Chapter Forty - One
Chapter
Forty-One
ELIAS
"Can I ask you something?" She takes the wine glass from my hand and sits on one of the lounge chairs.
"Ask me anything," I tell her, meaning it completely.
Her fingers trace patterns against the soft velvet. "Why you? Of all the warlocks who've lived through the centuries, why were you the one searching for the truth about witches? About the original binding?"
It's a perceptive question—one that cuts to the heart of who I am, of choices made long ago that set me on this path.
I move to the window, looking out over the estate grounds as the evening mist begins to move in.
"I was born in 1648," I begin, "in northern England during a time of significant upheaval. The Civil War had just ended, but tensions remained high. My family was... modest. My father was a scholar, my mother a healer of sorts—not through magic, but through knowledge of plants and remedies."
Sage moves to stand beside me, listening intently.
"I was fifteen when my power manifested," I continue. "Too young, really. Most warlocks come into their abilities later, when they have more control. But mine emerged during a moment of extreme stress—a group of villagers had accused my mother of witchcraft."
"Was she?" Sage asks quietly.
I shake my head. "No. She had no magic at all. Just knowledge that frightened ignorant men."
The memory is still sharp, even after all these centuries—my mother bound to a post in the village square, kindling piled around her feet, my father restrained by two burly men as he fought to reach her.
"They were going to burn her," I tell Sage, my voice carefully controlled. "I was watching from the edge of the crowd, too afraid to move, too young to understand fully what was happening. And then... something in me broke open."
Through our bond, I feel Sage's empathy, her hand coming to rest lightly on my arm.
"What happened?" she asks.
"I froze time," I say simply. "Not literally, of course, but that's what it seemed like. Everyone in the village square stopped moving—suspended between one moment and the next. Everyone except me."
I can still see it clearly—the unnaturally still tableau, the flames half-risen from the torch the magistrate held, my mother's terrified face frozen in a silent scream.
"I didn't understand what was happening," I continue. "I only knew I had to get her out. I untied her bonds, pulled her away from the pyre. I was trying to wake her, to make her move, when I felt a hand on my shoulder."
I turn from the window to face Sage fully. "It was a warlock—the first I'd ever encountered. He'd sensed the surge of power and come to investigate. He helped me get my parents to safety, explained what I was, what I'd done."
"He saved you," Sage observes.
"In more ways than one," I agree. "He became my teacher, my mentor. Under his guidance, I learned to control my abilities, to channel my power effectively." I pause. "But more importantly, he taught me to question. To look beyond the accepted wisdom of our kind."
"He was... unconventional. While other warlocks sought power for its own sake, he was interested in the nature of magic itself—its origins, its purpose, its true potential."
I move to a small cabinet in the corner of the room, unlocking it with a touch of magic. From inside, I withdraw an old, leather-bound journal.
"This was his," I tell Sage, handling it with reverence. "His research into the relationship between witches and warlocks, conducted decades before the final purge. He was one of the few who opposed what was happening, who tried to warn others of what would be lost."
Sage takes the journal carefully, her fingers tracing the faded symbols embossed on its cover. "What happened to him?"
The familiar pain tightens my chest. "He was killed. By other warlocks who saw his ideas as dangerous, his research as heresy against the established order."
"I'm sorry," she says softly.
"It was a long time ago," I reply, though the grief has never fully faded. "But before he died, he entrusted me with his work, made me promise to continue it. To find the truth, to restore what was being lost."
"And you've spent centuries doing just that," she observes.
I nod. "At first, it was about honoring his memory, fulfilling my promise. But as I delved deeper into the research, as I uncovered fragments of the true history between witches and warlocks, it became something more. A mission. A purpose."
"A purpose you've now fulfilled," Sage says, looking down at her hands where faint silver traces of the ritual symbols still shimmer against her skin.
"In part," I acknowledge. "The binding is restored, but much remains to be done. The council still holds power. The Magister still hunts you. And I question Malachi's motives."
"His motives?"
I hesitate, not sure how much to reveal. "He's wanted revenge against the Council for centuries for a wrong they did to his family."
I move to sit next to her, instinctively wanting to feel her against my body. She leans into me and for a moment, neither of us say anything.
"Thank you," she says softly.
"For what?"
"For not giving up. For keeping the knowledge alive. For..." She hesitates. "For being gentle with me."
I turn to face her, lifting her chin with my finger. "Always," I promise.