Chapter Nineteen
Chapter
Nineteen
ELIAS
Ilead Sage through Malachi’s estate, watching her take in the space as she moves.
She’s still trying to process everything—the sheer size of the place, the polished elegance that hides how dangerous it really is.
The tension in her shoulders, the slight furrow between her brows…
she’s thinking too hard. Analyzing every detail. Searching for the cracks in reality.
Smart girl.
Most wouldn’t even notice the estate is built in a subtle spiral—designed to disorient, to keep guests from feeling grounded.
But I know the turns by heart.
I’ve been here more times than I can count.
The three of us—Malachi, Asher, and I—have worked together for years. Uneasy allies at times, bound by bloodlines, deals, and the kind of power that doesn’t play nice with politics.
Asher knows the estate too. Probably spent just as many nights here sneaking wine from the cellar as he did helping Malachi hide magical contraband.
Me? I was always drawn to the library.
And now, I’m guiding a witch through the house of a warlock who’s spent his life tearing down the system that once hunted her kind.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
I say nothing as we enter the dining area—if it can even be called that.
The long, polished table stretches nearly the length of the room, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the mountain views.
The entire space is an elegant blend of dark wood, sleek modern fixtures, and understated opulence.
She hesitates at the threshold, eyes flicking toward the massive chandelier overhead. "How many people do Malachi even feed here?" she asks quietly.
I pull out a chair for her. "You're assuming he hosts dinner parties."
"This table is big enough to seat twenty," she observes, her voice barely above a whisper.
I arch a brow. "And yet, here you are, the only guest."
She doesn't respond but sits timidly, folding her hands in her lap. I take the seat across from her, resting my forearms on the table. With a flick of my wrist, breakfast materializes before us—a spread of fresh fruit, eggs, golden croissants, and steaming coffee.
Sage stares at the plates. Suspiciously.
I watch, amused, as she leans forward, squinting at the food like it might sprout legs and scurry away.
"Something wrong?" I ask mildly.
She doesn't look at me, still eyeing the plate warily. "What... what is this even made of?"
I blink. "Food."
She exhales softly, shaking her head. "No, I mean—you just made it appear."
"Yes," I say slowly, watching her carefully.
"With magic," she adds, voice cautious, as if testing the words aloud.
"That is generally how warlocks operate," I confirm.
She finally lifts her gaze to mine. "So... did you create it? Or is it transported from some actual kitchen?"
I lean back in my chair, intrigued by the way her mind works. "It's transported, of course. Do you think I'm some kind of food alchemist?"
She doesn't smile. She looks dead serious.
"So someone actually cooked this," she clarifies. "In a kitchen. With normal ingredients."
I incline my head. "Correct."
She looks down at her plate. "And then you—what? Just... brought it here?"
"I wouldn't use the word 'brought,'" I say, drumming my fingers against the table. "But essentially, yes. Think of it as a very efficient delivery service."
She exhales softly. "Okay. But how do I know that transported food won't, I don't know, affect me somehow?"
I blink, then chuckle softly. "Sage, I sincerely admire your ability to analyze every possible consequence, but I assure you, you are perfectly safe."
"How do you know?" she asks, uncertainty in her voice.
I smirk. "Because I've been eating it for decades, and as you can see, I'm still alive."
She gives me a look like she isn't entirely convinced. But then her stomach growls, and she hesitates slightly, carefully picking up a fork. "I guess I am hungry."
"Noted," I say, amused as she finally takes a bite.
And then she really eats.
I don't miss the way she seems to relax after her first mouthful, her expression shifting into something more comfortable.
I sip my coffee, watching as she eats with growing enthusiasm. She was starving.
Which makes sense—her body has been using an immense amount of energy. First, from whatever latent magic awakened inside her. Then, from running for her life.
It's fascinating to see her now—focused entirely on the simple act of satisfying hunger.
But I'm also aware of her vulnerability.
The slip of a nightgown she's still wearing doesn't help.
She's utterly unaware of how she looks—barefoot, curled into the chair, the thin silk hugging her figure in ways that are impossible to ignore. It's soft, delicate, the kind of thing that should never be in the same sentence as Malachi's name.
I set my coffee down. "Sage, would you mind if I helped you change into something more comfortable?"
She pauses mid-bite, eyes widening as she sets her fork down. "What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing inappropriate," I say smoothly. "Just an adjustment."
Before she can protest, I flick my fingers subtly, shifting the magic just enough to change the fabric of her nightgown into something infinitely more appropriate.
A soft, plush set of loungewear replaces the thin silk—a perfectly fitted sweater and loose, cozy pants that look warm enough to make up for the chill in the air.
She gasps softly, her hands flying to her arms, feeling the change in fabric. "What?—"
"Better?" I ask, sipping my coffee.
She looks down at herself, clearly startled. "I... um, a warning might have been nice."
I smirk. "Where's the fun in that?"
She looks down at herself again, tugging at the edge of the sweater, testing the fabric.
And then, much to my amusement, she gives a small nod.
"Thank you," she says softly, adjusting the sweater around her shoulders.
I watch her settle back into her chair, continuing to eat, the tension from before slowly unraveling.
She still doesn't fully trust us.
She still doesn't fully understand what she is.
But she's starting to accept that whatever comes next, she won't be able to run from it.
Sage finishes eating, finally pushing her plate away with a quiet sigh, the tension in her shoulders slightly looser than before. Not completely gone, but it's a start.
She leans back in her chair, absently running her fingers along the rim of her water glass. I watch her carefully, studying the way her mind is still working, still trying to put together the puzzle pieces she doesn't yet understand.
She's adjusting faster than I expected.
Which only reinforces what I already suspect.
I stand, stepping toward the coffee station near the end of the dining area. I pour a fresh cup, the rich scent filling the air, and then set it in front of her before sitting down beside her instead of across from her.
She blinks, clearly surprised. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know," I say simply, watching her fingers wrap around the cup, holding onto the warmth like it's grounding her.
The space between us is close now. Close enough that I can feel the faint heat radiating from her skin, the subtle brush of magic that lingers around her—untamed, raw, not fully controlled.
I know what it means.
And I have to tell her.
She exhales, glancing at me. "So, are you going to explain all of this? Because I'm still very confused."
I fold my hands in front of me. "Yes. But first—take a deep breath."
She hesitates but obeys, inhaling slowly, closing her eyes for a second before exhaling.
"Good," I murmur. "Now, ask me again. What's the first thing you want to know?"
She opens her eyes, blue-grey and questioning beneath the soft glow of the chandelier. "What's happening to me?"
I nod, expecting that question. "We believe you're a witch."
She looks down, her fingers tightening slightly around the cup. "But what does that mean? I'm just... me. A librarian. Not some magical being from a fairytale."
I study her carefully. "And yet, you threw Malachi across the room with nothing but your own willpower."
She stiffens slightly.
I tilt my head. "You've felt it, haven't you? Even before the Ritual. Strange things happening around you. Unexplainable feelings. Maybe heightened instincts, moments where the world felt different."
Her lips part slightly, but she says nothing.
That's answer enough.
I continue. "Witches haven't existed for centuries. The last of them were hunted down, either killed or drained for their power."
"By... warlocks?" she asks cautiously.
I nod once.
She looks down at her coffee. "So you're saying your kind... eliminated mine."
I don't look away. "Yes."
A beat of silence passes, thick and charged. But Sage doesn't flinch. She absorbs the information, processes it. Another confirmation that she is, in fact, exactly what I think she is.
"So if witches don't exist anymore," she finally says, "then what does that make me?"
I exhale slowly. "That's what we need to figure out."
She swallows hard, voice barely above a whisper. "So I am in danger."
I watch her carefully. "Do you feel like you are?"
She hesitates. "I'm... not sure."
I nod. "That's because you're surrounded by people who want something from you, but none of us know exactly what that something is. That makes you vulnerable."
Her lips press together, her shoulders tensing again.
I soften my tone. "That's why I want to help you, Sage."
She searches my expression, looking for deception, for ulterior motives. I hold still, letting her see that I'm telling the truth.
She exhales, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I see. But who exactly are you all?"
I smile faintly, tipping my head back. "Warlocks. The elite, if you want to be technical."
She looks at me questioningly. "What does that mean?"
"It means," I reply smoothly, "that warlocks exist in different levels. There are those who practice small, insignificant magic—low-level practitioners, hedge warlocks, minor bloodlines. And then there are those like us. The strongest. The most connected. The most powerful."
She looks down at her coffee again. "And with power comes wealth?"
"And control," I confirm. "Which is why what happened to you last night is so important. No warlock would ever allow a witch to exist—especially one as powerful as you."
Her fingers tighten around her cup again, but she doesn't respond.
I lower my voice slightly, softer now. "You're changing, Sage. I don't know why your power is awakening now, or why it was dormant before. But I do know that you can't face this alone."
She stares at me for a long moment before she exhales, her shoulders softening slightly.
Then, finally, she takes another sip of coffee.
"The coffee is good," she murmurs.
I chuckle. "I'm glad you think so."
She gives a small nod, a tentative acceptance of her current situation.
Sage listens.
She doesn't interrupt, doesn't recoil. She simply absorbs.
It's something I've noticed about her—the way she takes in knowledge before reacting. She's the kind of woman who wants to understand before she acts. It makes her incredibly fascinating.
"You said witches don't exist anymore," she says slowly, setting down her coffee. "But clearly... I do."
I nod. "We thought your kind was gone. All of them."
She looks up at me. "Gone... or eliminated?"
I hesitate, watching her closely. Smart girl.
"Both," I admit. "There was a time when witches ruled magic, not warlocks. The Mothers were the first. They were the source of all magic—their bloodlines stretched across continents, their power unlike anything the world had seen. Warlocks, by comparison, were far weaker."
She leans forward slightly, her eyes darkening with interest. "Then what changed?"
I exhale slowly. "The Order."
"The Order?"
"The ruling body of warlocks. Old magic. Old money. They saw what witches were capable of and feared it. And so they did what all men do when faced with women who hold power over them."
She swallows. "They took it."
I nod. "They called it balance. Control. But it was theft. The Mothers were overpowered, their magic drained. The curse that followed is still whispered about. No witches were born after that day. Their bloodlines faded."
"But if that's true..." Sage trails off, shaking her head. "Then how am I here? How do I exist?"
I study her carefully. "That's the question we need to answer. Because recently, there have been whispers that the curse was broken. That the Mothers' magic has begun to return."
She blinks, absorbing that, but says nothing.
I lean back slightly, rubbing my jaw. "And if that's true—if you are proof of that—then it's only a matter of time before others come for you."
She exhales softly, pressing her fingers against her temples. "I see."
"You told me what witches are. But what about the Ritual? What was that exactly?"
I study her carefully, then sigh. "The ritual has changed over time. I don't know what its origins are, but I do know that over the years it has evolved into something more self-serving."
She looks down. "And what happens to the women who don't have magic? To those that were there last night? Do they lose something of themselves?"
"In a way," I admit. "Giving your essence over to warlock during the height of pleasure is something that cannot be undone. There are many names for it. Some would call it one's soul."
She looks at me, shocked. "You mean to tell me that your kind siphon souls?"
"The rules are laid out clearly for the women that participate. Those who choose to stay leave without this piece of them, but they leave satisfied, taken care of, and in many cases, significantly wealthier."
Her brows knit together. "Wealthier?"
"The elite warlocks don't hunt the way others do," I explain.
"We conduct the Ritual through money." I gesture slightly toward the grand estate around us.
"The women who participate aren't just drained of their essence; they're compensated—handsomely.
They leave with a small fortune, set up for financial success.
Many of them use that wealth to build businesses, invest, retire early. "
She stares at me, absorbing that.
And then her expression shifts. "Oh."
I raise a brow. "What is it?"
She looks up, eyes widening with realization. "Malachi spent three million dollars on me."
Ah. There it is.
I nod slightly, tilting my head. "Yes. He did."
She sits back slightly, looking overwhelmed. "That's... that's a lot of money."
I sip my coffee, watching her. "Yes, it is."
"And he just—spent it. On me."
"Yes."
"Why would he do that?"
I chuckle, shaking my head. "That is the question, isn't it?"
She looks at me questioningly. "You don't know?"
"Oh, I do," I say, keeping my voice gentle. "But it's not my answer to give."
She hesitates. "Then whose is it?"
A new voice cuts in smoothly.
"Mine."