Chapter Fourteen
Chapter
Fourteen
GIDEON CROSS
The room descends into chaos in an instant.
I pivot sharply, watching Sage flee—her movements frantic, edged with panic and raw power, her gown trailing behind her in waves of emerald silk. Malachi stands frozen beside me, fury radiating from every tense muscle in his body, his gaze burning toward the Magister.
The Magister steps forward onto the raised stage, his presence imposing, amplified by authority and dark power. He lifts his hand, voice carrying clearly over the chaos now sweeping through the ballroom.
"The woman is not human," he announces coldly, eyes narrowed and fierce. "She is a threat to our kind. Capture her immediately. Whoever brings her to me will be handsomely rewarded."
A collective shudder ripples through the assembled warlocks, each of them suddenly alert, eyes flashing with hunger and ambition. They've tasted her raw power—felt its potential—and now greed grips them. The elegant masks of civility they've worn all evening crumble in an instant.
I turn sharply toward Malachi, meeting his fierce stare head-on. His jaw is clenched so tightly it's a wonder it doesn't shatter.
"Malachi," I say firmly, my voice clipped and direct. "What's the play here?"
He doesn’t look at me right away.
His gaze is locked on the Magister, that self-important bastard standing on the dais, robes billowing as if the wind obeys him.
“I’m going to kill him,” Malachi says, voice low and flat. No emotion. Just lethal certainty.
I stiffen beside him. “Negative,” I reply immediately, scanning the chaos around us. “Too many witnesses. Too much fallout.”
Malachi turns his head slowly, finally facing me. His eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them—not wild with rage, but sharpened by purpose. A purpose he’s been waiting to act on.
“He’s threatened what’s mine,” he snaps. “She belongs to me, Gideon. And if he lays a hand on her, the High Council won’t be able to protect him.”
My jaw tightens. “And the consequences?” I counter. “You know what it means to kill the Magister. He’s not just a mouthpiece—he’s the High Council’s blade.”
Malachi’s lips curl into something that’s not quite a smile. “I’ve waited too long to make my move against them.”
That pulls me up short.
Because I know exactly what he means.
The High Council—the ruling body of those warlocks who consider themselves from ancient bloodlines, who built their power on manipulation, secrecy, and blood-bound control—have long maintained dominion over our kind.
They protect our secrets, enforce the sacred laws, and ensure warlocks like us stay in line. Malachi has never played their game.
But this is different.
This isn’t strategy.
This is personal.
“You’ve always hated them,” I say quietly, reading between the lines. “But this...This would make it war.”
His voice is iron. “So be it.”
I watch him for a beat longer, calculating the angles. We can’t take on the High Council tonight. Not like this. But Sage—we can still reach her first.
I nod once. “Target acquisition first. We secure the girl. Strategic retreat, then reassess.”
His shoulders ease slightly with my agreement. Not much, but enough to know he won’t rip the Magister apart just yet.
“Let’s move,” he mutters.
We push through the crowd, the Magister’s voice still ringing behind us like a curse.
Outside, darkness envelops us, cool air slamming into my face, sharpening my senses. I feel Malachi's magic coiling tightly around him—sharp, lethal, protective—as we move swiftly into the night.
We must find her first.
Because if anyone else gets to Sage Holloway before us, there will be nothing left to save.