Chapter Six
Chapter
Six
SAGE
The air shifts, thickening with a weight I don't fully understand. Conversations fade into murmurs, then silence, as every masked figure in the ballroom turns toward the head of the grand hall.
A man stands beneath the towering arches, bathed in the golden glow of the chandeliers.
His presence alone is enough to command attention.
His mask is more elaborate than the others, black and gold filigree curling like vines over sharp cheekbones, the edges cut to mimic the spread of a raven's wings.
His dark suit is pristine, perfectly tailored, a reminder that nothing about this night is careless.
Everything is deliberate.
The stillness in the room is unnerving. The only sound is the faint rustling of fabric as guests shift to watch, waiting. Expecting.
Then, he speaks.
"Midnight," he announces, his voice deep and unhurried, rolling through the space like a distant storm. "And so, the Ritual begins."
A ripple of anticipation moves through the room. I stand frozen, pulse steady but sharp, the weight of the moment pressing down on me.
"Who is he?" I say, to no one specifically.
Elias must overhear my thought, because he leans in and whispers, "the Magister," as if that is supposed to explain everything.
The Magister's gaze sweeps across the gathered women, the weight of his attention predatory, but polished. Like he already knows who will stay and who will flee.
"For those new to our traditions," he continues, "allow me to explain the rules."
His tone is smooth, authoritative, the kind that doesn't need to be raised to be obeyed.
"The men gathered here tonight will bid for their chosen claim," he says, sweeping an arm toward the masked warlocks that fill the ballroom. "Their offers are simple: wealth in exchange for devotion. Whatever price is bid for you, you will keep—a gift, a token, a payment for your willingness."
Something sharp coils in my stomach. A payment.
"But know this," the Magister continues, his tone cooling to something quieter. "Once the bid is accepted, so too is the oath. In taking the offered wealth, you relinquish your body and your soul to the man who claims you."
The words hang in the air, heavy, absolute.
My fingers curl into my gown, the emerald silk suddenly feeling too smooth, too delicate against my skin. The weight of my own breath feels unnatural.
"There will be no turning back," the Magister adds, his gaze landing on a few of the women, though not on me. "You will belong to them for the duration of the Hunt."
A beat of silence follows, then a slow, satisfied smile curves the edges of his mouth. A soft murmur ripples through the guests, and I feel it then—the shift in the air, the change in energy. Excitement. Anticipation. Hunger.
The Magister takes a step forward, his presence filling the room like something tangible. "For those who do not wish to proceed, now is your chance to leave."
The words ring out like a final toll of a bell.
Even as something cold trickles down my spine, even as my mind screams at me to step back, to turn away, to disappear—I don't move.
This can't be real.
It's impossible.
It's insane.
Around me, women stand frozen in place, their expressions shifting between anticipation and unease.
A few exchange quick glances, whispering behind their hands.
Others straighten their shoulders, smoothing their gowns, their gazes flicking toward the masked men who are undoubtedly already choosing their favorites.
The weight of the moment presses down on me, suffocating in its certainty.
This isn't a joke. This isn't some elaborate performance designed to thrill or entertain. This is happening.
A few women finally break, pushing through the thick tension to step away from the ballroom floor. They walk quickly, their heels clicking against marble, heads bowed as if they can't stand the weight of so many watching eyes.
The Magister doesn't acknowledge them. He doesn't have to. Their choice is irrelevant now.
I should follow them.
Every logical part of me is screaming to follow them. To step back, to turn around, to flee before I get swept up in something I don't understand.
And yet—I stay.
Something holds me in place, something I don't dare examine too closely.
Maybe it's curiosity, the itch in the back of my mind that demands to know why I was invited, why Malachi and Gideon had looked at me like I was different. Why Elias and Asher approached me.
Maybe it's the sheer surrealism of it all, the dreamlike quality that makes this feel like one of my novels come to life.
A fantasy.
That's what it feels like, doesn't it? Like I fell asleep in my tiny apartment, buried under a stack of books, and woke up inside one of them.
Because things like this don't happen in real life.
They happen in stories.
In dark fairytales, where fate and magic twist together, where choices are made not by logic, but by the pull of something far more dangerous.
And the strangest part?
I want to see where this leads.
The thought almost makes me laugh—quiet, bookish Sage Holloway, willingly stepping into danger. The girl who spends her days hidden among library shelves, now standing in a ballroom of masked strangers, contemplating... what? Magic? Ritual? Something that can't possibly exist in my reality.
A sharp sound breaks my thoughts—the tap of a cane against the marble floor.
The Magister.
He moves down the steps with practiced ease, gesturing toward the women who remain. There are fewer of us now.
Not everyone was willing to take the risk.
"Step forward," he commands smoothly. "You have made your choice. Now let them see you."
A choice.
I suppose I have, haven't I?
Before I can think better of it, my feet move, carrying me forward along with the others. The air is thick with expectation, with something darker beneath the surface that I can't quite name.
We ascend the marble stairs, led in a slow, deliberate procession.
The stage is set.
The Ritual has begun.