Chapter Forty
Chapter
Forty
ELIAS
"Focus on your breath," I instruct, keeping my voice low and steady. "Let it anchor you. In through your nose, out through your mouth."
Sage sits cross-legged on the cushion before me, her eyes closed, hands resting palms-up on her knees.
The library is quiet around us, morning light filtering through the tall windows, casting golden patterns across the polished floor.
I've chosen this space deliberately—surrounded by books, she feels more at ease, more herself.
"Now," I continue, "visualize your power. Not as something external, but as an extension of yourself. A current flowing through your veins, circulating with every heartbeat."
She takes another deep breath, her brow furrowing slightly with concentration. I watch her carefully, noting the subtle changes in her energy signature—the way it pulses and shifts as she attempts to gain control over it.
For three days now, we've been working on the fundamentals—meditation, visualization, the basic principles of magical theory.
She's a quick study, absorbing concepts with the natural aptitude of someone born to this work.
But controlling her signature, learning to shield it from detection—that's proven more challenging.
"I can feel it," she murmurs, her voice barely audible. "It's like... warmth spreading outward from my chest. But I can't seem to contain it."
"Don't think of it as containment," I suggest, leaning forward slightly. "Think of it as redirection. Like water finding a new path downstream."
Her head tilts slightly, considering this. "I'm not sure I understand."
I hesitate, weighing my options. What she needs is direct guidance, a more tangible demonstration. But what I'm considering crosses certain boundaries—boundaries I've been careful to maintain.
Still, with the Magister's surveillance teams watching the estate, time is a luxury we don't have.
"May I?" I ask, gesturing toward her hands.
She opens her eyes, startled by the request, but nods after a moment's consideration.
I move from my chair to kneel before her, our knees almost touching. Carefully, I take her hands in mine, turning them so her palms face upward.
"Close your eyes again," I instruct softly.
She complies, though I note the slight quickening of her pulse where my fingers rest against her wrist.
"Now," I say, "I'm going to guide my energy into your hands. I want you to feel how I direct it, how I shape it."
I close my own eyes, centering myself before allowing a small measure of my power to flow into her.
It's an intimate gesture among our kind—sharing energy directly, without ritual or pretense.
The fact that she's not pulling away, that she's allowing this connection, speaks volumes about the trust developing between us.
My power meets hers—cool blue against warm gold—and for a moment, they repel each other, like magnets of similar polarity. Then, slowly, they begin to intertwine, creating patterns of light behind my closed eyelids.
"Oh," she breathes, surprise and wonder coloring the single syllable.
"Do you feel that?" I ask, voice low.
"Yes," she whispers. "It's beautiful."
I open my eyes to find her watching me, her expression a mixture of awe and something deeper, more complex. Our power dances between us, visible now as faint luminescence where our hands meet.
"This is how energy should flow," I tell her, deliberately keeping my tone academic despite the intimacy of the moment. "Controlled, directed, purposeful. Now, try to mirror what I'm doing. Pull your signature inward, contain it within your skin rather than allowing it to radiate outward."
She takes a deep breath, her eyes fluttering closed again as she concentrates. I feel the immediate effect—her power pulling back, retreating from where it had been mingling with mine. The golden light dims, receding beneath her skin until it's barely perceptible.
"Good," I murmur, genuinely impressed. "Very good."
Her eyes open, bright with success. "Did it work? Am I hidden?"
"Not entirely," I admit. "But it's a significant improvement. With practice, you'll be able to maintain this state without conscious effort."
She smiles, a rare, unguarded expression that transforms her face completely. "It felt... right. Like something I've always known how to do but had forgotten."
I nod, understanding exactly what she means. "The knowledge is in your blood. Your ancestors' memories, awakening within you."
Her smile fades slightly, replaced by thoughtful consideration. "The Seven Mothers. I've been dreaming about them."
This catches my attention immediately. "What do they show you?"
"Their deaths, mostly," she says quietly, her gaze dropping to our still-joined hands. "The betrayal. The burning. But sometimes... sometimes they show me other things. Rituals. Spells. Ways of channeling power that feel... different from what you've been teaching me."
I release her hands reluctantly, sitting back on my heels. "Different how?"
She seems to struggle for words. "Less... structured. More intuitive. Like the magic comes from within rather than being imposed from without."
"That's the fundamental difference between witch magic and warlock magic," I explain. "Warlocks channel existing energy, bending it to our will through discipline and force. Witches... witches are the source. The magic flows from you naturally, like breath or blood."
"Is that why the warlocks hunted them?" she asks. "Because they were jealous?"
A complicated question with an even more complicated answer.
"Partly," I admit. "But it was also fear. Fear of power they couldn't control or fully understand. Fear of what might happen if witches ever united against them."
She absorbs this, her blue-grey eyes thoughtful. "And now? Are you afraid of me?"
The question catches me off guard. "No," I say truthfully. "I'm not afraid of you, Sage."
"But you are afraid of something," she observes, more perceptive than I've given her credit for.
I consider deflecting, changing the subject back to her training. But something in her expression—earnest, open, genuinely curious—deserves honesty.
"I'm afraid of what's coming," I tell her. "The council, the Magister—they won't stop hunting you once they understand what you are. And I'm afraid that when the time comes, we won't be strong enough to protect you."
"Maybe I'll protect myself," she suggests, a hint of defiance in her voice that wasn't there days ago.
I smile despite myself. "Maybe you will."
She stands, moving to the tall windows that overlook the garden. Morning light catches in her hair, illuminating the subtle red undertones I hadn't noticed before.
"There's something else, isn't there?" she asks, not turning around. "Something none of you are telling me."
I remain kneeling on the floor, watching her. "What makes you say that?"
"The way you all look at me sometimes. Like you're waiting for something. Expecting something." She turns to face me now, arms wrapped around herself. "Like I'm a bomb about to go off."
I rise slowly, closing the distance between us. "Not a bomb," I correct gently. "A key."
Her brow furrows. "A key to what?"
"That," I say, "is precisely what we're trying to figure out."
She studies me for a long moment, clearly unsatisfied with my answer but unwilling to push further. "Show me something else," she says instead. "Something more advanced."
"You've already made significant progress today," I caution. "We shouldn't overextend."
"Please," she insists. "I need to know more. I need to be prepared."
I recognize the determination in her eyes—the same determination I saw when she asked about the original Binding Ritual. She's right to push. The more she knows, the better her chances of survival.
"Very well," I concede. "But we'll need to move somewhere more... appropriate."
I lead her from the library, through the winding corridors of the estate, to my quarters.
She moves into the room slowly, her fingers skimming over the spines of books, the surfaces of artifacts.
Her curiosity is palpable, her respect for these objects evident in the gentle way she touches them.
The last time she was here, she was barely conscious.
Now, I can tell she's appreciating everything around her.
"These are all about witch magic," she observes, scanning the titles. "Ancient bindings, elemental conjuring, soul magic..."
"Yes," I acknowledge. "I've spent centuries collecting what little remains of witch knowledge. Most was destroyed during the purges."
She turns to me, understanding dawning in her eyes. "You've been looking for this. For me. For a long time."
"Not you specifically," I clarify. "But yes, I've been searching for evidence that witch bloodlines might have survived. That someday, the balance might be restored."
"Why?" she asks. "What does it matter to you?"
I move to the center of the circular pattern, motioning for her to join me. When she does, I take her hands again, more confidently this time.
"Because magic is broken," I tell her simply. "What we practice now—what warlocks have done for centuries—it's a pale imitation of what magic should be. True magic, complete magic, requires both elements: the witch's creation and the warlock's channeling."
Understanding flickers across her face. "The Binding Ritual. The original one."
"Yes," I confirm. "It was meant to be a partnership. A union of complementary forces."
I release one of her hands, reaching to touch a small lever concealed in the floor pattern. The room darkens as shutters close over the windows, and the silver and gold threads in the floor begin to glow faintly.
"This," I say, "is a recreation of the original ritual space, based on accounts I've gathered over centuries."
Her eyes widen as she looks around, taking in the glowing patterns, the way they seem to pulse in time with our breathing.
"What does it do?" she asks, her voice hushed.
"It amplifies connection," I explain. "Magical, physical, emotional—all forms of energy flow more freely here."
I feel her power responding to the space, unfurling like a flower opening to sunlight. Her signature brightens, golden light emanating from her skin despite her earlier efforts at containment.
"I can feel it," she whispers, wonder in her voice. "It's like... the air is thinner here. Like there's less separating me from everything else."
"Step inside," I invite gently.
As we cross the threshold together, the pattern beneath our feet begins to glow faintly, a soft luminescence rippling outward from our point of contact. Sage gasps softly, clearly feeling the subtle shift in the atmosphere.
"It's responding to us," she whispers, a hint of awe in her voice.
"Yes," I confirm quietly. "It recognizes the potential of our energies to merge."
She holds up her wrist, the sigil that matches mine glowing slightly. "But, I thought we already did that."
"We did, but there is always more connection that can be built between two people. For their entire lives they will learn new things about the other and if they are open to it, they can share that between them."
"It's a beautiful thought," she says.
I nod in agreement.
"It feels overwhelming, but... comforting. Familiar, somehow."
"That's the magic in your blood," I explain softly. "Recognizing a ritual your ancestors once cherished."
After a quiet moment, I step back, breaking our contact. The glow gradually fades, leaving only the lingering sense of connection behind.
I incline my head respectfully. I pause, watching her closely for a moment. "Would you like to stay a bit longer? Perhaps we could spend some time simply getting to know one another better."
She looks up, surprised but pleased. "I'd like that."
I move toward a nearby cabinet, taking out two crystal glasses and a bottle of wine. "I find conversation is always easier with a good vintage."
She smiles softly, stepping closer as I pour the wine, the warm amber liquid catching the gentle glow of the remaining candlelight.