Chapter 16

Amriel followed Kortana's lead, stepping toward the seating area by the large bay window where sunlight pooled across the floor in warm, golden patches. Four chairs carved from the same pale white wood as the door were arranged around a small round table. Whether she knew it or not, Amriel picked the one closest to the door.

She sat stiffly on the plush chair, trying to ignore the way her pulse thudded in her throat. She wasn't afraid, exactly. But there was an unease curling in her stomach, a weight pressing against her ribs.

"You may leave us," Kortana said, casually dismissing the acolyte who still hovered near the doorway.

But when the Coven Leader's eyes flickered to Niamh as she sat down, Amriel shook her head, her tone perhaps a touch firmer than she intended, "No. She stays."

Kortana's eyes narrowed for only half a heartbeat before she smiled slightly, "You truly are Nythia's daughter. Very well then, she stays."

She had come for answers. But the moment she spoke, the moment the words left her lips—there would be no taking them back.

Kortana, for her part, moved with unhurried grace, pouring a deep amber-colored tea into three porcelain cups. When she slid one toward Amriel, their fingers almost brushed.

Cold. Her fingertips were cold.

"Drink," Kortana said simply, before turning to pour a cup for Niamh. "It will settle your nerves."

Amriel hesitated. Had she been that easy to read?

With a quiet inhale, she took the cup, wrapping her hands around the delicate porcelain. It was warm—comforting, even. She took a careful sip, the floral bitterness of morrow root and chamomile spreading across her tongue.

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Not awkward, but expectant.

Kortana did not rush her. The Coven Leader offered Niamh the cup of tea and settled down onto a chair near the window. The light pouring in created a silver halo around her head. She simply studied Amriel with that sharp, knowing gaze, waiting.

Amriel swallowed. The tea did little to calm the storm inside her.

She had rehearsed this conversation in her head. She had told herself that she would speak plainly, confidently. That she wouldn't let doubt creep in.

But now, sitting across from one of the most powerful witches in the realm, she felt like she was standing at the edge of a precipice, staring into the unknown.

She forced herself to breathe. In. Out.

And then, she spoke.

"I need your help," she said, her voice quieter than she intended. "I've come across something. Something… important."

Kortana raised a pale brow. "Go on."

Amriel's grip tightened around her cup.

She had expected doubt. Skepticism. A hundred reasons why what she was about to say couldn't be true. And maybe they would come. But she had made it this far. No turning back now.

She set her cup down carefully on the polished mahogany table between them.

"The tome of the Val'Dara, it's written in the language of the Fhemor, right?"

Kortana's eyes narrowed. Any child or village idiot knew that, let alone someone who'd graduated from the Academy.

Shit. Amriel cursed herself silently as she watched the doubt flicker across Kortana's fine features. Maybe not the best start to look like an idiot. Alright, no beating around the bush then, just get it out.

"A script that no one is able to read, right?" She met Kortana's gaze head-on. "Well, I can."

The air in the room shifted.

Niamh, who had been quiet up until now, glanced between them, her fingers tightening around her own cup.

Kortana, however, did not blink. Did not react with the shock or disbelief Amriel had braced for.

She simply watched her. Dark eyes measuring. Calculating.

"And what, exactly, does this tome say?" Kortana asked, her voice smooth, but no less intense.

Amriel's throat felt dry.

She hesitated. Because saying it out loud made it real.

She took a breath, steadying herself.

"It's a prophecy."

The word hung in the air like a blade, sharp and heavy.

For the first time, something flickered across Kortana's expression. A shadow of something unreadable.

Her pulse hammered against her ribs, but there was no stopping now. The prophecy tumbled from her lips, a whisper at first, then stronger—like a tide pulling her into deeper waters.

"When silver fire rains from the heavens and shadows stretch beyond the breaking dawn,

When the hymn of forgotten stars is swallowed by silence. When the last of the Starlight Witches falls—The door to Eternity shall open.

And from its boundless depths, the patient shall emerge— those who have kept endless vigil. Destinies shall unravel as easily as they weave them anew.

Beware, for not all who enter shall return, And those who do may never be the same."

The words hung in the air, pressing against the silence like a held breath.

Amriel exhaled, willing herself to meet Kortana's gaze. She expected doubt. Skepticism. A demand for proof.

Instead—nothing.

Silence.

The kind that stretched too long, that made the weight of her own words settle heavy in her bones.

And then—

Kortana leaned back, the tips of her long, slender fingers steepling beneath her chin, her expression unreadable.

"I see."

That was it. No shock. No disbelief. Just acceptance. Understanding.

That was what sent a shiver down Amriel's spine.

Because Kortana already knew.

Or at the very least—she wasn't surprised.

Niamh let out a slow breath beside her, then snorted. "That's all you have to say?" She leaned forward, incredulous. "You see? Hows about a 'holy shit'? On second thought, I'd even take a 'wow.'"

A ghost of a smile played on Kortana's lips. "Did you expect me to laugh? To call her mad?"

Niamh blinked, clearly at a loss.

Amriel sat straighter. "You know something."

Kortana studied her for a long moment, this time her fingers drumming against armrest of her chair, before stilling.

Then, finally, she spoke.

"We must bring this to the King."

The words were too casual, too matter-of-fact.

Amriel should have been surprised. Should have felt some spark of hope that this was the end of the road for her—that someone with real power might not just take this seriously, but also relieve her of any further duty.

But deep down, she had known. This was only the beginning.

Niamh, however, recoiled. "Wait—what is this we stuff?" She gestured between them. "Amriel told you what she knows, why does she have to go before the King?"

"Not you," Kortana said sharply, her gaze snapping to the redhead. "Not if we have any chance of being taken seriously."

Niamh bristled. "Like hell you're leaving me behind."

Kortana exhaled slowly, as though summoning patience. "We cannot afford your outbursts." Her voice was calm, but firm—unyielding. "The King, and more importantly, his advisor, Hemrich, do not take kindly to such behavior. And I do not have confidence that you can mind your tongue long enough."

Amriel could feel her Niamh simmering beside her, she noticed the way her friend's hands clenched into fists against her thighs.

And just as Niamh opened her mouth—likely to unleash a very pointed rebuttal—Amriel cut in.

"I'll go alone."

Niamh stilled, her expression flickering from anger to shock.

Amriel turned to her, her voice gentler now. "Please, Niamh. Let me do this by myself. I have to."

Kortana remained silent, watching the scene unfold with that same measured intensity.

Niamh's jaw worked, her fingers twitching against her knee. "Are you sure, Riel?" Her voice was softer now. "Don't let her push you into something you're not comfortable with."

"I'm sure," Amriel said, holding her gaze, willing her to understand. "Please. Trust me."

She wanted to Niamh, and Simon and the girls by association, as far from this as possible. There was still no way of telling how this might go. And if the rumors were true, the King was not only a difficult man to deal with, he was larely unpredictable.

Niamh's lips pressed into a thin line, muscles tensing as though fighting the instinct to argue. Amriel could see the war happening behind her pale green eyes—the battle between her fierce loyalty and her reluctance to let go.

For a moment, Amriel wasn't sure which side would win.

And then—resignation.

Niamh sighed, "Alright, Riel." A small frown pulled at her lips. "If it's what you want. I don't agree, but…" She exhaled. "I won't push where I'm not wanted."

Amriel felt the tension in her chest ease—just slightly. She reached out, squeezing Niamh's hand briefly. "Thank you."

But as she turned back to Kortana, steeling herself for what came next, she couldn't shake the feeling that she had just set something irreversible into motion.

"Alright," she said, squaring her shoulders, forcing herself to meet the Coven Leader's steady gaze. "What next?"

"First?" She gestured vaguely in Amriel's direction. "We clean you up and get you properly dressed. You reek of herbs and earth and sun."

A flicker of annoyance sparked in Amriel's chest. "I was in the fields," she muttered, brushing at the dirt smudges on her tunic. The scent of the sun drenched field still clung to her sleeves from the picnic that morning.

Amriel barely had time to catch her breath before Kortana was already in motion. Niamh's face was a picture of barely restrained fear as she shot her friend a farewell look, "Besides, I did promise Simon you'd be home before dark." Amriel gave her friend a reassuring smile, though her hands trembled ever so slightly.

She resisted the urge to rest her fingers around the hilt of her blade. It could be taken as a threatening gesture. She didn't know Kortana well enough to know how it would be taken. Not that the Coven Leader would have anything to fear. A blade, no matter how cleverly wielding, stood little in the way of one as powerful as Kortana.

Turning away, she silently, she followed the elegant figure of the Coven Leader as she swept through a set of grand arching doors, and disappearing into the next chamber.

The great white doors closed behind her with a great thud, shut by nothing she could see. But she could feel it.

Magic. The Power.

Amriel couldn't use magic. She wasn't a Witch, one born attuned with the world of magic, but she could sense it. And that was even stranger.

"We are fortunate you chose your moment when you did," Kortana said over her shoulder as they walked, "There is a feast at the castle tonight for the princess Irina's birthday, and she has just come into her Power. The King and Queen will be more than receptive of the Coven tonight. But first, a bath."

Amriel swallowed hard.

The entire court was going to be there.

It had been bad enough when she thought it might just be an audience with the King and his advisor.

"But we won't get within a hundred feet of the King with you looking like a beggar forest witch," Kortana said bluntly, already turning toward an arched doorway.

She's relentless! Amriel scowled as she followed Kortana through the grand chamber, past tall, fluted columns of pale marble and intricate chandeliers that bathed the room in golden light. Their footsteps echoed as they passed through a narrow corridor.

Beyond the reception hall, the corridors took on a different air—less public, more sacred. The walls were lined with high, arched windows, allowing sunlight to spill across the polished stone floor in long, golden ribbons. The atmosphere was calm, controlled—just like Kortana.

As they stepped into a smaller chamber, two acolytes in copper robes already waited—the girls were no older than fifteen. One taller, with hair the colour summer wheat, and the other with raven-black hair, both were twisted into a simple braid.

In unison, they bowed their heads respectfully at Kortana. To the one with the wheat coloured hair, she said, "Summon a carriage to take Niamh home. I wan't you to ensure she arrives there safely."

Without a word the blond nodded and departed from the chamber.

To the other, she said "Amriel, this is Lyanna. She will help you bath and get prepared."

"Oh, I don't think that is necessary." Amriel protested.

Kortana's dark eyes ran the length of Amriel, before turning to the remaining acolyte and reaffirming her orders, "Prepare her," Kortana instructed, sweeping past without another glance.

The acolyte's expression didn't change, but Amriel caught the way her shoulders stiffened—either at the abrupt order or at the prospect of handling someone who did not belong.

Amriel let out a slow breath. Here we go.

The acolyte's dark eyes flicked over her, assessing. "Follow me." she finally said. A command, not a request.

She led Amriel to a nearby chamber with an alcove where a large, claw foot porcelain tub stood, filled with water that reflected the warm witch light.

A bath.

A hot bath.

For a moment, the weight of everything—Kortana's unreadable expression, the prophecy still lingering in her bones like an omen, the looming presence of the King—all of it faded beneath the sheer indulgence of the sight before her.

Then her eyes settled on the fresh gown of deep blue that matched her cobalt eyes, trimmed with silver embroidery, that lay folded neatly on a nearby stool. Even without touching its fabric, she knew it was far finer than anything she had ever worn.

And it reeked of magic.

Amriel frowned at it. "This seems unnecessary. Can I not have a clean tunic and pants?"

"You are going before the King," the acolyte said evenly, unfazed by Amriel's resistance. "And you arrive in the company of the Coven Leader. No. You will not be allowed to embarrasses us."