The moment they stepped beyond the chamber’s threshold, both Rena and Taeryn collapsed against the corridor wall, their chests heaving as if they had been drowning and finally found air. The crushing weight that had pressed upon their souls in Wendelina’s presence lifted like a heavy blanket being pulled away, leaving them gasping and trembling.

Rena’s hands shook as she wiped sweat from her brow. “I… I didn’t understand a single word she said,” she panted, looking up at Morgana with wide, confused eyes.

“Why does she speak like that? Like every word carries the weight of mountains?”

Morgana chuckled softly, though even she dabbed at the thin layer of moisture that had gathered on her forehead during the audience.

“If I had stayed any longer, I don’t know what would have happened to me,” Taeryn added, feeling her Origin power up close. He couldn’t believe he even spoke before her.

Despite her years of experience and training, being in the presence of the Mother Supreme always reminded her of her own limitations. “That is the presence of one who has touched the very heart of Origin itself.

Taeryn remained pressed against the stone wall, his eyes wide and unfocused. His projected aura flickered weakly around him, like a candle flame guttering in a strong wind.

Synnove had been impressive, her beauty and power evident in every graceful movement.

But Wendelina… she had been something else entirely.

For a terrifying moment, when her gaze had settled upon him, he had felt his very sense of self beginning to dissolve. His aura had started to collapse inward, and he knew with absolute certainty that if he had lost composure completely, if he had allowed fear to overwhelm him, something vital within him would have simply… ended.

“I almost…” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I could feel myself disappearing. Like I was nothing more than a shadow in the presence of the sun.”

Darian placed a heavy, gauntleted hand on the young spearman’s shoulder.

Even the experienced knight’s armor showed traces of condensation, and his golden aura pulsed unevenly as he worked to regain his balance.

“That is the mark of true power, boy. Not the crude displays of force that lesser practitioners indulge in, but the simple fact of existence so refined that reality itself bends to accommodate it.”

As they made their way toward the platform that would carry them back to the lower levels, their footsteps echoing in the vast corridors lined with portraits of ancient Origin-wielders, they were suddenly confronted by two figures emerging from a side passage.

Elizabeth moved with the swiftness of a hunting cat, her red hair braided with silver threads that caught the Origin-light emanating from the walls. Her eyes held the sharp intelligence of one who had spent years studying the weaknesses of others, while her robes marked her as a senior member of the Ladraella Coven.

Beside her walked Katerina, a woman with raven hair, ice-blue eyes, and a slender form radiating the controlled tension of a drawn bowstring.

“Well, well,” Elizabeth’s voice carried the honeyed poison that had made her reputation within the coven hierarchies.

“If it isn’t Morgana the Mysterious, shepherding her little lambs to slaughter.”

Katerina’s smile held no warmth as she stepped closer, her Origin energy reaching out like invisible tendrils to probe for weaknesses in their group’s defenses.

Morgana and the group stopped in their tracks, startled.

Rena frowned deeply, seeing the two sisters again. Anger rose in her as she remembered their last encounter. There was one of the reasons that Jaenor was kidnapped that day; she blamed them for dueling with Morgana and stopping them that night.

Rena thought so.

Elizabeth tilted her head, studying the group, and she said, “Tell us, Morgana, how goes your search for truth? Still chasing shadows and pretending that certain… deaths… were merely tragic accidents?”

Morgana’s expression remained perfectly composed, though Rena could sense the subtle shift in her Origin-flow—a tightening, like a coiled spring preparing for release.

“Elizabeth. Katerina. Still wallowing in conspiracy theories and old grudges, I see. Some things never change.”

“These two children,” Elizabeth hissed, stepping so close that her breath misted in the cool air between them. “are the ones we met in the forest, right? There were two more with them? If three are the chosen ones, then who was that fourth one, Morgana?”

“What did you do to them?”

“Under her supervision,” Katerina added, her voice like ice cracking underfoot. “They must be dead by now.”

Rena’s face flushed with rage; she couldn’t take it anymore, listening to them speak ill of Jaenor and Baren.

Rena felt her own Origin stirring in response to the rising tension, the raw power within her beginning to leak out in wisps of silver light that danced around her fingertips. She started to step forward, but Taeryn’s hand caught her arm, his eyes warning her to remain still.

Morgana’s laugh carried genuine amusement, though it held undertones that made even Elizabeth take a half-step backward.

“Your obsession with ancient history grows tiresome, sisters. If you have evidence of wrongdoing, present it to the proper authorities. If not…”

She began walking past them, her robes rustling softly against the stone floor. “Find more productive uses for your considerable talents.”

As Morgana led her charges away, Elizabeth called after them, “Truth has a way of surfacing, Morgana! Even the deepest secrets eventually come to light!”

But Morgana didn’t look back, her steady pace never faltering as she guided Rena, Taeryn, and Darian toward their exit from the Silverspire.

Only when they were well beyond earshot did she speak again, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Some wounds never heal. And some people prefer to nurse their pain rather than seek understanding.”

–

The Garrison at the creek

Meanwhile, far from the political intrigues of the Silverspire’s corridors, reality folded upon itself as two figures materialized beside a small creek that wound through a hidden valley several miles from Hanompetra’s outskirts.

Here, where the morning mist still clung to the water’s surface and wild flowers grew in abundance, stood a modest garrison that appeared to serve no obvious military purpose.

The building itself was unremarkable—simple stone construction with a slate roof, surrounded by a small garden where herbs used in potions grew in neat, carefully tended rows.

No banners flew from its modest tower, and no guards patrolled its perimeter.

To any casual observer, it might have been nothing more than a country retreat for minor nobility.

Synnove and Wendelina approached the structure with the easy familiarity of frequent visitors, their presence causing the very air around the building to shimmer with anticipatory energy.

The door opened before they reached it, revealing a woman whose age was difficult to determine—her hair held threads of silver, but her face remained unlined, her posture straight and strong.

“Mirayina,” Wendelina spoke with genuine warmth, her formal demeanor softening in this more intimate setting.

“It has been a while.”

The older woman bowed respectfully, though not with the deep reverence that others showed the Mother Supreme.

Here, in this hidden place, their relationship held notes of old friendship and shared purpose that transcended formal hierarchy.

“How is that child faring.”

“She grows stronger each day, my lady,” the older woman replied.

As if summoned by their conversation, a figure appeared in the garrison’s doorway—young, perhaps in her twenties, with features that would make any man weak in his legs.

She is the very embodiment of God’s finest work, her hair falling back on her shoulders, her face had the finest features. Her frame, her curves, her bosom and rare, everything were in the right place.

She looked like a fairy among the mortals, giving off an ethereal presence.

She came to a halt before them; she immediately dropped to one knee, her head bowed in absolute submission. But there was nothing servile in their posture—rather, it spoke of devotion freely given, of loyalty earned through understanding rather than fear.

“Mother Supreme,” she spoke, her voice carrying harmonics that seemed to resonate with the Origin itself.

Wendelina moved to the young person, her hand gently touching her bowed head.

At that contact, the air around her erupted in cascading displays of light—not the pure silver of feminine Origin-working, but something that contained elements of the Origin while transcending the limitations of it.

“Rise, my child,” Wendelina commanded softly.

“How are you doing, child?”

“With the old woman here, I am faring really well,” she said with a smile.

Wendelina and the older woman chuckled.

“Then how about you give us a little show?” she said.

The youth stood slowly, their eyes meeting the Mother Supreme’s gaze without flinching.

As she did, their Origin-channels opened like floodgates, revealing power that defied conventional understanding.

Around their left side, silver light danced in the complex patterns that marked direct manipulation of Origin’s essence.

Her form was now engulfed in a circular tendrils that are rotating around, carving their presence into the ground, her Origin energy shot up, flaring up like a volcano and with a burst of energy, those energy tendrils increased in size, multipled as the time progressed.

The display of her power showed them the precise control she had over the Origin and what they were now seeing was the most powerful user of Origin power since Mother Supreme.

“Perfect blend of Origin,” Synnove whispered, her usually composed demeanor showing cracks of genuine awe. “Pure essence of Origin contained within a single vessel, neither dominant nor submissive, but truly integrated.”

Wendelina nodded, though her eyes held depths of concern alongside her obvious pride.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep