The night was cold, but the Ardent study was colder still.
A single candle burned on the long oak table, its light flickering across the weathered faces of Lord Eddric and Lady Maerina. Between them lay an old, tattered book—its leather binding cracked, its corners stained with time. It was opened to a page near the end, one with a torn corner and faded ink.
Maerina's voice was little more than a whisper. "It was never a legend."
Eddric didn't look up. His fingers tapped the page slowly. "A Giftless child who grows into something… unnatural. Who wakes a power no bloodline carries. The flame without origin." He exhaled. "A Witch."
His wife nodded, eyes hollow. "And the only cure… was always death."
A silence stretched between them, heavy and cruel.
"But not just any death," Maerina added. "A sacred death. Blood returned to the soil. Magic severed at the root."
Her voice trembled—not with fear, but guilt.
"She's still our daughter," Eddric said, quietly.
Maerina's hand clenched. "No. Our daughter died the day she touched that book. What's left is… something else."
From beneath the folds of her cloak, she pulled a small glass vial. It shimmered faintly under candlelight, filled with liquid the color of moonlight tainted with ash.
"Eclipsera," she said.
Eddric's eyes narrowed. "Where did you get this?"
"From the old apothecary in Whitvale. Hidden beneath a false floor. He asked no questions—just warned me it works slowly." She placed it gently on the table. "Over seven days, it breaks the bond between body and magic. The Witch begins to weaken—confused, slow, vulnerable. By the seventh day, her flame goes dark. Forever."
Eddric said nothing for a long time.
Then: "Will it hurt her?"
Maerina didn't answer.
He looked at the vial, then at her. "This is what we've become."
"We're protecting our House," she said bitterly. "We're protecting the world. If anyone knew a Witch lived under our roof—"
"They'll burn her."
"They'll burn us too."
Silence returned, thick as fog.
And then: "We put it in her tea," Maerina said. "Tomorrow. Just a few drops. She won't even taste it."
Eddric finally nodded, slowly. Like a man at the edge of a cliff.
And in the dim light, between torn pages and silent poison, they sealed their daughter's fate.
⸻
The cup of tea sat in front of her, steam curling gently in the morning air. It smelled of lavender and rosehip—delicate, familiar.
Too familiar.
Jane stared at it, fingers unmoving.
Her maid had said nothing unusual. Just placed the tray down like always and bowed with her usual stiffness. But something felt… off.
Her nose twitched. Her eyes narrowed.
Ever since the book touched her fingers, her senses had become more alert—sharper. She could hear the soft creak of a bird landing on the balcony railing, smell the fresh ink on the page of the open book beside her, feel the subtle shift in the maid's heartbeat when she'd placed the cup.
And now… this tea.
It smelled too clean. Too perfect. Like a flower that bloomed only in nightmares.
She didn't drink it.
She rose instead, walking slowly to the mirror.
Her reflection stared back—wide violet eyes, glowing faintly even in daylight. She froze. They used to be gray, she thought. Cool, dull gray. But now… they shimmered like the edge of a storm, lit from within. Her hair, once brittle and plain, now flowed like threads of spun silk, falling gently over her shoulders. The mark on her hand had grown again, trailing delicate root-like lines up her arm, past the elbow now, pulsing faintly with light beneath her skin.
Her lips parted slightly.
Was this still her?
Or someone else?
She turned to the Sacred Book resting on her desk, the pages open to a spell of "Truthsmoke"—a vapor used to reveal lies hidden in conversation. She didn't need it now. The lie was already here.
The tea. The silence. Her mother's eyes at dinner the night before.
They were planning something.
Suddenly, her vision blurred. A sharp pain stabbed behind her eyes.
"Ugh—" She dropped to her knees, clutching her head. The mark on her arm burned hot, and her vision twisted into light and shadow.
And then—
She saw it.
A vision.
Her mother, standing at the foot of her bed, a vial in hand. Her father turning away, guilt carved into his face. A drop of silver poison slipping into a cup. Her own body lying limp on the bed, lips parted, breath shallow.
Dead.
Murdered by her own blood.
"No—" she gasped, eyes flying open.
The vision vanished, but her fury remained.
It was real. It was coming.
She rose slowly, her legs shaking with rage and disbelief. Her heart pounded like war drums, and the violet mark on her arm blazed brighter.
Her eyes—those glowing, violet eyes—flashed in the mirror.
She wasn't just remembering the pain anymore.
She was the pain.
She turned to the Book, flipping through pages, faster now. Her hands moved with unnatural precision, every rune, every chant burning itself into her memory. Potions, incantations, curses—it didn't matter. She wanted it all.
She would not be a girl they could kill.
She would be something else.
Something they'd never understand until it was too late.
And as the magic hummed louder through her veins, Jane Ardent smiled—not with joy.
But with power.
Unapologetic, and no longer human.
———
The corridor outside her chamber was dim, the scent of salt and garlic lingering like an insult. Jane stepped through the threshold in silence, the long iron chains dragging behind her, light enough not to hinder her, heavy enough to remind her she was never truly free.
John stood there, as if he'd been waiting. His posture was rigid, arms behind his back in formal readiness, his head slightly bowed.
She didn't speak at first.
She just stared.
He looked up slowly—and flinched when he met her gaze.
Her violet eyes gleamed with cold fire, unreadable, unfamiliar. Her new beauty was almost painful to look at. He barely recognized her.
"Say something," she said at last, her voice too calm.
He parted his lips. "I—"
But her words cut through him first.
"You poisoned me."
His brows pulled together. "What?"
Jane stepped forward, eyes narrowed. "Don't play dumb. They gave me something. In my tea. Something that burned in my throat and made my limbs heavy. I could sense the bitterness. You were outside my door. You let it happen."
John's hands clenched at his sides. "I didn't know."
"Oh, but you knew about the chains. You knew about the salt and the garlic. You knew they'd call me a Witch and lock me away like some cursed relic. And you are a freaking Savorian."
"But I told them the truth because they were going to sacrifice me," he snapped suddenly.
He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry. I was scared."
"Of dying?"
"Of losing you."
That stopped her.
She blinked once. Her lips trembled, but her voice remained sharp. "You did lose me."
John looked down, shame in every line of his face. "I deserve that. I do. But Jane…" He dared to take a step closer. "You've changed. I see it. You've grown more powerful, yes—but it's not just that. You're colder. Quieter. Like the book is doing something to you."
She flinched.
"You think I don't know?" he went on. "I see the marks. The way you talk to yourself when you think no one's listening. The way your eyes shine when the book opens."
Her voice was barely a whisper. "And yet you're still here."
"I told you," he said. "I'll do anything to make up for what I've done."
She looked at him for a long time. Silence stretched between them like a drawn blade.
Finally, she spoke—low and dangerous.
"Then stop looking at me like I'm some kind of monster."
John's breath hitched. "You're not."
She stepped closer. Her chains whispered against the floor.
"You're afraid of what I'm becoming."
"No," he said softly. "I'm afraid of what they'll do to you next."
Something broke in her expression—just a flicker. Vulnerability, quickly buried.
"You're the only one left," she said.
He nodded. "Then let me help."
Jane looked away, toward the darkness that gathered beyond the stairwell.
When she spoke again, her voice was like ash. "Then help me survive."