“And yet,” Pride gestured to Jaenor’s unconscious form, “there he is. Living proof that the impossible is merely improbable.”

Wendelina’s expression had darkened further. “You’re suggesting that boy represents something beyond even the Arkwright curse. Something new.”

“I’m suggesting,” Pride said carefully, “that he represents evolution. Or devolution. Possibly extinction for the rest of us if he’s not properly controlled.”

“And there are certain entities who don’t want that boy to die, which leads to my question, as I cannot single-handedly face those powerhouses myself.”

He paused. “Which is why I’m proposing an alliance. Temporary, limited in scope, but necessary.”

“An alliance,” Wendelina repeated flatly.

“Between the Covens and the Blaedred Skull. You must think me a fool.”

“I think you’re pragmatic. And I think you recognize that boy will wake up soon, and when he does, his transformation will resume. Next time, there may be no stopping it before he destroys everything.”

Pride’s tone became more serious. “I have resources. Knowledge from the old world, before the Separation. Lilinathara here was alive during the last time someone attempted to merge aura and origin energy. He may become something that I referred to as entities, and if that happens, you, I, and this world won’t be able to breathe any longer.”

“What are you talking about?” Wendelina said.

–

Jaenor lay broken on the scorched ground, his body a canvas of wounds. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and viscous, seeping from cuts that hadn’t healed, from internal injuries that his depleted powers couldn’t address. His breathing was shallow and labored, each inhalation a struggle against broken ribs and punctured organs.

Morgana quickly rushed to him and looked at him, with tears running down her cheeks.

Morgana knelt beside him, her hands hovering uselessly over his chest. Her healing magic was exhausted, spent in the earlier battles. Tears tracked down her face, cutting through the grime and ash.

“Hold on,” she whispered.

“Please, just hold on.”

Rena tried to push forward, desperate to reach her friend, but Darian held her back.

“Wait,” he said quietly, though his own face was tight with concern.

Taeryn stood frozen, his spear forgotten in his grip, staring at the still form of one of his oldest friends.

Even the Blaedred soldiers and the newly arrived witches stood in uneasy silence, watching. Some looked satisfied at seeing the boy brought low.

Others seemed troubled, uncertain.

Wendelina observed it all with an expression that was difficult to read. She’d done what needed to be done, or so she told herself.

The boy was neutralized.

The threat was contained.

In time, he would either recover as a normal human, his cores burned out from overuse, or he would die. Either outcome was preferable to what he might have become.

She took a step toward him, intending to examine him more closely, to determine which fate awaited him.

As she walked towards him, she told Morgana to stop healing him. It was no use.

She kept walking, and suddenly she stopped.

Something rippled through the air.

Not sound, not quite sensation, but something between the two.

A pulse, rhythmic and steady, like a heartbeat made manifest. It washed over her, through her, and in its wake left something she hadn’t felt in over a century.

Unease.

She took another step.

The pulse came again, stronger this time. Her breath caught slightly.

Wendelina ignored it, taking another careful step toward Jaenor’s prone form.

The pulse throbbed again, and this time she identified what she was feeling in its wake.

“Mother Supreme?” One of her witches called out, noting her hesitation.

Wendelina ignored her, taking another careful step toward Jaenor’s prone form. The pulse throbbed again.

“Fear,” she muttered to herself, the word foreign on her tongue.

“Am I feeling fear?”

The absurdity of it struck her, and she laughed—a short, sharp sound that held no humor.

She was the Mother Supreme.

She’d lived for three centuries. She’d faced dragons and demons, had stared into the abyss, and made it blink first. What could a broken boy possibly do to frighten her?

The pulse came again, powerful enough now that others felt it too.

“What is that?” Raelana whispered, her eyes wide.

Pride had gone very still.

Behind his obsidian mask, his green eyes blazed brighter. “Oh no.”

Morgana scrambled away from Jaenor, as far as she could, as she could feel the waves of energy crashing on her, her instincts screaming danger even as her heart protested leaving him.

The assembled forces—witches and Blaedred alike—retreated rapidly, creating a widening circle around the steaming figure.

Jaenor’s body began to rise.

Slowly, impossibly, he lifted from the ground. His arms hung limp at his sides, his head lolled forward, and his eyes were still closed. But he ascended nonetheless, pulled upward by forces invisible and inexorable.

Five feet. Ten. Fifteen.

He stopped there, suspended in midair, steam now pouring from him in great billowing clouds.

The pulse had become a roar, a pressure that made the air itself vibrate. Those with origin energy sensitivity clutched their heads, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of power building in the space around them.

Inside Jaenor, something fundamental was changing.

His aura core and origin core, which had been merely resonating before, were now truly merging. The barriers between them dissolved, and two forces that should have annihilated each other instead began to spiral together, forming something entirely new. The pain of this transformation should have killed him, should have torn his body apart at the cellular level.

But the Arkwright bloodline had always been cursed with resilience.

His eyes snapped open.

They were no longer crimson. They had transformed into molten gold shot through with veins of deep red, glowing with internal fire that made them difficult to look at directly. Colors swirled in their depths—every hue imaginable cycling through in rapid succession before settling back to that burning gold-red.

And then the power erupted.

The explosion was both physical and metaphysical.

Origin energy and aura didn’t just flow from Jaenor’s body—they detonated outward like a volcanic eruption, given consciousness.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep