His voice drops, so soft it barely reaches across the table. “No, dear. No, no, no.” He swallows hard, eyes flicking to the others, as if speaking the word might summon something best left buried.
“You’re a witch.”
A what?
“The witch lines have died out,” Jax snaps. “Haven’t been seen for decades.”
Seren doesn’t move, her face a mask of shock. Frozen in place.
My mind frays and reels—witch lines?
“How can this be?” Teddy demands, his voice stern and unforgiving, though his hand presses into Seren’s thigh, soothing her with his touch.
“Why did the Cindrali people call her Veilborn?” I press, and Mavyrn catches my eye. The old woman says nothing. Doesn’t move. Only smirks as if she knew all along.
Kael doesn’t say anything, either—but I notice the way he takes in everyone’s reaction. The way his eyes linger on Mavyrn. The way he notices her smirk, just the way I did.
“Ah, okay. Okay. Yes, I can explain. I see there is much you don’t know,” Elandor splutters, pushing his spectacles back to the bridge of his nose. “Veilborn is the term used by the Cindralito describe their specific lineage of witches from centuries ago when all their tribes were united. They call it Veilborn because no one can sense you or your bloodline, seeing as you are not actually a magic wielder,” he explains, though I’m certain it’s only created more questions.
Seren nods slowly, trying to take it all in. Her eyes drag slowly to Elandor, the riot of thoughts running through her head are visible in the blank expression on her face. “What’s Mavyrn then? Is she not a witch, too?”
All eyes shoot to Mavyrn, but the old woman doesn’t flinch.She was waiting for this.
“I’m a half-breed, girl,” Mavyrn says gruffly, though I can still see the glint of something dark in her eyes.
“Ah yes, that’s accurate. Mavyrn is a half-breed witch, though we prefer to call them Arcanists. Not quite so insulting that way, you see,” Elandor explains nervously under Mavyrn’s gaze.
“And I— I’m afull-bloodedwitch?” Seren asks, tripping over the words awkwardly.
“By what I can tell with the way the Codex responds to you, yes. You are a pure-blooded witch. Or, just… a witch,” Elandor confirms, voice going soft.
“Why, though?” I interrupt, confused. “Why does the Codex responding to Seren make you certain she’s a witch?”
“Because the witches created the Codex right here on Nymerian soil, bound it by blood. It hasn’t been opened in a long time. And the Codex? It recognized her. Or rather, it recognizes its kin.” Elandor’s tone is more certain this time. Stronger, as if this is fact.
“And, it hasn’t been opened because the witch lines died out?” I clarify, trying to see if I understand.
But Elandor’s eyes bore into me, then. Unflinching and true. “Not quite. The witches are not gone—they werealmosthuntedto extinction, contrary to popular belief. It ismybelief that some lines live on across the continents—hiding themselves.”
I suck in a sharp breath.Hunted?
No one breathes. No one moves. We simply…wait.
But it’s Kael who asks the only question that matters. “Who hunted them?” His gravelly voice carves through the silence like a blade.
Elandor’s eyes flick across the table, searching for courage, for refuge, for anything. But in the end, they land on me.
His voice is grave, stripped of riddles and pleasantries.
“The Dravari royals.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
ELYSSARA
The words slaminto me like a blade between the ribs, sharp and merciless. The Dravari royals.My bloodline.
“Lies,” Kael growls, but even through the tether I feel his fear bleeding through—not hot and furious, but cold, like ice threading through my veins.
