Morgana noticed the look on his face, and she shook her head.

Emma pulled back, staring at him with a loving gaze. “I will be waiting for you, my dear.”

She looked at the maidservants and the old knight.

“What are you looking at?”

Morgana glared at her as she moved.

“The carriage is ready,” she announced, though her knowing smile suggested she had observed their mutual reaction with considerable interest.

As they settled into the luxurious interior of the ducal carriage, Morgana found herself acutely aware of Jaenor’s presence beside her.

The fiction they had created to protect his identity was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain, especially when every glance, every accidental touch, seemed charged with possibilities neither of them dared voice.

The carriage rolled through the duchy’s evening landscape, carrying them toward a ball that would test more than just their ability to navigate noble society.

Behind them, the chateau receded into the distance, unaware that its departure was being observed by eyes that saw far more than they should.

–

From her position nearly a mile away, Magdalyna’s supernatural vision tracked the elegant carriage as it emerged from the chateau’s main gates.

Even at such distance, she could see clearly through the vehicle’s windows, her enhanced senses picking out details that would be invisible to mortal eyes.

Jaenor sat beside a woman of striking beauty—his aunt, though neither of them yet fully understood the implications of that relationship.

The young man looked magnificent in his formal attire, every inch the noble heir despite his humble origins.

But it was the woman beside him that drew Magdalyna’s particular attention.

Morgana Arkwright carried herself with the kind of unconscious authority that marked true nobility, but there was something else there—a protective instinct that reminded Magdalyna of a she-wolf guarding her cubs.

The witch’s feelings for her nephew were complex, mixing familial loyalty with desires she clearly didn’t want to acknowledge.

“Dangerous territory,” Magdalyna murmured to herself, recognizing patterns she had seen play out countless times over the centuries.

Family bonds, political necessity, and physical attraction formed a volatile combination that had toppled empires and reshaped the world.

The carriage disappeared around a bend in the road, heading toward whatever social engagement awaited them.

Magdalyna continued watching long after it vanished from sight, her mind processing the implications of what she had observed.

Jaenor was growing into his power and his heritage, but he remained vulnerable to influences both mortal and divine.

The web of relationships surrounding him grew more complex with each passing day, and every thread represented both protection and potential entanglement.

In the distance, storm clouds gathered on the horizon—a metaphor that seemed altogether too appropriate for the forces converging on one unsuspecting young man whose destiny might determine the fate of the world itself.

The game was accelerating, the players revealing their hands, and the stakes growing ever higher.

Soon, Magdalyna knew, she would have to abandon the role of distant observer and take a more active part in shaping events. And at that time, she will have to choose sides.

But for now, she remained in the shadows, watching and waiting.

–

Consciousness returned like a cold tide washing over drowning shores.

Rena’s eyes fluttered open, her vision swimming as stone walls materialized from the darkness. Her head throbbed with a dull, persistent ache that radiated down her neck, and her mouth tasted of copper and ash—remnants of whatever spell had been used to subdue her.

She tried to move, only to find her wrists bound behind her back with rough cord that bit into her skin with each movement.

The hall around her was modest, barely twenty feet across, with timber beams supporting a low ceiling darkened by years of smoke.

Weak afternoon light filtered through a single narrow window, illuminating dust motes that danced in the stale air.

The stone floor beneath her was cold and uneven, worn smooth by countless footsteps. Along one wall stood a crude wooden table flanked by two chairs, and beside it, a hearth that held only dead ashes.

Arhg.

A groan from her left drew Rena’s attention.

Baren lay slumped against the adjacent wall, his powerful frame curled awkwardly on the floor. Even unconscious and bound, he cut an imposing figure. His broad shoulders strained against his torn shirt, and the distinctive scales that marked his draconic heritage glinted faintly along his forearms and the sides of his neck—patches of deep orange that caught the light like polished stone. His brown hair fell across his face, obscuring his features, but Rena could see his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

“Baren,” she whispered urgently, her voice hoarse.

“Baren, wake up.”

His eyes snapped open—those distinctive eyes that betrayed his mixed blood.

They were green shot through with vertical slits, beautiful and unsettling in equal measure.

For a moment, confusion clouded his features, then awareness flooded back. His body tensed, muscles coiling as he tested his bonds. The rope held firm.

“Where are we?” His voice was deeper than usual, rough with the lingering effects of the spell.

“I don’t know. I remember Elizabeth and Katerina at the clearing near the hills.

Then… nothing.”

Baren’s jaw clenched, his canines slightly longer and sharper than a full human’s.

“Those treacherous witches. I should have sensed their intent, should have—”

“Save your strength,” Rena interrupted, though her own heart hammered with fear and anger. She reached inward, seeking the familiar well of power that resided in her core.

There—she could feel it, but it was muted, as if wrapped in thick wool. “They’ve bound our power source somehow.”

Before Baren could respond, voices rose from beyond a heavy wooden door at the hall’s far end. Footsteps approached, accompanied by the swish of fabric and the low murmur of conversation. The door swung open with a groan of old hinges.

Two figures entered first.

Elizabeth and Katerina moved with the synchronized grace of sisters who had worked together for years.

Elizabeth, as she entered, her eyes were cold and calculating as they swept over the prisoners. Katerina, younger, kept her raven hair loose around her shoulders, but her expression was no less severe.

Both wore traveling cloaks over practical hunting leathers, their hands free of obvious weapons but radiating barely contained power.

Behind them came a third figure, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop.

She was tall and willowy, moving with an unsettling fluidity that made it difficult to judge her age. Her face was pale and aristocratic, framed by hair so black it seemed to absorb the surrounding light.

But it was her robe that commanded attention—deep crimson fabric that pooled around her feet like fresh blood, and emblazoned across her chest, a symbol that made Rena’s blood run cold: a skull rendered in darker red, its eye sockets hollow and leaking painted tears.

The mark of the Blaedred Skull.

Rena had heard stories of the sect since childhood.

They were whispered about in taverns and warned against in temple teachings—a shadowy organization dedicated to ancient blood sources and darker purposes.

To see their symbol worn so openly made the danger of their situation terrifyingly real.

And the fact that these witch sisters were seen with the sect member meant that they have fallen to the dark side.

Realization hit her hard, and Rena just froze, staring at them.

Weren’t these witch sisters part of the coven? How could they betray their fellow sisters? The covens have been fighting against the sect for a long time.

The sect was like an unorthodox organization in the world and are said to be associated with the dark entities who have disappeared in the world.

“Hilda,” Elizabeth said.

“As promised. Both of the chosen ones are presented before you.”

Hilda approached slowly, her footsteps silent despite the stone floor.

She circled Rena first, studying her with the dispassionate interest of someone appraising livestock. Her eyes were a disturbing shade of amber, almost yellow in the dim light, and when she leaned close, Rena caught a whiff of something bitter and medicinal.

“Pretty little thing,” Hilda murmured, reaching out to tilt Rena’s chin upward with cold fingers.

“Fierce young witch with such raw talent, wonderful.”

She released Rena and moved to Baren, who met her gaze with barely contained fury. “And this one… yes, I can feel the fire in his blood. The Lord will be most pleased.”

Baren lunged forward as much as his bonds would allow, a low growl rumbling in his chest that was decidedly inhuman.

“Touch her again, and I’ll—”

“You’ll do nothing,” Hilda said calmly, making a casual gesture with her hand.

Baren gasped, his body going rigid as an invisible force constricted around him. “The binding spell on you both is quite thorough. Resist, and it only grows tighter. Struggle too much, and it will crush the Origin power right out of your core. Permanently.”

She released him, and Baren sagged forward, gasping.

Katerina shifted her weight, the first sign of discomfort Rena had seen from either sister. “The payment,” she said, her voice carefully neutral.

“We’ve delivered them as agreed.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep