Kael’s hand brushes mine from the seat beside me—grounding, unspoken support, and unsettling all at once.
Elandor’s voice takes on an ethereal quality. Wistful and distant. “The Codex was created by the original witches. A sacred tome with spells, bindings, and rituals that were considered sacred—reserved only for the elder witches,” he begins, whispering the words like a secret he’s not even sure he wants to share.
“Let me guess,” Ronyn chimes in, “some bastard got hold of it?” He kicks his feet up on the table, crossing his ankles like he fucking owns the place.
Surprisingly, Elandor barely notices. “Yes,” he agrees. “Thalmyr’s lineage came into its possession. They could never open it, but they kept it, knowing that one day, they would find witches to ally with to lock the dragons in their Unmelded forms.”
Ronyn leans in at that, desperate for more about the dragons.
Seren doesn’t react at all, her face unreadable, but I know her—she’s taking it all in, filing everything away in the archives of her mind. Because if anyone can unravel this, it’s her.
But Teddy speaks, considered, precise. “That doesn’t explain how it was used by Maldrak.”
“Ahh, yes. You’re right, General,” Elandor agrees. “We don’t know how Maldrak came into possession of the Codex. Our Shades, our messenger networks, our allies—none of them have been able to figure it out. Someone has taken it from Virellin to Kryntar and back again without detection—several times.”
“Maldrak’s Arcanist,” Kael says matter-of-factly.
“Precisely,” Elandor confirms. “In Nymeris, we tend not to dwell on what we don’t know for long. What wedoknow is that the Codex was used to bind Maldrak’s soldiers and Morrathys to him, and the only way to reverse it is through the exact spell that was cast.” Elandor pauses for a moment, huffing an exhale as ifhe’s spoken these lines a thousand times. “The spell is inside the Codex.”
Of course this is the only fucking way.
Elandor’s words hang in the air like smoke, thick and unyielding.
No one moves.
Until Seren does.
She rises from her chair without a sound, the hem of her dark skirts whispering across the stone floor. The light catches her face in a way that makes her look older—older than the years she’s lived, older than I’ve ever seen her. She stares at the Codex, its silver runes pulsing like a heartbeat, and without shifting her gaze, she holds out her palm to Teddy.
She doesn’t need to ask—he already knows what she wants.
He slides a small dagger from his belt and presses the hilt into her palm, unquestionably.
“It’s time to unlock my blood’s legacy, then,” Seren breathes, as she slices a shallow cut into her palm.
Blood, such a deep hue it almost appears black, beads at the cut. She clenches her fist, inviting the blood to fall down her palm in rivulets, spilling over her knuckles, and leaving a trail across the oak table.
The Codex flares silver in response, illuminating the chamber in a glow that casts shadows away.
Seren draws the tome toward her, hovering her bloody palm above it. A single drop of blood—witch’s blood—falls onto the sigil.
The tome’s silver glow intensifies, drenching the room in blinding light, but Seren doesn’t move. As if she’s calmed by the tome’s aliveness, she holds steady, palm unwavering.
Another drop of blood falls onto the tome’s center sigil.
And then?—
Nothing.
The silver flare diminishes to nothing.
No one moves.
No one breathes.
Except Ronyn. “That it? Bit underwhelming, wasn’t it?” he drawls, feet still perched on the edge of the table.
But that’s when I hear it?—
