Chapter 19
Evelyne followed Marcel through the drenched clearing in the back of the manor, out past the stone patio.
The rain from last night’s storm had left the world sodden and the ground soft beneath her boots.
Drops of water still clung to the bare branches of the trees ahead, glistening in the late-morning light before falling in slow, deliberate drips.
In the distance, a crow called out, its cry stark against the hush that had settled over the woods.
Her father padded beside her, his posture rigid. The barefoot prints found in the mud were barely visible as they headed toward the stone.
Marcel paced quickly through the mud and grass, careful not to splatter any on the lord and young lady behind him. “There,” he said as he gestured toward the large stone.
A sigil was carved deep into the rock’s face—freshly etched, yet ancient in design.
A twisting lattice of interwoven symbols, its lines cut unnaturally smooth, as if scorched into the stone rather than chiseled.
Darkened grooves, edged with the faintest shimmer, like dying embers beneath ash.
A central rune dominated the pattern, jagged and angular, its shape reminiscent of an eye split down the center or a blade driven into the earth.
Even with the daylight spilling over the rock, the markings seemed untouched by the world around them, resisting moisture, resisting decay.
Evelyne felt drawn to them. Her feet carried her forward before she could think better of it. Slowly, she knelt, reaching out. And as her fingertips brushed the stone, the air shifted.
A pulse.
Not a sound; not a movement. It was a feeling.
A deep, rhythmic thrum vibrated beneath her touch, slow and steady like a distant heartbeat.
The sensation was neither warm nor cold, but wholly different—almost alien.
It was as if a presence coiled beneath her skin, creeping tendrils of inky smoke.
The pressure climbed her arm, an insidious whisper of something ominous.
Then came the chill. The same eerie coldness she had felt the night before and again in Cillian’s chambers.
A powerful surge raced through her veins and wrapped around her bones. A soft murmur—more a distant caress than an actual voice—brushed the edges of her mind, a subtle warning not to delve any further.
A sharp gasp escaped her lips, and she jerked her hand away.
In an instant, her father was by her side. “Evelyne, are you all right?”
She turned toward him, her fingers tingling from the phantom pulse beneath her skin. “Did you feel that?” she whispered.
Her father’s eyes darkened as he regarded the symbol seared into the rock. He made no move to touch it.
“It’s a warning,” he stated firmly.
Marcel shifted uneasily. “My lord, this wasn’t here yesterday. And there’s no evidence of fire, tool, or man capable of carving this so deeply in a single night.”
Aron Duskwood exhaled slowly. “A man did not do this.”
“Then who? Or what?” Evelyne asked.
Her father ignored the question. “We’re returning to the manor. I’ll send word to the scholars.”
Evelyne’s gaze lingered on the sigil, its dark lines stark against the stone. She had never seen anything like it, and she couldn’t decide which unnerved her more: its mysterious overnight appearance, or the sensation that it pulsed with life when she touched it.
Swallowing hard, she declared, “I’m going to find Cillian.”
Lord Duskwood’s jaw tightened, but he did not argue. Instead, he placed a steady hand on her shoulder. “We proceed with caution, Evelyne. We must not blindly follow whatever force left this behind.”
Though she said nothing, her intention was clear. She wouldn’t wait for the scholars or follow her father’s directives—she was determined to uncover the truth alone.
***
Evelyne stood in the quiet gloom of Cillian’s room.
Every surface was dusted with memories, and her heart pounded as she carefully searched through his scattered books and meticulously drawn sketches.
Guilt washed over her as she glanced at his empty bed and the chair where he once sat.
She berated herself—she should have been there for him, sitting with him to learn about his fears and experiences instead of indulging in a fleeting engagement with Alaric.
Her anger at her own neglect of him stung deeply.
She inhaled deeply, forcing herself to set aside the emotions curling hot in her veins. Regret would not bring him back.
With renewed determination, Evelyne began rifling through his belongings, gathering every page, every scrap of writing that could hold the key to his disappearance.
She pulled books from his shelves, recognizing familiar titles from the family library—History of the Southern Territories, Heraldry and Sacred Signs—but the more obscure ones caught her attention.
She paused as she ran her fingers over an aged tome, its spine cracked, the title barely legible beneath the wear of time.
The Concord of Shadows: A Forgotten Rite.
It wasn’t just old; it felt… unnatural. She pressed her palm against the cover, and for the briefest moment, a faint hum vibrated beneath her touch. Not like the dark pulse she had felt when she touched the ancient sigil—no, this was different. It was as if the book wanted to be opened.
Cillian had borrowed this. She was sure of it. He must have taken it from Velenshire’s library while visiting their father. It had meant something to him.
Shoving her collected books and notes into a bundle, she turned and left the room.
Back in her chambers, Evelyne shut the door to and slid the lock into place. Exhaustion weighed heavily on her, but she pushed it aside. She had work to do.
She spread Cillian’s sketches across her desk, each a puzzle piece that had yet to fit into place.
Again and again, she traced the symbols—the gnarled tree, the haunting pair of eyes, the moon.
The more she stared at them, the more they seemed to pulse with some hidden urgency, like they were waiting to be understood.
At some point, Seraphine knocked and left a tray of tea and lunch by her door, but Evelyne ignored it, too lost in her frantic search for answers.
She opened The Concord of Shadows, its brittle pages crackling as she turned them. Dread prickled under her skin as she spotted folded corners marking specific passages. Cillian had been here before her, searching for something in these words.
The first marked page revealed an illustration—a tree, ancient and massive, its branches stretching toward the heavens. Unlike Cillian’s dark and lifeless sketches, this one was vibrant, depicting something powerful and alive.
The Solwyn Tree of Velenshire. Evelyne skimmed the text, devouring the words.
A sacred tree. A vessel of power. Witches gathered beneath its boughs to honor its gifts, believing it protected the southern lands.
Seers cast visions in its shade. Rituals were performed beneath its roots. It was the source of balance.
Magic wasn’t just whispers of superstition. It was woven into the land, into the bones of Velenshire itself. She folded the page as Cillian had and turned to the next marked section. Her eyes landed on a bold chapter heading: The Twins of Power.
Her fingers clenched the book as she read.
Twin witches, Vaelora and Kaya, were born under a rare celestial alignment, which occurs once every thousand years.
In the world of witches, twins are an anomaly of immense power.
Together, their magic could rival the gods, their bond unbreakable.
But such power was both a blessing and a curse.
As children, they were inseparable. As they grew older, their hunger for knowledge deepened, pushing them toward the edges of magic’s limits.
Then, they found it—a forbidden tome detailing the siphoning of magic from living beings.
They drained others of their gifts: shifters, seers, witches.
Their power grew as they inherited the powers of other magical beings.
When their dark practices were discovered, Velenshire cast them out, banishing them to the northern lands of Nerathar.
But the damage had already begun. Fear of their growing magic led the witches to ally with a powerful shifter pack.
Together, they forged a sacred rite: a final safeguard against the resurgence of blood magic, the most powerful and dangerous of all.
Evelyne pressed a trembling hand to her forehead.
None of this had ever been spoken of at court.
Not in the noble circles. Not in any history she had ever read.
Witches. Blood magic. Shifter packs. How had this knowledge been buried so deep?
Her world had been built on nobility, wealth, and marriage contracts.
But now, all of it seemed insignificant.
She closed the book and looked up. Her tea was surely cold by now, and her untouched lunch remained forgotten at her door. She knew she needed to eat, to steady herself, but her mind refused to rest.
Outside, the wind howled against the window panes, rattling them like invisible fingers scraping against the glass.
Evelyne exhaled slowly, pressing her palms against the desk, grounding herself.
She needed answers—more than scattered pages and stories of ancient magic could give her.
Her gaze drifted to the books she had gathered.
Heraldry and Sacred Signs stood out, its worn exterior promising knowledge of symbols and sigils.
But books alone wouldn’t be enough. She needed to speak with someone who understood the true history of these lands, someone who could confirm what she had just read.
Velenshire.