The packhouse had not slept in three days.
Candles burned low in every corridor of Dominic and Adrian’s estate, their flames trembling as if even fire sensed the imbalance in the world. The air itself felt wrong—heavy, thick with suppressed magic and unspoken fear.
Aria stood in the center of the council chamber, her altered appearance reflected faintly in the black obsidian floor. Every oracle, witch, and seer they had summoned sat in a wide circle around her and Elara, forming layers of protection sigils that glowed faintly silver and violet.
Dominic stood behind Aria, his presence a steady anchor.
Adrian stood behind Elara, one hand resting protectively on her shoulder.
The first oracle—blind, ancient, and shaking—had screamed the moment she touched Aria’s wrist.
“She is unbound,”
