Chapter7:we did it
416 Words
The power that flooded into Malisa wasn't stolen—it was given . A river of consent, an ocean of choice, a storm of free will that made Seraphina's stolen might look like a puddle. Her hair erupted, no longer just blue and red and white, but all colors, every color, the visible spectrum of supernatural existence itself.
She became the torch the prophecy had promised.
Seraphina struck, unleashing every spell she knew, every essence she'd consumed in three centuries of tyranny. Death-magic, life-magic, dragon-fire, wolf-strength, fae - glamour—it crashed against Malisa like a wave against a lighthouse.
But lighthouses are built to stand.
"You don't understand power," Malisa said, her voice resonating with a thousand voices, her own and all who had chosen to stand with her. "You never did. You thought to take it, to hoard it, to be the only one. But power is connection . Power is the space between us, not the thing inside. You made me to be a vessel, Seraphina. But I am a network . I am everyone, and everyone is me, and you—"
She reached out, and when her hand touched Seraphina's chest, the Witch-Queen screamed.
"—you are alone."
The essences Seraphina had stolen didn't want to return to her. They wanted to go home. And Malisa, the bridge, the channel, the Tribrid, opened the way.
It took hours, or seconds—time moved strangely when the world changed. One by one, the crystals in the walls went dark as their contents were freed. One by one, the supernatural beings of the world felt their chains break, not through Malisa's power, but through her permission . She showed them that they had always been free. She just helped them remember.
Seraphina didn't die. That would have been too easy, too merciful. She became what she had made others—powerless, conscious, contained . Malisa trapped her in the Grimoire of Chains itself, the book becoming a prison, its pages filled with the Witch-Queen's own essence, reflecting her crimes back at her for eternity.
When it was over, Malisa collapsed into Rafael's arms—human again, or as human as she would ever be. Her hair still blazed, blue and red and white, but softer now, like embers rather than an inferno.
"You did it," he whispered, holding her as if she were the most precious thing in existence. Which, to him, she was.
"We did it," she corrected. "All of us."
- Writer
