House of Wynthorne

The Union

The air in the grand chamber of the Sorcerer’s Union was thick with murmurs, a discordant hum of voices layered with unease. At the head of the elongated obsidian table sat High Chancellor Godfrey Ashenford, his withered hands folded beneath his chin. His gaze swept over the gathered council, powerful sorcerers, noble scholars, and the self-righteous enforcers of magical law. Their expressions varied from curiosity to outright contempt.

“It is no longer mere suspicion,” spoke one of the elder councilors, Lord Garrick Thorne, his voice hoarse with age. “Aldric Wynthorne has delved into arts that were forbidden for good reason.”

“He has not been seen in public for weeks,” Lady Rosalind Tetheridge added, her tone edged with something dangerously close to amusement. “His estate is warded tighter than a fortress. What could he be hiding?”

Chancellor Ashenford steepled his fingers. “We must tread carefully. Wynthorne is no fool. If we act rashly, we risk making a martyr of him.”

“Then let us bring him into the light,” said Garrick. “Invite him to a gathering, a social affair. Let us observe him, his family. See what he has become.” There was a murmur of agreement. If Aldric refused the invitation, it would be tantamount to an admission of guilt. If he accepted, they could study him closely, perhaps even lure him into a mistake.

A letter was dispatched before nightfall.

Aldric stood in his study, rereading the summons by the flickering candlelight. The elegant script did little to mask its true nature, a veiled command.

“An invitation,” he murmured, setting the parchment down.

Eleanor, standing beside him, frowned. “They wish to test you.”

Lucian sat on the edge of a velvet chaise, tuning his violin absentmindedly. “Then let them watch,” he said with a smirk. “We've got nothing to hide.”

Aldric turned to him, his expression unreadable. “We have everything to hide.”

Isolde, leaning against the fireplace, spoke up. “So what do we do?”

Aldric moved to the center of the room, drawing a small blade from his robe. He pressed it against his palm, allowing a few drops of blood to fall onto the intricate sigil etched into the wooden floor. The runes flared crimson.

“I will place a barrier over each of you,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “No spell shall touch you, no blade will pierce you.”

Lucian’s fingers stilled on his violin strings. “Blood magic?”

“There is no other way,” Aldric replied. “I will not risk your lives.”

Eleanor placed a hand over his. “Then let us proceed cautiously.”

The social gathering was a grand affair, held within the opulent halls of the Union’s main estate. Chandeliers of enchanted crystal bathed the room in golden light, illuminating the noble sorcerers and their kin who mingled beneath.

Aldric and his family arrived in silence, their movements measured. Lucian, as expected, was the center of attention almost immediately, his violin gracing the gathering with an eerie yet beautiful melody.

From across the room, Chancellor Ashenford observed, his eyes dark with calculation.

Aldric met his gaze, offering the barest nod of acknowledgment.

The evening passed with false pleasantries, whispers disguised as laughter. And then, as Lucian played, the air shifted.

A flicker of movement.

A subtle whisper of incantation beneath the music.

Then, a bolt of ice, sharp as a dagger, streaked toward Lucian’s heart.

Gasps erupted as the spell connected, only to shatter harmlessly against an invisible force. The barrier held.

Lucian faltered but did not stop playing. His fingers, though trembling, carried on.

Aldric, meanwhile, had already turned. His eyes locked onto a robed figure near the back of the hall, who immediately fled.

“Eleanor, Isolde, with me,” Aldric ordered.

They moved quickly, cutting through the confused crowd. The would-be assassin reached the exit, only to be intercepted by two enforcers. Yet, before they could seize him, his body convulsed. Blood spilled from his mouth, his veins turning black before he crumpled to the floor.

“A death spell,” Eleanor murmured. “He took his own life.”

Aldric exhaled sharply. “Then they did not intend for him to speak.”

From the far end of the room, Ashenford approached, his expression carefully neutral. “A regrettable incident.”

Aldric faced him fully. “Indeed.”

Ashenford tilted his head slightly. “I trust you will not hold this against the Union?”

Aldric held his gaze. “Of course not.”

As soon as they were clear of the estate, Aldric wasted no time. He urged their carriage forward at a breakneck pace. Eleanor sat rigidly beside him, while Isolde gripped the dagger at her hip.

“They will pursue,” she said.

“They already are,” Aldric replied, glancing at the shadowed figures in the distance.

Lucian, his face pale, exhaled shakily. “They mean to end us.”

Aldric’s eyes darkened. “Then let them try.”

As their estate loomed in the distance, Aldric reached out. The moment he crossed the threshold of his land, he raised a hand and whispered a command in an ancient tongue.

The surrounding air thickened, the runes embedded in the estate’s stonework flaring to life. The pursuing riders slowed, their mounts rearing as an invisible force repelled them.

Aldric exhaled, his exhaustion evident. Their faithful maid awaited them at the entrance.

Aldric turned to his family. “From this moment on, no one leaves the estate.”

Lucian clenched his jaw. “We are prisoners in our own home?”

“We are survivors,” Eleanor corrected softly.

Outside, the wind carried a distant howl, a ghostly echo through the trees. The Union had made its move. The Wynthornes would make theirs.