The Vesper Creed

Chapter 20

Aizere's Point of View

The cool night air of the hospital parking lot felt like a sharp slap against my face as we stepped out from the sliding glass doors. The silence of the town was heavy, broken only by the distant, lonely hum of a streetlamp. But the quiet didn't last long.

Standing by a sleek, black car was a man who looked like he belonged in a different century. He was elderly, his white hair slicked back perfectly, and he wore a charcoal-colored tuxedo that looked stiff and expensive. He didn't move as we approached; he simply stood with his hands folded over a silver-topped cane, his sharp eyes tracking our every move through the darkness.

"The Council does not appreciate being ignored, Ezrain," the old man said, his voice as dry and cold as old parchment.

The group stopped instantly, their bodies tensing beside me. I felt Ezrain's hand tighten slightly on my arm, a silent warning. This wasn't a warlock or a monster from the woods, but the fear radiating from my friends told me this man was just as dangerous in his own way.

"High Chancellor Edward," Niklaus said, his voice dipping into a tone of forced respect that sounded like grinding stones. "The Sheriff was in danger. We could not let a mundane suffer because of our war. It was a matter of honor."

"The Council is not interested in your honor or your sentimental attachments to the mundane world," Edward snapped, the silver tip of his cane clicking sharply against the pavement. "You have put the Last Protector at risk. You have defied a standing order from the highest authority. In the eyes of the Institution, you have acted as rebels, not as the pillars of our society."

I stepped forward, my heart hammering against my ribs. I couldn't let them take the fall for me. "It was my choice. They only came because I refused to stay. If you're going to blame someone, blame me."

The old man turned his gaze toward me, and for a second, I felt like he was reading every secret hidden in my blood, peeling back my skin to see the Anchor beneath. "Aizere Lightwood. You have the fire of your father, but you lack the discipline of your name. You are a key that does not yet know which door it fits, and a key that is lost is useless to us."

He turned back to the others, his expression turning to ice. "The Council has reached a final decision. There will be consequences for this night of defiance. As of this moment, the Mikaelsons, the Blacks, and the Pierces are suspended. You will be given no missions, no hunts, and no authority outside the walls of the Institution for one month."

"One month?" Victoria hissed, her eyes flashing with a dangerous light. "With Hades's warlocks gathering at the gates, you are grounding your best warriors?"

"You will not be idle," Edward continued, ignoring her outburst as if she hadn't spoken at all. "Since you are so fond of the girl, you will spend every hour of that month ensuring she is no longer a liability to our cause. You will train her in everything a Lightwood needs to know. Combat, ancient tongues, and the mastery of the Anchor. If she is not ready by the next new moon, your suspension will be the least of your worries."

He tipped his head slightly, a gesture that felt more like a threat than a goodbye. "Take her back to the Institution. Her life as a student in Georgia is a memory. Her life as a weapon begins tomorrow." He climbed into the back of the black car, and as it drove away into the mist.

The moment the heavy iron door of my new quarters clicked shut, the silence of the room felt like a physical weight. The adrenaline that had been keeping me upright since the mountain, through the hospital, and past the Council, simply evaporated. I didn't even look at the view from the tall windows or the fine carvings on the wardrobe. I collapsed onto the large, silk-covered canopy bed and let a dreamless, heavy darkness take me before my head even hit the pillow.

When I finally woke up, the morning light was streaming through the high, arched windows, casting long, golden bars across a room that felt more like a sanctuary than a bedroom. The walls were made of smooth, pale stone that seemed to hum with a faint, ancient energy, and the furniture was dark, polished wood that smelled of beeswax and cedar. I explored the space in a daze, finding a bathroom that looked like it had been carved out of a single piece of white marble.

I stripped off my travel-worn, blood-stained clothes and sank into the steaming hot water of the deep tub. I stayed there until my skin wrinkled, letting the heat wash away the scent of the hospital, the ozone of the mountain air, and the lingering fear that had settled in my bones. After I dried off, I found a set of clothes laid out on the bed—form-fitting black trousers made of a tough, flexible material, a soft grey sweater, and sturdy leather boots. They fit perfectly, as if the Institution had been preparing for my arrival for a lifetime.

A sharp, rhythmic knock at the door made me jump, my hand instinctively reaching for the empty space where my father's old hunting knife used to stay.

"Aizere? You awake in there?"

I opened the door to find Victoria leaning against the stone frame. She was dressed in similar dark gear, a silver blade strapped to her thigh. She looked me up and down with a playful, sharp-toothed grin. "Wow. You look hot, Lightwood. The 'last of a dying bloodline' look really suits you. Much better than the 'scared girl in a hoodie' vibe you had yesterday."

I felt my face heat up, a mix of embarrassment and a strange new spark of pride. "Thanks. I think."

"Come on," she said, waving for me to follow her into the hall. "I'm supposed to give you the grand tour before we drop you off for your first real lesson. We've got a lot of ground to cover before the Council changes their minds and decides to throw us all in the dungeon for helping you last night."

As we walked, Victoria pointed out the massive Great Hall where the pillars gathered, the armory filled with weapons that glowed with blue light, and a library that seemed to house a million dusty books. The place was alive now, no longer the ruin I had seen from the road. Shadow Hunters in training moved through the halls with purpose, their gear clinking, their eyes sharp and focused.

Finally, we stopped in front of a pair of heavy oak doors at the end of a quiet, sun-drenched wing.

"This is the Sanctum," Victoria whispered, her tone turning uncharacteristically respectful. "And this is Alaric. He's a high-level warlock and a legendary Shadow Hunter. He retired years ago to focus on teaching, but don't let the 'retired' part fool you. He could turn you into a stone statue before you could even draw a breath."

She pushed the doors open. The room was vast and filled with the scent of dried herbs and old parchment. A man stood at a tall desk, his back to us. He was tall and lean, with silver hair pulled back in a neat tail and robes that seemed to shimmer and shift colors as he moved.

"The Anchor has finally arrived," Alaric said without turning around. He finally turned, his sharp, amber eyes landing on me. "Welcome, Aizere Lightwood. Your ancestors were the true masters of the arcane. It is time we see if that mastery still flows in your veins."

Before he began the lesson, Alaric reached into a long, velvet-lined drawer on his desk and pulled out a simple, polished rod of dark wood. It was smooth and unadorned.

"Before you can command the world, you need a conduit," Alaric said, handing me the wand. It felt warm in my hand, vibrating slightly as it made contact with my skin. "For now, use this. It is a training wand—a tool meant to help you channel the energy of the Anchor without burning your own nerves. It is a loan, and like all loans, it has its limits."

Alaric cleared a space on a heavy stone table. "Your blood—the Lightwood blood—is the fuel. The wand is the barrel. The words are the spark."

"Try this," he commanded, pointing to a heavy, locked iron chest. I mimicked his hand gesture. "Aberto!" I called out. With a loud, metallic click, the chest swung open.

Expelliarmus took me four tries. On the fourth, I pictured the dark warlock on the mountain. A bolt of pure white light erupted from my wand, sending the practice tool in Alaric's hand flying across the room.

He handed me a blank piece of parchment. "Aparecium!" I whispered. Slowly, glowing blue letters began to crawl across the page—an ancient, detailed map of the very building we were standing in.

"You have the gift, Aizere," Alaric said. "But remember: power without control is just a bright, loud way to die."

Alaric stepped toward the tall windows, looking out at the mist-covered forest. "Do not get too comfortable with that training wand, Aizere. A Lightwood cannot reach her full potential using a scrap of practice wood. For your next phase of training, you will need a weapon that is bonded to your soul. To find a true focus, you must travel to Arcelia."

"Arcelia? Is that a city?" I asked.

"It is an entire realm," Alaric explained. "The source of all magic, where vampires, wolves, witches, and warlocks live without masks. Mermaids guard the deep sapphire seas, and the elves keep the silence of the silver woods. In Arcelia, there is a grove where the wood for a Lightwood wand must be harvested. You will have to go there and claim what belongs to you."

I nodded, tucking the training wand into my sleeve. As the heavy doors of the Sanctum closed behind me, I saw Niklaus leaning against the opposite wall, a wooden practice sword in his hand.