CHAPTER 7 — THE COVEN DOES NOT FORGIVE
1099 Words
The chamber beneath Umbravine had no ceiling.
Or rather—it had forgotten one.
Darkness stretched upward, layered with slow-moving shadows that drifted like smoke caught in ritual breath. Thirteen thrones of obsidian circled the center sigil carved into the floor, each throne occupied by a Witch who had survived centuries not by mercy—but by foresight.
The Coven of Thirteen was assembled.
And that alone meant blood had already been decided.
At the center of the sigil, a pool of blackened water shimmered. Images rippled across its surface—silver snow, a frozen citadel, two figures standing too close to a third.
A girl.
Dark hair. Gold eyes.
A Red Moon pendant glowing faintly at her throat.
Murmurs slithered through the chamber.
“She lives.”
“That was not foreseen.”
“It was sealed.”
The Nightmother did not speak.
She did not need to.
Her presence alone bent the shadows downward, forcing silence from even the oldest tongues. Draped in layered black veils, her face obscured save for a single glint of pale, unblinking eyes, she raised one slender finger.
The water stilled.
“Begin,” she commanded.
An Archwitch stepped forward—tall, bone-thin, her fingers inked permanently with blood-runes.
“Seraphine Valestria,” she said, voice echoing unnaturally. “Daughter of Valyria. Carrier of the Red Moon anomaly. Presumed dead since the Silverwood Purge.”
The word *purge* tasted sweet to some.
Bitter to others.
Another Witch leaned forward, her voice sharp. “You promised the line was ended.”
“It was,” the Archwitch snapped back. “We burned the coven. We shattered the child’s core.”
“She should not exist,” a third hissed.
“And yet,” came a calm voice from the shadows, “she does.”
All eyes turned.
The speaker stepped into the dim light—young compared to the rest, her power contained but unmistakably volatile.
Morrigha of the Veiled Thorn.
A strategist. A whisper-weaver. A Witch who had never raised her voice—and never lost a war.
“She is alive,” Morrigha continued. “And not hiding.”
The pool shimmered again, revealing Seraphine standing between two towering figures.
Werewolves.
The chamber erupted.
“Blasphemy.”
“She stands with beasts?”
“They touch her.”
“She lets them—”
The Nightmother raised her hand again.
Silence slammed down like a blade.
“She resonates,” Morrigha said carefully. “With them.”
That word shifted the air.
Resonance was forbidden theory. Dangerous speculation. The kind of concept burned out of grimoires and minds alike.
“Impossible,” an elder Witch spat. “Red Moon magic annihilates lunar blood.”
“Usually,” Morrigha agreed. “But the Pulse was not usual.”
The Nightmother finally spoke.
Her voice was quiet.
Deadly.
“The Twin Alpha,” she said.
Every Witch stiffened.
“Yes,” Morrigha replied. “Both.”
That cracked something.
Thirteen Witch Queens—creatures of shadow and blood—felt something dangerously close to unease.
“The prophecy was clear,” one growled. “The child of Red Moon brings collapse.”
“And salvation,” Morrigha countered. “Depending on who controls her.”
The Nightmother tilted her head.
“Control,” she repeated softly.
The pool shifted again.
This time, it showed Seraphine’s hand glowing faintly as she stood within Frostfang Citadel. Shadows curling obediently. Lunar sigils flaring—not in rejection, but response.
“She is aligning,” Morrigha said. “With Werewolf energy.”
“That should kill her,” another Witch whispered.
“But it doesn’t,” Morrigha replied. “It stabilizes her.”
The implications sank deep.
“She is not a weapon,” the Archwitch muttered. “She is a bridge.”
“A fault line,” someone else corrected.
“Or a crown,” Morrigha finished.
The Nightmother rose.
The chamber darkened further, shadows pulling inward as if bowing.
“When the Silverwood burned,” she said, “we chose fear over patience.”
No one interrupted her.
“We erased a bloodline because we did not understand it,” she continued. “And now the consequence walks among wolves.”
Her gaze hardened.
“This time, we do not repeat the mistake.”
A Witch stepped forward eagerly. “Then give the order. We will finish what we started.”
“No,” the Nightmother said.
That answer shocked them more than mercy ever could.
“We do not kill her,” she continued. “We reclaim her.”
Morrigha’s lips curved slightly. “As expected.”
The Nightmother turned to her. “Explain.”
Morrigha inclined her head. “If Seraphine is bound to the Twin Alpha by resonance, then attacking her directly will trigger retaliation strong enough to reignite the Pulse.”
“And if the Pulse awakens again,” the Archwitch whispered, “Elyrion fractures.”
“Yes,” Morrigha said calmly. “So we don’t touch her.”
A pause.
“Not yet.”
The Nightmother’s eyes glinted. “We isolate her.”
“Turn her?” another Witch suggested.
“Break her?” one hissed.
Morrigha shook her head. “Neither will work. She was forged in loss.”
Silence.
Then—
“We let her choose,” Morrigha said.
The idea unsettled them all.
“She believes the Werewolves protect her,” Morrigha continued. “Let that belief crack.”
“How?” the Nightmother asked.
Morrigha raised her hand.
The pool shifted again—this time showing a new figure.
A woman in white.
Witch-born.
Eyes hollow.
“The Ashen Sister,” Morrigha said. “Send her.”
A murmur rippled.
“She was exiled,” someone protested.
“She failed,” another added.
“She hates the wolves,” Morrigha replied simply. “And she knows Seraphine’s mother.”
That landed.
The Nightmother considered.
Finally, she nodded.
“Send the Ashen Sister,” she decreed. “Let her remind the child what the wolves took.”
A Witch smiled thinly. “And if Seraphine returns to us willingly?”
The Nightmother’s voice dropped.
“Then we crown her.”
“And if she refuses?”
The shadows leaned closer.
“Then we remind her,” the Nightmother said coldly, “that the Coven does not forgive betrayal.”
The sigil flared.
Blood runes ignited.
Somewhere far to the north—
Seraphine shivered.
Not from cold.
But from the unmistakable sensation of being remembered.
The game had begun.
And this time—
The witches would not miss.
- Writer
