The Enchanted Five

Book 1 Chapter 3

Bram

The Highlands were quiet that morning. Too quiet. Bram stood on the battlements overlooking the mist‑covered valley, the cold wind tugging at his dark hair. Below him, the castle stirred awake, guards changing shifts, the smith’s hammer ringing faintly, ravens circling the highest tower.

Twelve years. Twelve years since the wards had trembled. Twelve years since the prophecy had stirred. Twelve years of searching for the First. And twelve years of disappointment. Bram exhaled slowly, watching his breath fog in the air. He was tired. Not physically, the curse made sure of that, but tired in the way only centuries of waiting could carve into a man’s bones. Footsteps approached behind him. Torin.

Torin MacInnes, Bram’s second‑in‑command. Loyal. Steady. Stubborn as stone. The only man Bram trusted with the truth.

“My King,” Torin said, coming to stand beside him. “The new intern arrives tomorrow.”

Bram grunted. “Another one.”

Torin shot him a look. “You say that as if the last dozen weren’t necessary.”

“They weren’t,” Bram said flatly. “None of them was her.”

Torin’s jaw tightened. “And what if this one is?”

Bram didn’t answer. He didn’t want to hope. Hope was dangerous. Hope was what had gotten Eilidh killed.

Torin continued, voice low. “The signs are aligning again. The wards have been restless for weeks. The ravens won’t settle. Even the old magic in the stones feels… awake.”

Bram’s hands curled around the cold stone of the battlement. He had felt it too. A faint pulse beneath the earth. A whisper in the wind. A shift in the curse that bound him. But he refused to give it meaning.

“We’ve been wrong before,” Bram said. “Every year, we bring someone in. Every year, the castle reacts. And every year, it leads nowhere.”

Torin stepped in front of him, forcing Bram to meet his eyes. “This year is different.” Bram’s bear stirred uneasily beneath his skin. Torin pressed on. “Her name is Aribella Thorne. American. Twenty‑four. Scholar. Her mother had ties to the old Warden lines. She fits the profile better than any of the others.”

Bram’s jaw clenched. He didn’t want to hear her name. Didn’t want to feel the flicker of something he’d buried centuries ago. “If she is not the one,” Bram said quietly, “we end the search.”

Torin’s eyes widened. “Bram—”

“No.” Bram’s voice was steel. “Twelve years is enough. If this Aribella is not the First, then the prophecy is dead. And we stop dragging strangers into our curse.”

Torin swallowed hard. “And if she is the one?” Bram didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

By midday, the entire castle buzzed with activity. Servants rushed through the halls, dusting tapestries and polishing ancient armor. The kitchens prepared a feast “just in case.” The healer stocked her herbs. The ravens perched along the rafters, restless and loud.

Even the wards shimmered faintly along the stone walls, a soft, pulsing glow only those with magic could see.

Torin oversaw the preparations with military precision.

“Fresh linens in the guest wing,” he ordered. “Remove the cursed tapestry from the hallway. We don’t need another incident. And for the love of the gods, someone fix the stair that tries to eat people.”

Bram watched from the shadows of the great hall, arms crossed. He hated this. The anticipation. The hope in his people’s eyes. The way the castle itself seemed to breathe differently. He hated the prophecy for what it had taken, for what it had made him. And he hated the idea of dragging another innocent woman into their world. But the wards pulsed again, stronger this time. A warning. A promise. A beginning.

Torin approached him, breathless. “She’ll be here by nightfall tomorrow.”

Bram’s bear pressed against his skin, restless. He forced his voice steady. “Then let us pray she is no one special.”

Because if she was…Everything would change.

The castle buzzed louder as the day wore on, a low hum of anticipation that Bram wished he could silence. Servants hurried through the corridors with fresh linens, polished silver, and armfuls of winter greenery. The kitchens were already preparing a welcome feast “just in case,” though Bram had told them not to bother. Hope was a dangerous thing to feed. In the great hall, two maids whispered as they scrubbed the long wooden table.

“Feels different this time,” one murmured, glancing toward the high windows where ravens perched restlessly. “The air’s heavier. Like a storm’s coming.”

“Aye,” the other agreed. “The wards near took my breath this morning. Haven’t felt them like that since… well. Since the last time.”

“Do you think she’s the one?”

The first maid shrugged, but her eyes flicked toward the doorway toward Bram, who stood speaking quietly with Torin.

“I hope not,” she whispered. “For his sake.”

Across the hall, another woman paused her work, her gaze fixed on Bram with a hunger she didn’t bother to hide.

Liora. Beautiful. Ambitious. And utterly convinced that one day Bram would see her. She smoothed her dark hair and stepped closer, pretending to adjust a tapestry. Her eyes never left him. “He’ll choose someone from here,” she said under her breath. “Not some outsider. Not some girl dragged in by prophecy.”

But Bram didn’t look her way. He never did. His attention was on Torin, his voice low, controlled. “If she is not the one,” Bram said, “we end this. No more interns. No more false hopes.”

Torin nodded, though worry tightened his jaw. “And if she is?”

Bram didn’t answer. Liora’s expression soured as she watched him walk away, the weight of centuries on his shoulders. The castle seemed to exhale a long, uneasy breath. Tomorrow, Aribella Thorne would arrive, and whether she knew it or not, the entire Highlands were waiting.