Epilogue #2
"She's right," Elias says, stepping forward to examine the journal more closely. "What the Council feared most wasn't just witch power, but witch knowledge—the understanding of how magic was meant to work."
Malachi has been quiet, contemplating. Now he fixes his dark gaze on Selene and Isadora. "Where is this academy to be established?"
"In conjunction with the Thorne Academy," Selene answers.
"Bold choice," Malachi states.
I look up at him. "You know of it."
He nods. "The Thorne's are an ancient bloodline and have long maintained dominion over the education of warlocks. I would have expected some resistance to altering the academy in any way."
Selene smiles. "Adrian is one of my warlocks." She says it with a fondness.
I feel Malachi's decision form before he speaks it. "We will accompany you," he says, not bothering to consult the others—though I can feel their agreement through our bonds. "Sage will need protection, even with the Council neutralized."
"Always so commanding," I murmur, but there is no real irritation in it. After everything we've been through, I understand the instinct to protect what is precious. And somehow, against all odds, I have become precious to these four very different, very powerful warlocks.
"And when all seven are united?" Elias asks.
Selene and Isadora exchange glances. "We don't know exactly," Selene admits. "But the fragments we've pieced together suggest that when all seven descendants of the Mothers are united, with their bound warlocks, the full restoration of witch magic will be possible."
I look down at Morgana's journal, then back up at the women who have already changed everything I thought I knew about myself. "When do we leave?"
"As soon as you're ready," Isadora says. "There's much to do, and time may not be on our side. The magical world is in flux—what we've begun here is only the beginning."
I close Morgana's journal carefully, feeling the weight of history, of destiny, of choice. Six weeks ago, I was a quiet librarian, hiding in books and shadows. Now I stand at the center of a magical revolution, bound to four powerful warlocks, part of an ancient prophecy only beginning to unfold.
"Then let's not waste any more time," I say, embracing the path before us. "We have witches to find, history to restore, and a better world to build."
As if in response, the marks on my wrists glow briefly—gold, crimson, silver, and obsidian—my warlocks' power united with mine, ready for whatever comes next.
Three elements found, four more to seek. The Seven will be whole again.
And this time, no one will be able to break us apart.
The End.
You want more warlocks, don’t you?
Well, guess what? So do I! Which is why I’m continuing this series! Keep reading for a special sneak peek at
Book 5: The Blood Moon Oracle
THE BLOOD MOON ORACLE
Chapter One
Seraphina Morgan
Chapter One
Seraphina Morgan
The smell of fish tacos and sunscreen hangs in the air as I balance four plates along my arms. La Jolla Cove Grill is packed today, tourists and locals alike seeking refuge from the afternoon heat.
I weave between tables with practiced ease, dodging children and beach bags scattered across the floor.
"Order up for table seven, Sera!" Marco calls from the kitchen window.
"On it," I call back, dropping off the last plate at table twelve—a family of five with three sunburned children who've already managed to spill two sodas.
Marco's the only cook who doesn't treat the wait staff like glorified food transporters.
Most of the kitchen crew barely make eye contact, but Marco saves his rare smiles for me.
Probably because I'm the only one who brings him coffee exactly how he likes it—black as night with two raw sugar cubes on the side.
I grab the new order and make my way to table seven.
"Let me guess," I say to the couple as I set down their plates. "First time in La Jolla?"
The woman looks up, surprised. "How did you know?"
I tap my temple with my free hand. "The map sticking out of your bag, the fresh Cove Grill hats you just bought, and the fact that you ordered our tourist special that no local would touch."
They laugh, relaxing into their chairs.
"Psychic waitress strikes again," says Leila, appearing beside me to refill their water glasses. She winks at me, her mass of curls bouncing as she moves.
As I turn to head back to the kitchen, she nudges me. "Speaking of which, that lady who got a reading from you last week is at the bar. She's been asking for you."
I glance over at the woman perched on a barstool, clutching a fruity cocktail and scanning the restaurant. When she spots me, her face lights up.
"Later," I tell Leila, already moving away. The last thing I need is my boss catching me talking about palm readings during the lunch rush.
"Sera!" Leila calls after me. "Table fourteen needs menus!"
I grab menus and head to fourteen, a two-top by the window with a perfect view of the cove. The tourists seated there are already snapping photos of the sea lions lounging on the rocks below.
This is my life: darting between tables, memorizing orders, and performing the delicate dance of customer service for eight hours a day. Smiling when I want to scream. Making small talk when I'd rather be silent. All for tips that barely cover my rent in this overpriced coastal town.
But it pays the bills—most of them, anyway. The rest I cover with my side hustle, reading tarot and palms for curious tourists and desperate locals.
The lunch rush finally slows around two, and I take my break, stepping out the back door to breathe in the salt air. The woman from the bar follows me out.
"Seraphina," she says, clutching her purse with white knuckles. "I had to come see you."
I recognize her now—Angela something. Mid-forties, divorce pending, came in for a reading last week at my apartment.
"Hey there." I lean against the wall, already calculating how much of my break this will consume. "Everything okay?"
"You told me my husband was hiding money." Her voice trembles. "You said to check a safe deposit box at Pacific Coast Bank. That I should bring my divorce lawyer."
I vaguely remember saying something like that. I'd seen darkness around money in her cards, sensed deception when I held her palm.
"We found it yesterday," she continues. "Three hundred thousand dollars and ownership documents for a condo in Phoenix. His lawyer nearly had a heart attack." She reaches for my hands. "How did you know? It wasn't just vague advice—you named the exact bank."
A chill runs down my spine despite the warm day. This keeps happening. For years, my readings were just educated guesses, cold reading techniques I'd picked up from books and YouTube. Vague enough to fit whatever situation my clients projected onto them.
But lately, they've been specific. Accurate. Undeniable.
Last month, I told a college kid to check her car's brake lines before driving home for spring break. She found them cut. The month before, I warned a businessman against boarding a specific flight. The plane had to make an emergency landing when an engine failed.
"Just intuition," I tell Angela, pulling my hands away. "I'm glad it helped."
"It was more than intuition." She searches my face. "Do you realize how specific your prediction was? You're the real deal, Seraphina."
The real deal. The words make my stomach twist. What if I am? What does that even mean?
"I need to get back to work," I say, reaching for the door.
She grabs my arm. "I told my sister about you. She's going through something—she needs your help. Here's her number." She presses a business card into my palm.
I pocket it with a nod, knowing I'll call later. Not for the money, but because the urge to help is becoming as undeniable as the accuracy of my predictions.
Back inside, Leila corners me by the drink station.
"Another satisfied customer?" She wiggles her eyebrows. "You know, you could charge way more than fifty bucks a reading."
"I'm not in it for the money."
"Then you're the only person in La Jolla who isn't." She fills a glass with ice. "By the way, Marco saved you a plate of his special ceviche. It's in the back fridge."
Marco's ceviche is legendary—he only makes it when the fishermen bring in the perfect catch, and he definitely doesn't serve it to just anyone.
"Tell him thanks," I say, already moving toward my next table.
"Oh, and Sera?" Leila calls after me. "Your section's full again. Table twenty-two just sat down."
I glance over at twenty-two, a small table tucked in the corner with a partial ocean view. And I freeze.
The man sitting there doesn't belong in our casual beachside restaurant.
His charcoal suit looks custom-made, expensive in a way that doesn't announce itself but is unmistakable.
Dark hair cut precisely, jawline sharp enough to cut glass.
He's reading the menu with such focused attention you'd think it contained state secrets.
But it's not his appearance that stops me cold. It's the feeling—like walking into an air-conditioned room after being in the sun too long. A sudden, inexplicable shift in atmosphere.
"Hellloooo? Earth to Sera?" Leila waves her hand in front of my face. "What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing." I snap back to attention. "Just tired."
"Well, wake up. That guy looks like he tips well."
I smooth down my apron and approach table twenty-two. Each step feels heavier than the last, like walking underwater.
"Welcome to La Jolla Cove Grill," I say, the rehearsed greeting automatic. "Can I start you with something to drink?"
He looks up, and the full force of his attention hits me like a physical blow. His eyes are the exact color of the ocean during a storm—deep gray-blue with flecks of something darker. They're beautiful, yes, but it's the intensity behind them that makes me take an instinctive step back.
He studies me for a long moment, long enough that it should be uncomfortable. Strangely, it's not. It feels... familiar.
"Seraphina," he says. Not a question.