Chapter 29
Chapter twenty-nine
Seraphina
Deep in the cave, a single bead of light cast a glow around a woman walking toward them.
Shadows danced off the rough walls of the cavern, which glittered with damp.
Sera allowed Al to guide her. She was grateful they weren’t dead, but something was telling her that whatever was in this cave— whoever was in this cave—could be twenty times worse than the horde outside.
The feline voice that called out to them didn’t sound menacing, but…
“Stay behind me,” Al whispered.
She wanted to respond with snark. To say that of course she was going to stay behind him. But she held her tongue. They were a unified front; they had to be, if they were going to get out of this alive.
The woman was closer now. Sera could make out blond hair, so light it almost glowed, and she was wearing blue robes. Coven blue.
Her disembodied voice wrapped them. “You’re a very long way from home.”
“Who are you?” Alistair demanded, gripping Sera’s hand so tight in his she was sure blood no longer flowed to her fingertips.
“I’m the one you’ve been looking for,” the witch said, a hint of a smile in the shadows beneath her nose. The woman raised her arm above her head and clenched her fist.
Sera gasped as they descended back into darkness. The abomination rose to the surface of her skin. Al stiffened, but he didn’t let go.
The witch’s voice echoed around them. “You may have been looking for me. But I’ve been waiting for you. Come, bring your soldier, Seraphina.”
Seraphina.
A clap echoed off the stone walls, and the darkness lifted as hundreds of candles lining the floor lit in a burst of flame.
Sera squinted against the sudden glow and took in the cave.
The cavern they stood in was humid, the air thick with the scent of groundwater seeping along stalactites, each dripping, covering the ground in artificial rainfall that made the stone slick beneath her feet.
Sera shivered, envisioning Al as a pile of dust on top of that cliff. He had been willing to die to get them out of there, get her out of danger. Another flash of light, this time coming from Al’s hand into his side.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I’ll be fine once my magic replenishes.” He squeezed her hand, and she took that as a demand not to worry. But she was worried. He’d lost a lot of blood, and she’d never known a wound like that, one that didn’t heal.
The oracle stepped into the great room they stood in. Delicate wrinkles framed her eyes and the corners of her mouth and spread across her forehead.
“Ophelia Fray, you are hereby summoned to the Citadel,” Alistair said.
“I’m aware of what the Council wants to do with me.”
“I must insist on taking you back now.”
Ophelia tilted her head and observed Al.
“And how do you propose to do that, warlock? You’re still actively bleeding.
” She raised a white-blond brow at him. “You have traveled far to find me. Come, then.” The witch turned and strode back down the tunnel she had come from, leaving them only one choice. Follow.
Sera was silent. But questions ran rampant through her mind. How did the witch know Sera’s name? Why had she been waiting for her?
“I’m glad you both made it in one piece,” the oracle said. “There were quite a few instances when I didn’t think it’d be the case.”
Sera straightened at that. “You’ve been watching us?”
Ophelia glanced over her shoulder. “So, she can speak. Come along. I’ll take you to your rooms.”
Deeper and deeper they walked under Ophelia’s mage light, until the familiar flicker of candlelight indicated the corridor’s end.
Al’s hand was still tight in hers as they entered a room. The walls had been smoothed, and black candelabras as tall as Sera lined their path, which changed from stone to black carpet beneath her feet. They walked through an arched hallway into another space.
Tapestries of a type she’d never seen hung on the walls, and in the corners were carved statues like the ones Sera had seen depicted in texts from the keeper wing. Al had to pull her to keep her from inspecting them closer.
“Before I bring you to your quarters, I will take you to meet the lord of this underground manor.”
Alistair went as still as a wraith in front of her. Her heart pounded in her chest. She was going to be sick, for the term lord was only used for one thing: a demon lord.
A rush of warm air greeted her, with it a familiar scent that seemed to follow her. Alistair flexed his jaw—in pain or irritation, she wasn’t sure. Then he sent another wave of magic into his side.
Sera finally let go of his hand and wrapped her arms around herself. She’d lost her dagger while she was running, but she had her enhancer. Not that it would do anything against a demon lord.
But… deep down, her darkness bubbled and churned.
Watch now, it sang to her. She tried shaking that voice away, but it lingered in the forefront of her mind.
Neither she nor Al could defend themselves, unless…
unless she released her darkness. And she would.
For Al, she would. Damn him if he reported her, but she wouldn’t have his death on her conscience.
Al opened his palm, and in a moment, his sword was in his hand.
Ophelia pinched the bridge of her nose. “He will not harm you.”
“And you expect us to just take your word? A shunned oracle who’s been on the run?”
He’s here, he’s here. Sera peered past the oracle, and there, moving in the darkness from the tunnel beyond, was a figure. He sauntered toward them, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, and stepped into the light.
He was taller than Alistair, though not by much.
His hair was pure white, cropped short on the sides and longer on top, a bright contrast to his straight dark brows and the pallor of his skin.
She was too far away to make out the color of his eyes, only that they were deep set, hidden in the shadow of his brow bone.
But a strong chiseled jaw led down his strong neck… and those lips. Sera knew exactly who he was.
“I’d prefer if you didn’t brandish weapons in my home.” His voice curled around her like smoke. Called to her like a song she’d been desperate to hear her entire life.
Alistair practically snarled. “And I’d prefer to collect the oracle and leave.”
The scent of sandalwood and ash swirled around her. Her eyes fluttered closed as she breathed him in. It was no coincidence; it couldn’t be.
Al pointed his sword at the lord, who just…
chuckled. “First you use my language to scare me, then try to attack when you can barely stand?” The demon lord clicked his tongue and stepped beside Ophelia.
There was a twinkle in his gray eyes that didn’t match the vicious grin he gave Al.
“Some Mesar. I could have killed you before.”
“But you didn’t,” Al said.
The lord’s gaze focused on her then, and Sera saw the silver scar on his cheek. The mark she had given him when she’d finally controlled her magic. Her heart pounded. She hoped—no, prayed—that the next words out of his mouth weren’t about her or what she’d done.
The demon raised a brow and tilted his head in curiosity. “No, I didn’t see the need to.”
Ophelia clapped her hands together. “That’s settled then. No killing. And let me formally introduce you to Lord Vasso.”
Lord Vasso gave a slight bow. “Welcome. Make yourself at home within the residence. Do not hesitate to ask if you need anything.” Vasso’s predatory gaze was still on her. She felt bare, even with Alistair partly blocking her from view.
Alistair reached back with his free hand, and she took it. Vasso’s eyes homed in on the motion, and his smile dropped.
“Ophelia, I’ll leave you to show our guests to their rooms.” Vasso walked past them, glaring at Alistair with so much vengefulness, she swore his eyes glowed red. And just as he passed them, Al fell to his knees.
“Fuck,” he gritted.
Sera stared daggers into the demon lord’s back. She’d kill him, rip him to shreds for whatever he’d just done, and all the lord did was give her a sly smile over his shoulder.
“Come on,” she said and helped Al to his feet.
Ophelia led them through another set of tunnels. “Just there is my pool, should you ever need me.”
Sera was still trying to figure out how in Shadow’s name the oracle knew who she was. How on Eraphon had they ended up here, in this manor, with this lord?
In a hall that had been constructed out of stone blocks and lined with ornate sconces, Ophelia pointed to two doors. “These will be yours while you recover. I shall return after you bathe, and take you to dinner.”
Without another word, Ophelia left them.
They were so fucked. So utterly fucked.
Al threw open the first door and pulled her in behind him.
The room was spacious. Near the entrance, a small writing desk stood against the wall.
The stone floor was covered by a lush bloodred carpet.
Then there was the bed. Iron posts curled toward the ceiling, with a canopy above.
And pillows, so many pillows, atop a velvet duvet the same color as the carpet.
The only thing that stopped her from jumping onto the bed was what she saw on the far wall.
Tapestries depicting ancient magic. Their style was similar to those that hung in the Council chambers.
But these depictions… she’d never seen before.
Threads twined together, creating images of light and magic being released from a bottomless pit of stone.
She walked toward them, reached up, and touched the flames in the depiction. They were black, just like hers.
There was also violet for arcana, the green glow of plants, and blue for protection. This… this was the birth of magic. Moons, she wished she had her notebook, even if just to capture a rough outline.
Alistair cleared the room around her. Checked every corner, even under the bed. But she couldn’t move, just stare, in awe, because she, Seraphina Wildrick, was somehow in the presence of the world’s history.