Chapter Thirty - Eight
Chapter
Thirty-Eight
GIDEON
Ikeep to the shadows.
It's what I do best—moving through spaces unnoticed, gathering information while leaving no trace of my presence. The military taught me discipline; being a warlock perfected it.
The Magister's compound sits on the edge of the city, a sprawling estate that rivals Malachi's in size if not in taste.
Where Malachi's home speaks of old money and restrained power, the Magister's screams of excess—golden gates, marble statues, fountains that flow with water dyed blood-red. Subtlety was never his strong suit.
I approach from the south side, where the tree line provides adequate cover. The wards around the property are strong but familiar—I've studied them for years, mapping their weaknesses, their blind spots. Not that Malachi ever planned to attack the Magister directly. We're not that reckless.
But information? Information is always useful.
I slip through a gap in the wards where two magical signatures overlap, creating a thin seam of vulnerability. The Magister's security team would detect a direct breach, but this—this is more like stepping through an unlocked door they don't know exists.
Once inside the grounds, I move swiftly toward the east wing. The Magister holds his council meetings there, in a chamber designed to amplify and contain magical energy. Sound doesn't escape those walls, but I don't need to hear to understand what's happening.
I find a position in the garden outside, concealed by a row of perfectly manicured hedges. From here, I can observe the council chamber windows. They're covered with heavy curtains, but the faint glow of power emanates from the edges—they're definitely in session.
Now comes the waiting.
An hour passes before the doors finally open and council members begin to file out.
I recognize most of them—warlocks from old bloodlines, men who've amassed both wealth and power over centuries of existence.
They move with the confidence of those who've never had to question their place in the world.
I don't move, don't breathe, as they disperse across the grounds. Years of training have taught me how to become part of the scenery, how to dampen my magical signature until it's barely a whisper.
Two warlocks pause near my position, their voices carrying clearly in the still evening air.
"—still can't pinpoint the source," one says, frustration evident in his tone. "The signature is unmistakable, but it's diffused across the northern district."
"Malachi's territory," the other replies thoughtfully. "You think he's involved?"
"He did pay an unprecedented sum for that woman at the Ritual. Perhaps he sensed something we missed."
"Or perhaps he's merely indulging his appetites in private."
A chuckle. "Malachi has never been one to indulge openly. Not like some."
They move away, their conversation shifting to other matters. I remain still, processing this information. They sense her, but can't locate her precisely. They suspect Malachi's involvement but haven't connected all the dots yet.
It's something, but not enough.
I wait until they're out of sight before shifting positions, making my way toward the main building. The Magister keeps his private offices on the top floor—inaccessible without direct invitation. But his secretary's office, that's another matter.
The secretary—a thin, nervous warlock named Drummond—is a creature of habit. Every evening at precisely 8:15, he takes a smoke break in the eastern courtyard. It's a weakness I've exploited before.
At 8:17, I slip into his empty office.
The place is meticulously organized, files arranged in perfect rows, desk clear of all but essential items. Drummond compensates for his lack of power with obsessive efficiency. It makes my job easier.
I move directly to the filing cabinet behind his desk. The lock is both physical and magical—designed to keep out common thieves and lesser warlocks. It takes me thirty seconds to disable both.
Inside, I find what I'm looking for: the Magister's daily agenda.
I scan it quickly, memorizing the key points. Most of it is mundane—meetings with wealthy patrons, inspections of ritual sites, discussions about the next Blood Moon. But halfway down the page, a specific entry catches my attention:
4:30 PM - Emergency Council: Anomalous Magical Signature (North District) - Possible Witch Activity
So they're taking it seriously enough to call an emergency meeting. That's concerning.
I'm replacing the agenda when a notation at the bottom of the page catches my eye:
Dispatch surveillance team to monitor Black estate. Observe only, no engagement.
My jaw tightens. They're already watching Malachi's home. I should have sensed that. I need to be more careful.
I close the file, return it to its exact position, and relock the cabinet. Then I check my watch—8:22. Drummond will return in approximately three minutes.
I exit the way I came, silent and unseen, leaving no trace of my presence.
Outside, I make my way back to the weak point in the wards, slipping out with the same care I used to enter. Once clear of the Magister's property, I move swiftly through the city, taking a circuitous route back to Malachi's estate.
It's nearly midnight when I finally return, the moon hanging full and heavy in the sky. The guards at Malachi's gate recognize me immediately, magic recognizing magic, and allow me passage without question.
I find Malachi in his study, standing by the large windows overlooking the garden. The same garden where Sage tried to escape just nights ago. The memory brings a flicker of amusement—she has spirit, I'll give her that.
"Report," Malachi says without turning, sensing my presence the moment I enter.
"They know something's here," I tell him, getting straight to the point. "They can sense her magical signature in the area, but haven't pinpointed the exact location yet."
Now he turns, his expression unreadable. "Do they suspect what she is?"
"They're calling it 'possible witch activity,'" I reply. "The Magister called an emergency council meeting today to discuss it."
Malachi's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "And their conclusion?"
"They're watching your estate," I say. "Surveillance only, for now. But it's only a matter of time before they make a move."
He nods slowly, absorbing this information. "They think I purchased her at the Ritual and am keeping her for myself."
"Yes," I confirm. "They don't seem surprised by the possibility. Your reputation for... privacy... works in our favor."
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "For once."
"They'll figure it out eventually," I warn. "The longer she stays here, the stronger her signature will become, especially as her powers develop."
Malachi is silent for a long moment, his profile sharp against the moonlight. "We need to accelerate our plans."
"How?" I ask.
"Within the week, we make our move."
I hesitate. I'm not one to question Malachi's strategy, but his suggestion seems reckless. "Alone could be dangerous."
"Then, what do you suggest?"
I grind my teeth, but he already senses what I'm about to say. "You think we involve Elias and Asher."
"They've shown loyalty thus far. They could have gone to the Magister and betrayed us many times over."
"True, but then they'd never have her for themselves. They know that."
"Then keeping her safe secures their loyalty."
I mull over his words. "To an extent. I want everyone gathered tomorrow to discuss this. It seems I have no option but to form an alliance with the two warlocks who dared challenge me at the Ritual. Keep watching the Magister's surveillance team. I want to know immediately if they make any moves."
"Of course," I agree, recognizing the dismissal.
I nod once and leave, closing the door quietly behind me.
In the hallway, I allow myself a moment of stillness, processing everything I've learned today. The Magister is searching. Malachi is planning. And Sage—Sage is at the center of it all, a witch who shouldn't exist, whose power ripples through the air like a stone dropped in still water.
The last witch was burned centuries ago. Their bloodlines extinguished, their knowledge lost, their power absorbed into warlock lineages through that final, brutal ritual.
Or so we thought.
But Sage's existence challenges everything we believed to be true. And if there's one thing I've learned in my long life, it's that truth—when revealed—is often more dangerous than any lie.
Tomorrow, Malachi will gather us all together. Tomorrow, we'll begin to form a plan.
But tonight, I have one more task to complete.
I move silently through the estate, making my way to the perimeter. If the Magister has surveillance teams watching us, I need to know exactly where they are, what they can see, what they might report.
Because when it comes to protecting Malachi—and by extension, Sage—I leave nothing to chance.
It's going to be a long night.