CH. 72 The Witch War Ashes for Ashes
The forest shakes.
Every tree in the Dark Forest bends, contorts, screams as magic detonates through the clearing.
The witch—wild-haired, eyes glowing violet—hurls another wave of corrupted spellfire. It slams into the barrier the Supreme conjured, cracking it like thin glass.
“Hold the line!” the Supreme commands, her voice ringing like iron.
Her coven tightens formation, their circle glowing brighter, sigils spiraling from their palms. Drew stands in the inner ring, hands trembling but blazing with blood-red flame.
Hegar and Sorien stand before her—swords drawn, bodies bruised, clothes scorched.
The witch laughs—high, shrill, venomous.
“You think you can stop me? You—the little curse I made—and the royal brat who loves you?”
Drew sputters, “I—WHAT—STOP SAYING THAT DURING A WAR!”
Sorien, mortified but focused, growls, “You talk too much.”
The witch snarls and flings a spear of shadow straight at him.
Drew flings herself forward—blood igniting in the air.
The shadow spear vaporizes in a hiss of red flame.
“NOT TODAY,” Drew snarls. “I haven’t even processed that trauma bomb you threw at me!”
The witch shrieks, clawed magic tearing through the earth. Roots explode upward, trying to bind Sorien—but Hegar slices through them with a single spell-charged strike.
The Supreme raises her staff, voice resonating like a spell carried by centuries:
“BIND HER.”
Six witches slam their palms into the ground. The forest roots twist—not toward Drew or Sorien, but upward—wrapping around the witch’s arms, legs, throat.
She screeches in fury.
“You think THIS can hold me? I have outlived empires— I have CURSED generations— I AM—”
Drew steps forward, her blood aflame, lighting her from within like a living phoenix.
“No,” she says quietly.
“You’re just cruel.”
She lifts her hand—bleeding again, by choice—and lets a single drop fall onto the ground.
WHOOMPH.
Flame erupts around the witch—blood-fire, ancient and sentient. Her screams shake the clearing as the fire binds her, pulling her magic inward, squeezing it shut.
“This is for my mother,” Drew whispers.
“This is for every child you cursed.”
“And this—this is for ME.”
She thrusts both hands forward.
The blood-fire surges.
The witch breaks—her form shattering into smoky fragments that twist, reform, and collapse into glowing chains.
Silence.
Then—
The air tears open.
A rift blooms—dark, molten, humming with the scent of brimstone.
From the breach steps the Warden, towering and grim, his hellhound at his side. Its molten eyes lock onto Drew. The Warden’s voice rumbles like the core of the earth:
The broken, chained soul of the witch is pulled toward him.
She shrieks—not words, but rage—until the hellhound clamps down on her soul with spectral jaws.
One last scream.
One last burst of purple flame.
And she’s gone.
The Warden bows his head toward Drew—just slightly.
The hellhound snorts once at Sorien, like a dog judging a rival for Drew’s affection.
Sorien glares.
The hellhound glares back.
Drew, exhausted, slaps both of them weakly. “Not now.”
A massive crack echoes as the rift begins to close. The Warden turns, his silhouette framed by fire.
“Do not bind your power again, witchling,” he says to Drew. “It is older than your curse. Older than your blood.
You will need it soon.”
And with that—
He and the hellhound vanish.
The clearing falls silent.
The Supreme drops to one knee, panting.
Her coven collapses like dominos.
Hegar stumbles back onto a stump, clutching his ribs.
And Sorien…
Sorien is already at Drew’s side, catching her as she sways.
“You did it,” he murmurs.
Drew nods weakly. “I did. I hate it. I want soup.”
He actually laughs—a soft, disbelieving sound.
Drew leans against him, finally letting exhaustion seep in.
The witch is gone.
The curse’s maker is dead.
Her bloodline is free.
But as she closes her eyes, Drew can’t shake the Warden’s final warning.
“You will need it soon.”