sleeve. Marina’s words about the third trial burrowed under her skin like splinters, impossible to ignore. The memory of that day surfaced with uncomfortable clarity—the tear in reality, the way magic had twisted and buckled.

  But it was Beatrice’s reaction that now caught at Ember’s thoughts. The High Witch had moved with such precision, her spells perfectly aligned to support Vesper’s desperate attempts to seal the breach. At the time, Ember had attributed it to centuries of experience, to the composure that made Beatrice such a formidable leader.

  Now, though…

  Marina’s chains clinked as she continued her defence, but Ember barely heard the words. She was lost in the replay of that moment—how Beatrice had reached Vesper’s side before anyone else, how her magic had woven so seamlessly with the Resonant’s untrained power. Almost as if she’d known exactly what would happen. Exactly what Vesper would need.

  No one else had noticed. No one but her. She’d joined her magic with both Beatrice and Vesper to force the mages to retreat. She’d felt it all.

  The witch-flames nearest to Ember flickered and dimmed, responding to her growing unease. She forced her breathing to remain steady, conscious of the other council members around her. But questions multiplied in her mind.

  She watched Beatrice now, noting the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw tightened as Marina spoke. Small tells that would have meant nothing if Marina’s accusations hadn’t aligned so perfectly with the doubts already taking root in Ember’s mind.

  Either Beatrice knew something…or she knew nothing and was scrambling.

  “Your actions speak of your guilt,” Beatrice was saying. “Your absence from the third trial, your escape, the witch-house… How do you plead, Marina Sinclair?”

  “I don’t plead to sycophants.”

  A collective gasp filled the room at the blunt accusation.

  “You dare speak of sycophants?” Beatrice’s power flared, making the witch-flames dance. “When you courted dark forces for your own gain?”

  Marina’s chains rattled as she lifted her chin. “I sought allies who understood the true nature of what we face. Unlike this council, paralysed by tradition and fear. You speak of the future, of progress and evolution, but hide behind your titles and wards. Wards that were so easily broken.”

  Ember watched the exchange, noting how several older council members bristled at Marina’s words. But it was Beatrice’s reaction that held her attention—the slight tremor in her usually steady hands, the way her magic pulsed erratically. These weren’t the responses of someone fully in control.

  “So be it. The council will deliberate your fate,” Beatrice snapped.

  Marina’s dark laugh cut through the chamber. “Will they? Or will you guide their thoughts, as you’ve always done?”

  The magical pressure in the room intensified. Ember forced herself to remain still, though her own magic responded to the tension, warming beneath her skin.

  Beatrice stepped closer to Marina, power radiating from her in waves. “You have sealed your own fate with these accusations.”

  “Oh, my fate was sealed long before today. Before I burn, I thought I should drop a few—what do the humans call it?—truth bombs on my way out.”

  Beatrice’s eyes narrowed as she fought to contain her rage. “Get her out of here.”

  Two senior witches dragged Marina from the chamber, their steps echoing against stone. But her words hung in the air like smoke, impossible to wave away.

  Beatrice straightened, her silver braid catching the witch-flame light. “Marina’s actions have shaken us,” she said, her voice carrying to every corner. “But we must not let doubt take root.”

  Ember’s fingers traced the scorched edges of her sleeve again, a nervous habit she couldn’t quite break. The fabric felt rough beneath her touch, a reminder of the corrupted magic they’d encountered in that witch-house. Magic that, according to Marina, they should have been watching for all along.

  “The Luminous Concordat has weathered greater storms,” Beatrice continued. “We will emerge stronger, more unified.”

  Several council members nodded, their expressions set with determination. But Ember noticed others who sat perfectly still, their faces carefully blank. She recognised the look—she wore it herself.

  Beatrice’s words washed over the assembly, speaking of tradition and unity, of standing firm against threats both internal and external. But Ember’s thoughts kept circling back to that third trial. To all the small details that hadn’t quite fit.

  Around her, witches began to rise, filing towards the exit. The interrogation had seemed like a mere formality, a box that needed to be checked before the council, led by Beatrice, would rule to execute Marina.

  Ember followed the dispersing council members into the corridor, her thoughts troubled. The witch-flames cast long shadows that seemed to reach for her ankles with each step.

  “Ember.” Beatrice’s voice cut through the murmur of retreating footsteps. “A moment.”

  She turned to face the High Witch. The chamber’s dim light caught the silver threads in Beatrice’s braid, but failed to soften the new hardness in her features.

  “Your actions in apprehending Marina were commendable. The Concordat needs such dedication, now more than ever.”

  “Thank you, High Witch.” Ember kept her voice steady, though her magic stirred beneath her skin.

  “These are trying times.” Beatrice’s usual fluid grace had crystallised into something sharper. “Unity is our strength. Loyalty, our shield. We cannot allow Marina’s poison to spread doubt among us. I fear dark times are coming.”

  “Of course.” Ember inclined her head, conscious of the weight of Beatrice’s hand still on her shoulder. “The Luminous Concordat stands together as we always have.”

  “Indeed. Your service will not be forgotten. Few would have risked entering that witch-house.”

  The memory of corrupted magic made Ember’s skin crawl, but something in Beatrice’s tone set her nerves humming. The High Witch’s carefully measured words felt rehearsed, each pause calculated for maximum effect.

  “I did what was necessary,” Ember said.

  “As we all must.” Beatrice released her shoulder and stepped back. “Remember that, in the days ahead.”

  Ember bowed slightly, the proper response to a dismissal from the High Witch. But as she walked away, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something fundamental had shifted. The Beatrice she knew—the one who had guided the Concordat with wisdom and grace—seemed to have hardened into someone else entirely.

  Perhaps this was who the High Witch needed to become to lead the Concordat through these times. To weather darkness, one had to become hard like a shield. Strength against unrelenting power.

  Ember hurried through Thornhallow, her boots echoing against stone as she climbed the spiral staircase to her chambers. She needed to be alone.

  Closing the door behind her, she turned the lock and let out a heavy sigh. The familiar warmth of her quarters did nothing to ease the chill that had settled in her bones during Marina’s interrogation.

  She crossed to the window, pressing her palm against the cool glass. Below, Thornhallow’s grounds stretched out in carefully maintained paths and gardens, deceptively peaceful in the gathering dusk.

  A memory surfaced with painful clarity. In the trial chamber, deep within the heart of the manor, she’d stood behind Beatrice as the High Witch had opened the rift—a controlled tear between worlds meant to test Vesper’s ability to seal magical breaches.

  Beatrice had been honouring the will of the chamber. The magic imbued in the trials demanded that a rift be opened. Standard procedure.

  Except…

  Ember’s fingers traced the scorched sleeve of her robe again. Had the chamber demanded a rift be opened? Was it the true trial that should have been presented to Vesper that day?

  She remembered how quickly Beatrice had reached Vesper’s side when things went wrong. How seamlessly their magic had woven together, despite Vesper being untrained. The High Witch’s spells had anticipated Vesper’s movements perfectly—too perfectly for someone working with an unknown quantity.

  “She knew,” Ember whispered to the empty room. “She knew exactly what would happen.”

  The realisation settled like lead in her stomach. She’d been there, had joined her own fire magic with theirs to drive back the corrupted energy pouring through the rift. At the time, she’d attributed the smooth synchronisation to Beatrice’s centuries of experience.

  But Marina’s words echoed in her mind: Someone else was watching for the same signs.

  Had Beatrice known about Vesper’s nature as a Resonant before the trials? Had she deliberately created a scenario that would force Vesper to reveal her abilities?

  The witch-flames in her chambers flickered, responding to her agitation. Ember pressed her forehead against the cool window glass, trying to reconcile the Beatrice she thought she knew with these new suspicions.

  Had Beatrice known about the mages?

  Ember traced her reflection in the windowpane, watching how the moonlight caught the amber of her eyes. The grounds below stretched out in perfectly maintained paths and hedgerows, each plant and stone placed with careful precision. Just like everything else in Thornhallow.

  Her chambers felt too quiet, the silence broken only by the soft crackle of witch-flames. She’d stood in this same spot countless times before, drawing comfort from the view of her home. Tonight, that comfort felt hollow.

  The collected magic of centuries hummed through the manor’s walls, through every stone and timber. Power built upon power, tradition upon tradition. The Concordat had always been her anchor, her purpose.

  But now Ember couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere, hidden beneath all this carefully maintained order, something else moved. Something that went deeper than one witch’s treachery.

  The Concordat was changing. She could feel it in the shifting currents of magic, in the subtle tensions that rippled through every gathering. Whether they were ready or not, change was coming.

  Chapter 6

  Vesper blinked as Rafe conjured a ball of light. He cast it out into the gloom of Selene’s archive, lighting the basement with cool, blue light.

  A desk dominated the centre of the room, its surface buried beneath scattered papers and dried inkwells. Tea stains marked endless hours of research, while half-burnt candles drooped.

  The air held the musty sweetness of old paper and something else—a tang of magic that made her skin prickle. Shelves lined every wall, reaching from floor to ceiling in precarious towers. Between them, a small cot huddled against one wall, its blankets still rumpled as if Selene had just risen from sleep.

  A compact kitchen area contained a kettle thick with limescale and cupboards filled with stale tea leaves. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling in neat bundles, their purposes unknown. A cramped bathroom barely fit its basic facilities, while a workspace held an array of curious implements—crystal balls, tarnished mirrors, and delicate silver instruments whose purposes she could only guess at.

  “She lived down here,” Blair whispered, running her hand across a shelf.

  Vesper’s gaze caught on a collection of artefacts arranged on a side table—chunks of raw crystal, carved bones, and what looked like a compass made of brass and glass. Each item hummed with its own distinct magical frequency, but there were also traces of Selene’s magic lingering in every corner. She’d spent a lot of time here.

  She ran her fingers along the spines of ancient books, dust coating her fingertips. The shelves groaned under the weight of at least three hundred books—grimoires bound in materials she didn’t want to contemplate, scrolls tied with faded ribbons, and leather-bound books with gilt-edged pages.

  “Some of these books are centuries old.” Rafe lifted one from a nearby shelf, his expression grave as he examined the weathered cover.

  “She must have spent years building this collection,” Blair said. “But why keep it hidden? I thought the Concordat had the most comprehensive library out there.”

  The question hung in the air as Vesper approached the central table. Scattered papers covered its surface, diagrams and notes in Selene’s familiar handwriting overlapping with older, more cryptic documents. Her hand hovered over a particular page, and the opalescent sheen flickered across her eyes. The paper seemed to pulse with residual magic.

  “There’s something different about these.” Vesper spread her palm flat above the documents. “It’s like they’re holding onto echoes of Selene’s magic.”

  “Don’t touch anything yet.” Rafe moved beside her, close enough that she felt the warmth radiating from him. “Some of these protection wards are still active.”

  The magical light from the walls cast dancing shadows across the table’s surface. Vesper’s gaze caught on a symbol scratched into the wood—identical to the one they’d found in the streets. Her magic responded, sending ripples of energy through her body.

  Blair leant over the table’s edge. “These notes are dated. She started this research months before her death. Let’s spread out and see what we can find.”

  Gravitating towards the books, Vesper trailed her fingers along the spines, the familiar sight of so many delicate manuscripts conjuring memories of her mundane past at the London Historical Library. It’d only been six weeks since she’d found the grimoire hiding in the temperature controlled archive, and now she stood in Nightreach with all its magic and danger.

  That life already felt like it belonged to a stranger, but no matter how much time passed, books would always seem to whisper to her. And now she understood why.

  Their magic called out in different frequencies that made her skin hum. Some felt warm and inviting, others sharp and dangerous. Old magic permeated the leather bindings. Titles in faded gold leaf caught her eye: Resonant Frequencies in Ancient Practices, The Echo’s Path, Sigils of the First Age.

  A slim volume bound in midnight blue leather drew her attention. The cover bore no title, just an intricate silver symbol that sparked a memory. Ash de Brigue had shown her an identical book during their study sessions right before the third trial, his grey eyes serious as he’d explained its significance. Books that held dangerous ideas that were destroyed, their authors discredited or worse…disappeared without a trace. Suspected Resonants trying to understand how their magic worked. Authors who perhaps didn’t realise exactly what they were until it was too late.

  Yet here was another copy of one of those banned books, nestled among Selene’s collection.