Chapter 6
1417 Words
A ripple of shock passed through the courtyard—silent, but palpable. All eyes locked on the ground. No one spoke or moved.
DOOMWITCH
Kaelith stepped forward, his movements measured, eyes locked on the word. His voice rang clear, sharp as drawn steel.
“What is this?” he demanded, with calm authority and rage.
“Who… or what is the Doomwitch?”
His eyes flicked once more to the word carved in gore, then back to the four who had written it.
The four raised their heads in unison—eyes hollow—sunken voids rimmed in dried blood. Mouths agape and slack, skin as pale as dead. And then they spoke.
“She’s coming,” they whispered, voices like wind over a grave.
“She won’t stop. She won’t spare.”
“Everywhere she treads, blood will follow mercilessly.”
Then—bone-creakingly—their heads turned to Kaelith.
Eyes empty. Smiles wrong.
“She’s coming for all of you.”
The courtyard fell into a breathless silence.
And then—screams rang out.
The figures arched backward with a wet, splitting snap. Spines cracked. Skin split open like overripe fruit. Something inside them convulsed violently—as if trying to claw its way free.
Their mouths stretched far beyond human limits, gaping in silent agony—until thick, black smoke burst from their throats, shrieking with the sound of a thousand trapped voices.
Gasps echoed across the courtyard as the bodies began to fold inward, collapsing like puppets cut from their strings—before they suddenly imploded, erupting in a spray of blood, bone, and gore. Crimson drenched the white marble, painting the air with iron and death.
Screams broke out. Servants at the edges stumbled back, retching and screaming. A tremor rolled through the gathering. One of the high witches turned away, choking on bile.
Kaelith didn’t move. But his fists were clenched white at his sides. A muscle ticked in his jaw. His golden eyes stayed locked on the devastation, sharp and calculating
One of the elder witches—stood frozen, her eyes wide with disbelief.
“This is… horrifying,” she murmured, her voice frayed with disbelief.
Kaeilth’s eyes narrowed slightly, jaw taut.
Across the circle, a warlock scoffed, though it lacked conviction.
“I’ve never heard of a Doomwitch. No name, no record."
“Then maybe she’s writing her own,” came the quiet response from the High Seeress Sereyna her eyes on blooded ground where the four bodies once lay—only dust remained now.
Dust... and four daggers.
Kaelith stepped forward, hand outstretched to retrieve one—
“Stop.” Sereyna’s voice came alerting.
He halted, head snapping toward her.
Her eyes were wide, staring at the daggers as if they might bite. “They’re not ordinary daggers,” she said, voice low. “They’re cursed. Darker than death. I can feel it.."
She moved forward, lowering to her knees near them, her hands hovered around—fingers twitching with restrained magic.Her lips moved in silence. Brows furrowed in growing frustration.
Nothing.
No trace of power. No trail to follow. Not even a whisper of aura.
She exhaled hard, standing with deliberate grace as she wiped her palms clean of blood.
“She’s well hidden. I can’t sense even the faintest ripple of her energy, not even from the daggers.”
Her eyes flicked upward, and her next words carried weight.
“If only the Aetherwyns still lived. Their magic might’ve matched hers… maybe even outrun it. But their fall has cost us more than we knew.”
A heavy silence fell over the gathering.
Aetherwyn.
The name still carried weight, even after all this time. The once-revered royal line of witches. Their sudden fall two years ago had left a scar on the magical world—one that hadn’t faded.
Kaeilth’s jaw tightened. His expression didn’t shift, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. That name echoed through him more deeply than any of them knew. Still, he said nothing. Just stared at the burnt sigil, the edges of his thoughts sharpening.
From across the courtyard, King Victor stepped forward. His voice was measured, calm—but with an undeniable edge of concern.
“She wants us to know she’s coming. That much is clear. But what we don’t know—what we need to know—is what she’s truly after.”
He turned to the Alpha King. “We can’t afford to stand idle.”
The Alpha King gave a grave nod, the weight of it felt by all.
Then his eyes slid to Kaeilth.
Kaeilth leaned forward slightly, his voice low but steady, carrying just enough weight to still the room.
"Whoever she is, she wanted us to know her name. To know that she doesn’t fear us—she expects us to fear her. And we better be prepared for it.”
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Kaeilth stood at the head of the long obsidian desk, still clad in the dark clothes from council. They clung to his tall, broad frame—creased, weathered, but unmarred by fatigue.
His mind wasn’t on rest. Not now.
A new threat had risen from the shadows, and he intended to drag it into the light.
Near the doorway, his beta waited—shoulders rigid, every inch of him coiled and alert.
Kaeilth didn’t look up when he spoke, but his voice was clear, low, and precise.
“Take scouts with you. Find out what packs, covens, nests, or circles those four once led. Search their territories. Look for survivors. Any sign of what happened before they were brought to us.”
The beta responded with immediate resolve. “Yes, Alpha.”
Kaeilth’s gaze rose to meet his. It sharpened, intense and unwavering.
“We don’t know what really happened out there,” he said quietly. “They were leaders. If they ended up like that… then whatever came for them likely left nothing behind.”
But he already knew what the scouts would find.
The four leaders hadn’t been killed—they’d been slaughtered. Their deaths weren’t just violent—they were deliberate. Calculated.
A warning dressed in c*****e.
His beta gave another crisp nod and disappeared down the hall, moving like a blade drawn in silence.
Kaeilth stood still a beat longer.
Then he turned.
Crossing the room with slow, controlled steps, he stopped before the tall window overlooking the forest’s northern stretch. Moonlight slanted through the glass, silvering the sharp lines of his face—the hard set of his jaw, the furrow carved deep between his brows.
The courtyard below had been cleared. But the image burned into its stone still lingered—brighter in memory than flame:
DOOMWITCH.
The name pulsed behind his eyes, as rhythmic as blood. As heavy as war.
But that wasn’t the only name echoing through his thoughts.
Aetherwyn.
The Seeress had spoken it aloud, her voice dipped in reverence—and mourning.
Three years ago, the world had lost something it didn’t understand.
One night, an entire bloodline vanished.
No warning. No explanation. Just a coven erased from existence.
He had gone himself in the aftermath. A young prince then, but already aware of the weight of power and the necessity of bearing witness.
He remembered the silence first. Not the ordinary stillness of untouched land, but something else. Heavier. Hollow. Like even the air had been torn apart and stitched back wrong.
He’d sent wolves ahead to cross the perimeter—they never made it far. The moment they passed the scorched threshold, a whistle—a sick, wet sound—escaped their lungs. Their spines bent backward in violent arches before their bodies unraveled into dust.
The land had rejected them or was still defending itself. Or perhaps mourning something too sacred for the living to touch.
The council tried sending more scouts, even tried magic. No one ever made it in. Those who did, returned hollow, screaming at things no one else could see—only to drop dead days later, as if the place had reached through their minds, maddening them.
And Kaeilth had never forgotten that silence.
He hadn’t forgotten the feel of that cursed air on his skin. He could feel the deadly aura the land excluded. He exhaled slowly now, the memory curving around him.
And now, another threat had surfaced. Another mystery.
He narrowed his eyes at the horizon, unreadable as ever—but inside him, something had stirred.
- Writer
