Chapter 11: Bound by Blood and Fire

The weight of Damon's words settled over Celia like a cloak.

"You were meant to be mine."

His voice still echoed in her head, dark and possessive. She should have recoiled, should have fought against the claim in his tone—but instead, something inside her stirred. Something ancient, something dangerous.

But she wasn't ready to face that. Not yet.

Celia took a step back, inhaling sharply. "You don't own me, Damon."

His jaw clenched. "You think this is about ownership?" His voice was low, taut with something she couldn't decipher. "It's about who you are. About what you are."

She shook her head. "I don't even know what that means."

Damon's eyes darkened, and for a moment, she thought he might push the issue. Instead, he exhaled sharply and turned away.

"We need to move."

A rustle in the trees made both of them tense.

Celia's heart slammed against her ribs.

"More rogues?"

Damon sniffed the air.

"No. Something worse."

Then she felt it—a slow, creeping sensation curling at the edges of her consciousness, like invisible fingers trailing over her skin. Her breath hitched.

Magic.

Celia had felt it before, but never this strong. It was raw and suffocating, the scent of charred earth and burning wood thick in the air.

Then the forest shifted.

The trees, once standing still, moved.

The shadows between them deepened, swirling like living things. A flicker of silver caught Celia's eye—then another.

Eyes.

Dozens of them.

Figures emerged from the darkness, cloaked in robes of deep crimson. Their faces were hidden beneath hoods, but the moment they stepped forward, the magic pressing against Celia's skin intensified.

Damon bared his teeth. "The Bloodcasters."

A cold chill wrapped around Celia's spine. She had heard the name whispered before—rogue warlocks, exiled from the Council for their forbidden magic. The kind of magic that left nothing but ash and bones in its wake.

One of the figures stepped forward, lowering their hood.

A woman.

Her face was sharp, her skin pale as moonlight. But her eyes—her eyes—were pools of endless black, swirling with the same dark magic that filled the air.

Her lips curled into a smile. "The lost heir," she purred, her voice smooth as silk. "At last."

Celia stiffened. "Who are you?"

The woman tilted her head, amusement dancing in those eerie, black eyes. "I am Morgana, High Priestess of the Bloodcasters." She stepped forward, ignoring Damon's warning growl. "And you, Celia, are far more important than you realize."

Damon shifted subtly, positioning himself between Celia and the witch. "You're wasting your time, Morgana." His voice was low, lethal. "Leave. Now."

Morgana sighed. "Still so territorial, Alpha," she mused, as if he were nothing more than an impatient child. "But this is not your fight."

Her gaze flickered back to Celia, and in an instant, Celia felt her mind pull—like unseen threads wrapping around her thoughts. Images flashed—visions she didn't understand. A throne bathed in moonlight. Blood on stone. A wolf with silver eyes.

Celia gasped, wrenching herself free from Morgana's grip.

Damon snarled. "Stay out of her head."

Morgana smiled, unbothered. "She must see the truth, Damon. She must remember who she is."

Celia's hands trembled.

"I don't—" She shook her head, trying to dispel the lingering haze of magic. "I don't understand."

Morgana's smile widened. "You will."

Then she raised her hand.

The air crackled.

A pulse of energy surged forward—fast, deadly—aimed directly at Celia.

Damon moved.

Faster than thought, he threw himself in front of her. The magic slammed into him, sending him flying backward into the trees.

Celia screamed.

Morgana clicked her tongue.

"Predictable."

Rage ignited inside Celia, hotter than fire.

She turned to Morgana, her hands balling into fists. "You shouldn't have done that."

Morgana arched a brow. "And why is that, little heir?"

Celia didn't know.

But the moment she reached—deep within herself, to the part of her blood that pulsed with something old, something untamed—she felt the answer.

Power.

It surged inside her, waking from its slumber.

Morgana's smirk faltered.

The magic exploded from Celia in a blinding wave of silver light.

The ground trembled. The trees groaned. The Bloodcasters staggered back.

Morgana hissed. "Impossible—"

Celia moved.

Faster than she had ever moved before. One moment she stood frozen in fear—the next, she was in front of Morgana, her fingers curling around the witch's throat.

Morgana's eyes widened. "What—?"

Celia's grip tightened. "You should have stayed in the shadows."

Then she let go.

A second surge of power pulsed from her palm, sending Morgana flying. She crashed against a tree with enough force to crack the trunk.

The remaining Bloodcasters hesitated.

For the first time, Celia saw something new in their eerie black eyes.

Fear.

Damon groaned behind her, pushing himself up. Blood dripped from his temple, but his eyes burned with something fierce as he looked at her.

Pride.

Celia turned back to Morgana. The witch coughed, her body shaking.

"You…" Morgana rasped. "You shouldn't have that power."

Celia took a step forward, the silver glow still shimmering around her.

"Looks like the Council was wrong," she murmured. "I'm not weak."

Morgana's lips curled into a snarl, but before she could speak, another voice echoed through the trees.

"Enough."

The shadows twisted.

A man emerged.

Tall. Cloaked in deep blue, with silver runes carved into his sleeves. Unlike the Bloodcasters, his face was fully visible—sharp angles, piercing gray eyes.

And power.

So much power.

Damon's expression turned lethal. "You."

The man tilted his head. "Alpha."

Morgana wiped blood from her lips. "You're late."

The man didn't even glance at her. His gaze remained fixed on Celia.

"She's stronger than we expected."

Celia's fingers twitched. "Who the hell are you?"

The man smiled. "Someone who has been waiting for you for a very long time."

Damon stepped beside her, his body taut with tension. "You won't touch her."

The man chuckled. "Who said I needed to?"

Then, with a flick of his wrist, the shadows swallowed him whole.

The Bloodcasters followed, vanishing into the night.

Silence.

Celia's heart pounded.

Damon turned to her, his expression unreadable.

She exhaled sharply. "What now?"

Damon's lips curled into a smirk. "Now, little queen, we prepare for war."

And as the night stretched on, Celia knew—

This was only the beginning.