Chapter 23 #2
Wulfric gave a pleased smile—like this was all going exactly as intended—then stepped off the stage. She could hear the crowd murmuring, exclaiming, congratulating him.
The stage curtains swept shut and mercifully blocked out the crowd.
Elder Patrick’s attention shifted between them—first to Lochlan, who looked concerned, and then Nia, who probably looked like she was about to set the entire damn place on fire.
“Prince Lochlan,” Patrick said smoothly. “Pyronia Cabot.”
“Nia,” she corrected flatly.
He nodded once. “Blessed full moon to the both of you.”
She glared at him. Right. Blessed full moon, sure.
“We have less than a half hour to prepare you,” Patrick continued.
“Prepare me?” Nia repeated, anxiety flaring. She’d never been to one of these celebrations and had no idea what he was talking about.
“Oh, yes. There are several steps.”
“What the fuck.” She almost stomped her foot. “What the actual fuck. One drink, one lap, and then leave—” she rattled off, like reciting the original plan might somehow show her a path to reverse the disaster unfolding around her. “—get naked?”
Maybe that really wasn’t such a bad idea.
Elder Patrick barely looked fazed. “Prince Lochlan,” he said instead, turning toward him.
“Elder Patrick, sir,” Lochlan replied. “Is there someplace we could—have a moment? This is a lot for Nia.”
Patrick raised an unimpressed brow. “Clearly.”
But he nodded and gestured for them to follow. They stepped down a narrow set of stairs behind the stage. As they went, Nia’s eyes caught on a door behind the stage marked with bold letters—EXIT.
It practically sang to her.
But Patrick kept walking. Past the exit. Past freedom. Until they reached a small, dimly lit room. “I’ll give you a few minutes while I gather the supplies,” he said before stepping out and closing the door behind him.
The second he was gone, Nia dragged her hands down her face and groaned.
Her mind spun—too fast, too loud. Her father had outed her.
The world knew. There was no undoing it.
No disappearing into the tunnels, no slipping away into the life she had built for herself.
This was happening. And though she longed to escape, she knew leaving now wouldn’t change anything.
Her breath grew shallow. She was breathing too fast, too often, too—
“Look at me.”
Lochlan’s hands landed gently on her shoulders, steadying her.
The moment their eyes met, he brushed his fingers lightly against her cheek. She leaned into his hand, chasing the contact, grounding herself in it. She inhaled slowly, filling her lungs with something other than panic.
“None of this changes who you are,” Lochlan said, calm and sure. “Who you’ve become.”
Her chest ached, but she nodded.
“You can do the spell,” he continued. “Then we’ll leave. One witch event down, and we’ll figure out the rest together, on our own.”
Her fingers curled into his sleeve. “But—”
A knock cut her off. She tensed.
Lochlan sighed. “That was hardly a moment.” He gave her hand a final squeeze. “You do the spell. We leave.”
Then, before she could argue, he pressed a quick kiss to her forehead.
She exhaled, steeled herself, and pulled the door open—to find Wulfric and Elder Patrick waiting on the other side.
“Well, well, well,” Wulfric drawled, eyes gleaming with amusement. “I swear, I’m always finding you two in a closet.”
Nia’s vision reddened. She barely registered him turning on his heel and walking away before her body moved, storming after him. But Elder Patrick blocked her path, his expression as impassive as ever as he gestured the opposite direction. “This way.”
Grinding her teeth, Nia let herself be led back toward the stage.
At its center, a circular stone platform lifted and slid apart with soundless precision.
From within, the Lunaflor began to rise.
The massive plant sat in an ornate pot, its thick, pale vines draping over the edges like frozen tendrils.
Dormant petals—silver-white and smooth as porcelain—gleamed faintly under the full moonlight now spilling through the open dome in the ceiling overhead.
Elder Patrick stood beside her, his voice steady and clear. “When the moon reaches its peak, you will take the blessed mirror your father gives you and direct its light into the second, larger mirror across from you, there.”
Nia hadn’t even noticed the mirrors before, standing like sentries around the platform.
“And then?”
Patrick gave her a patient smile and handed her a piece of parchment.
“You speak the invocation—‘Moonlight eternal, sacred and true, awaken the petals, magic renew. By silver’s glow and goddess’s light, let the bloom rise to celestial height.
’ As you recite, you will reach inside yourself and pull a seed of your magic as an offering to the goddess and the flower.
This energy will wake it, and the petals will unfurl. ”
Nia took the parchment with trembling fingers. The words blurred. She blinked hard, once, twice—nothing. Her mind refused to catch up.
“And then I can go home?”
“Yes, my dear.” Patrick inclined his head. “You will be done.”
It sounded simple. Mirror, light, magic, home.
But as Patrick stepped back and led Lochlan away, the pressure of it all—the supernatural community’s expectations, her father’s reveal and manipulation, her role in the ceremony—made it suddenly feel like she couldn’t breathe.
With a wave of Patrick’s hands, the curtains swept open, the lights dimmed, and the world narrowed to just her and the moon.
Her father approached, exuding serene authority as he handed her a small mirror with a bow. “Blessed full moon, daughter.”
Around her, the gathered supernaturals echoed the words in eerie unison: “Blessed full moon.”
The sound reminded her everyone was watching as her father turned away, disappearing into the shadows as Elder Patrick cleared his throat expectantly.
The mirror felt heavier than it should, its cool surface pressing into her palms as if it carried the weight of a thousand moons.
Her legs were stiff as she shuffled into position, her eyes finding the mirror she was meant to direct the moonlight toward.
The air felt thick, watchful, laden with unspoken expectation.
Mirror, light, magic, go home.
But her father’s spectacle was all she could see. Her mother’s journal told the true story: a tale of fear and desperation. Marrying Wulfric had cost her everything—her freedom, her life. She thought about that last entry, one she’d read countless times.
This may be the last time I write my own words.
It’s hard to think past my labored breaths. The damned dress they forced me into has hundreds of buttons. Each one felt like a lock closing.
They call him The Sword. The new Cabot heir. A man I’ve never met, only heard stories about. They say he is ruthless, powerful, obsessed with legacy—and that he’ll lead the witches out of hiding and into power.
This marriage is a cage meant to contain me and my magic, a transaction meant to bind my family’s power and position to his.
No one is coming to stop it. Maybe my mother would have tried, but she’s gone. I’m alone.
And I am afraid.
Now Nia stood in full view, a pawn in the same game her father was still playing. The realization woke something deep inside as her magic stirred, keen and restless.
Just do this and go home.
“Moonlight eternal, sacred and true—” Nia began to read.
But the words didn’t carry the usual lilt of her spell work.
There was no rhythm, no flow; they were just hollow syllables forced past clenched teeth.
“—awaken the petals, magic renew.” She reached for a seed of magic, just a drop, just enough to coax the flower awake.
“By silver’s glow and goddess’s light, let the bloom rise to celestial height. ”
But instead of a drop, a torrent of her magic rushed free, flooding from Nia before she could stop it. Moonlight struck the small mirror she held, the light mingling with her power as it ricocheted between the mirrors before cascading into the dormant flower.
Gasps echoed around her as the Lunaflor rocked and swayed under the force.
She felt it wake.
Raw, erratic power rushed through her, tangling with her own magic as the Lunaflor shuddered, its dormant petals beginning to unfurl.
Murmurs rippled through the crowd as the flower came alive, blooming into a stunning opalescent masterpiece.
Its petals shimmered under the moonlight, shifting in hues of silver, blue, and pink.
For a brief moment, awe filled the room as the sheer beauty of the flower held everyone spellbound. Then—
A low, drawn-out creak that made the hair on Nia’s arms stand on end.
From the base of the flower, vines began to snake outward, glossy and as thick as her arm, growing with unsettling speed.
They curled and twisted, spreading across the stage, their leaves gleaming like polished emeralds.
The thrill of the flower’s bloom was gone, replaced by the crushing realization the plant wasn’t just waking—it was exploding.
The mirror slipped from Nia’s hands, landing with a dull thud mere inches from where the closest creeping vine had already reached.
“Oh, fuck.”