Chapter Thirty - One
Chapter
Thirty-One
SAGE
Iwake slowly, the first traces of morning light bleeding through the velvet curtains that drape across the tall windows.
Everything feels... too soft. Too quiet. Too surreal.
For a second, I don’t move.
My body aches in the best way—sore, tingling, like my skin is still remembering his touch. Last night wasn’t a dream. Malachi.
I sit up carefully in the oversized bed, letting the silk sheets pool around my waist.
He kept me here. Got me cleaned up. Put me to bed.
But did he sleep beside me? I glance to the other side of the bed. It's perfectly smooth, untouched. Of course.
My gaze drops to my wrist—and there it is. The tattoo.
Dark ink circling the delicate skin like a bracelet of flame and thorns. Intricate. Alive. His mark. My mark.
I saw it on his wrist last night, just before everything blurred into color and heat and magic.
What is it? What did we do?
My throat tightens. I should be panicking. Or at least... spiraling. I lost my virginity to a man who literally bound me with magic.
And yet… I don’t feel broken. I don’t feel used.
If anything, I feel like I’ve stepped into a world that has always been waiting for me. And now I can't go back.
“Okay,” I whisper, exhaling. “Let’s just... not think too hard about any of that.”
I swing my legs off the bed, wincing at the cool floor beneath my bare feet. My body still buzzes—like his power is woven through me now, sparking along my nerve endings.
I glance around the room, expecting to find some kind of robe or dress tossed over a chair—something to wear.
But there's nothing.
It hits me then.
This is Malachi's room.
He doesn’t keep women here.
The thought sends a strange flutter through my chest, but I push it down.
I spot a door just off to the left and slip through it into what looks like a closet—or maybe a dressing room. There’s a sleek dresser nestled between tall wardrobes, and I step up to it, half-grumbling to myself.
“I just need a t-shirt. And maybe shorts. That’s it. Is that so hard?”
The drawer in front of me clicks.
And then it opens.
Inside, folded with exacting precision, is a t-shirt and a pair of soft black shorts—both my size.
I blink. “Seriously?”
I glance around the room like someone’s going to pop out and say gotcha.
No one does.
I grab the clothes, tug them on quickly, the soft cotton strangely comforting against my skin.
None of this is normal.
But at this point, I’m not sure I’m normal either.
I brush my fingers once more over the tattoo on my wrist. The skin tingles beneath my touch.
Then I slip out the door and make my way to the library. I need answers. And that book is calling to me. The one I found last night before I discovered the garden—The Covenant of Fire: Witches, Warlocks, and the Ritual That Binds Them.
The hallways are mercifully empty as I make my way to the library. I walk quietly, my footsteps almost soundless against the polished floors. Every few seconds, I pause to listen for anyone approaching, but the estate seems unnaturally quiet this morning.
When I reach the library doors, I hesitate, pressing my ear against the wood. Silence. I push the door open slowly, wincing at the slight creak, and slip inside.
The library looks different in the morning light. Sunbeams filter through tall windows, catching dust motes that dance in the air. The bookcases stretch upward like ancient trees, their shadows creating a peaceful pattern across the floor. It feels... safe here.
I move cautiously toward the reading table where I left the book last night. My heart sinks when I see the empty surface—no burgundy leather, no ancient pages waiting to be read.
"No," I whisper, looking around frantically. "It was right here."
I scan the surrounding tables, wondering if someone moved it. Nothing. Just polished wood surfaces gleaming in the sunlight.
Taking a deep breath, I try to remember exactly where I found it. The far shelves, the dusty section, books that looked untouched for years. I make my way back there, eyes scanning each shelf carefully.
The book has to be here somewhere.
After fifteen minutes of searching, my fingers trace over the empty space where it had been. Someone took it deliberately. Someone who didn't want me reading it.
I lean against the shelf, frustration tightening in my chest. Just when I thought I might find answers...
Wait.
My eyes catch on another book, just two shelves down from where the first had been. The binding is different—deep green instead of burgundy—but something about it calls to me. I reach for it carefully, pulling it from its place.
Testimonials of the Seven Mothers: First-Hand Accounts of the Original Covenant
The title sends a chill through me.
I clutch the book to my chest, eyes darting across the library. It’s still empty. Still quiet. Just me, the dust motes in the sunlight, and this impossibly delicate tome that might hold every answer I’ve been looking for.
There’s a small reading nook tucked between two towering bookshelves—hidden, partially curtained, just enough for privacy. I slip inside, curling up on the window seat as golden light spills over the page like blessing.
The book is old. Ancient. The pages whisper when I turn them, and the ink is faded in places, the script hand-lettered in a flowing, elegant style.
“I, Morgana of the Fifth Bloodline, commit these words to parchment so that future generations might know the truth of our sacred bond with the Seven Warlocks. The Covenant of Fire was never meant to be broken.”
My heart pounds as I keep reading.
The Seven Mothers. The original witches. Not myths. Not stories. Real.
Women of power, born of earth and flame and shadow. Each one a vessel of a unique kind of magic—elemental, spiritual, divine. They weren’t hunted, not then. They were revered. Worshipped, even.
And beside them: the Seven Warlocks.
Not enemies.
Partners.
Morgana writes of a time when magic was balanced. When warlocks and witches bound themselves to one another—not through force, not through violence, but through sacred ritual. The Binding. A union of souls.
“The Binding creates balance in the natural order. A witch’s magic flows from creation—instinctive, wild, woven into the bones of the earth. A warlock’s power comes from discipline—structure, focus, control. One births the current. The other shapes it.”
Together, they made each other stronger. Not weaker. Not drained. Not consumed. Whole.
But halfway through, the words shift. A sense of unease creeps in through the lines.
“The Council speaks of order. Of hierarchy. Of man’s rightful place at the top. We hear whispers in the dark. They fear what we are when we stand beside them. They want us kneeling beneath them instead.”
I flip forward, the pages growing frantic, smudged in places by what might be tears, or blood.
“They took the Ritual. They twisted it. Warped it into something vile. Now they steal what was once given. Now they consume instead of connect.”
My stomach turns.
“We seven gathered beneath the Blood Moon one last time. We poured our power into the world itself—into stone, into fire, into blood, into wind, into sea, into shadow, into time. We knew we could not survive. But we made sure our magic would. We made sure our daughters would.”
I press my fingers to the page, breath caught in my throat.
“One day, a daughter of each Mother will awaken. They will be born with our blood and our memory. They will return balance to a world drowning in imbalance.”
I flip the page—and there, in bold, is a name I somehow already know.
The Mother of Stone – Amara. “She who grounds the world. She who shields what is sacred. She who remembers.”
The hairs on the back of my neck rise.
The dreams. The nightmares. The visions of witches burned alive. They weren’t just dreams.
They were memories. Passed down. Buried deep. Until now.
I read the final line aloud in a whisper, barely audible over the rush in my ears.
“If you are reading this, you are she. We have imbued magic into this text and it recognizes you. You are our stone. You are the one who must remember.”
I close the book, hugging it to my chest. I am not just a witch.
I’m the descendant of Amara. The Mother of Stone.
I glance toward the library door—and that’s when it opens.
Elias.
He’s holding a cup of tea, glasses perched on his nose, brows raised in surprise.
“Sage,” he says, voice warm. “Didn’t expect to find you here so early.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” I murmur, hiding the book behind me, even though he makes no move toward me.
He looks at me carefully, gaze lingering a second too long on my wrist. “After last night, I’m not surprised.”
I stare at him for a beat. Does he know? Could he sense what happened between me and Malachi?
“I found something,” I say. “I wanted to ask you about it.”
He sets his tea down, intrigued. “What kind of something?”
I grip the book tighter. “What do you know about the original Binding Ritual? Before the corruption. Before the stealing.”
His face changes. Not surprise. Not suspicion.
Recognition.
“What a... curious thing to ask,” he says quietly.
I step closer. “I think I’m connected to it. I think I’m connected to them. The Mothers.”
Silence. Tension. Then, softly?—
“I believe,” Elias says, “we have much to discuss.”