My flat was a ten-minute walk. Small. Tidy. Impersonal in the way places became when you stopped caring about making them feel like home. I unlocked the door, dropped my bag on the counter, and stood in the kitchen staring at the fridge.
I should make dinner.
I didn't.
Instead, I went to bed at eight PM, still in my clothes, and lay there staring at the ceiling. I should call the grave keeper. Ihadn't visited Mum's grave in three months. I should care about that.
Caring required energy I didn't have.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
I almost ignored it. But something—instinct, habit, the faint flicker of curiosity I hadn't quite killed—made me reach for it.
An unknown number. A message.
Eleanor Rollins. You are summoned by the Northern Coven Council. Attendance is mandatory. 10 AM tomorrow. Location attached.
I stared at the screen. That’s strange. I had never been summoned by the coven before. Had I done something to get into trouble? I racked my brains but couldn’t think of anything. As my father had constantly reminded me, I may be a witch, but I was completely powerless as one. I was a carrier - a witch who could absorb other’s magic into themselves. Some of the stronger ones could even wield that borrowed magic, but I had never tried. Absorbing someone else’s magic was forbidden, and all carriers were required to register with their nearest coven and to comply with regular spot checks to make sure we weren’t stealing magic from other supernaturals. I certainly hadn’t stolen any magic. Maybe it was just another spot check. I hadn’t had one for a year or so. It must be that.
I set my alarm for earlier than normal and lay back waiting for sleep to finally come. It took a while.
The building in Spinningfields looked like every other corporate office in Manchester—glass and steel and the kind of bland professionalism that made it impossible to guess what happened inside. I'd dressed carefully that morning. Not fancy. Just presentable. A grey jumper, dark jeans, my good coat. The kind of outfit that said I'm taking this seriously without trying too hard.
The tram had been packed. I'd stood near the back, watching the city slide past, and tried not to think about what the council might want if it wasn’t a spot check. I'd registered with the Northern Coven when I moved to Manchester two years ago after I’d given up my place at the cookery school in Paris. Got a job. Kept my head down. Done nothing wrong.
But there was always a small fear, wasn't there? The fear that someone had noticed something. That I'd broken some rule I didn't know existed. That I was about to be punished for being inadequate all over again.
The receptionist barely looked up when I gave my name. She checked a list, nodded, and pointed toward the lifts. "Fourth floor. Conference Room B."
No explanation. I didn't ask for one.
The waiting room was full of witches. Eight or ten of them, all sitting in that particular kind of silence that came from shared nervousness. Some looked young—early twenties, maybe. Others were older, sharp-eyed and serious. No one was talking.
A door opened. A woman in formal robes stepped out—Magistra Verin, the council's lead witch. I recognised her from the registration ceremony. She was in her sixties, with iron-grey hair and a face that managed to look both kind and deeply serious at the same time.
"Thank you for coming," she said. "Please, follow me."
We filed into a large conference room. A large circular table was already full of council members and several people I didn’t recognise. They all looked serious and exhausted. Other seating had been arranged near the door, two rows facing the council table. I took a seat at the back, in the corner.
Magistra Verin waited until we were all seated, then folded her hands on the table in front of her.
"I know this is unusual," she said. "I know you have questions. Please hold them until we've finished. What we're about to tell you is classified under the Sovereign Accords. You may not discuss it outside this room. You will be bound by magical contract before you leave."
Someone shifted uncomfortably. I stayed still, wondering what was coming.
Magistra Verin's gaze swept the room. "Magic is failing."
For a moment, no one reacted. Then someone laughed—nervous, disbelieving. The sound died quickly. Magistra Verin gestured, and the air above the table shimmered. A projection formed—magical, not technological, though it flickered slightly at the edges. A map of the world appeared, crisscrossed with glowing lines.
Ley lines. The magical network that connected the earth that pulsed steadily bright and strong. I’d seen a similar projection when I was younger. Now though, the image had changed. They were dimming. Stuttering. Dying.
"The ley network is collapsing," Magistra Verin said. "We don't know why. We don't know how to stop it. We only know it began ten years ago and it’s getting worse every day."
The room was silent.
The elder shifter leaned forward. His voice was rough. "Shifters are weakening. We're losing our connection to our animals. Fertility rates are plummeting across all species."
He paused, closing his eyes briefly, before opening them again. "Natural disasters are increasing in frequency and intensity, “he continued. "The earth is destabilising. Magic is the glue that holds the world together. Without it…"
