Page 12 of Embers of Fate
I wet my dry lips, struggling to summon my voice. “Grand Witch, I am honored to meet one of such profound gifts and wisdom.” The inadequate words trip over my tongue. I can’t help but bow deeply before her, humbled by her presence.
Amusement flickers in Juliette’s expression. “Rise, child. We stand as equals, you and I.” Her casual praise washes over me like summer rain, soaking into my thirsty soul. “We are sisters in the Craft, after all.”
This is no dream—I speak to the most influential witch of our age, purely as women and peers. All too soon, it will end. I cling to every second granted to me.
Gently, she takes my hands in her warm, delicate grasp. Her emerald eyes meet mine with curiosity. “Your magic is astonishingly powerful, my dear. Truly a fearsome gift.”
I flush, glancing away self-consciously. But she tilts my chin up, compelling me to meet her earnest gaze.
“You mustn’t be ashamed,” she says. “One day, our world will be ready to embrace your greatness. I pray the gods grant me years to witness it.”
Her words resonate through me, hinting at a glorious destiny I scarcely dare imagine. I manage a silent nod, overcome with emotions I cannot name.
After a moment, Dristan’s hand gently squeezes my shoulder. “We should join the others, though I regret stealing you from such a pleasant conversation.”
Reluctantly, I nod farewell to the Grand Witch, like one waking from a dream. “I hope we may speak again soon.” My voice quivers with longing, hoping our paths will cross once more after tonight.
“And I would hear more of your sharp mind, Samara Alexeeva,” she purrs. “Until then.” Her smile sets my heart ablaze as Dristan leads me from the salon. But her praise lingers, spurring my spirit to soaring heights. The realm of possibility seems boundless now.
“That was...” I trail off, at a loss for words as we exit the salon. The grand gallery’s stillness instantly envelopes us. “Extraordinary,” I finally breathe. “She’s extraordinary.”
Dristan smirks knowingly. “Mm. I felt the same, when we first met. Like reuniting with someone I already knew.” He offers his arm, and I take it without hesitation, comforted by his steadying presence. A vampire and an Ursa witch strolling in harmony through the opulent halls of Deveraux Manor—it defies all preternatural laws.
As we turn down the corridor, a petite blonde girl nearly collides with me, only Dristan’s quick reflexes preventing a collision.
“Oh! Pardon me!” the girl exclaims, cheeks flushed. “I was just so excited for tonight, I got careless.”
Despite her flushed cheeks, a radiant halo enfolds her—exquisite shades of violet, gold, and rose flickering like a living flame. I itch to take her hand, to better read the hues and rhythms of her aura, glimpsing hints of the brilliant witch she will become. But Dristan’s subtle look reminds me we’ve lingered long enough.
Dristan makes introductions. “Lady Clarissa Draken, may I present Lady Samara Alexeeva.”
I swallow hard. She’s aDraken, sworn enemies of my clan for centuries—by the gods, we are surrounded by danger tonight. However, the girl’s demeanor is anything but menacing. She couldn’t be more than seventeen.
We make small talk about magic and the Grand Witch’s return until Dristan offers an arm to each of us as he guides us towards the dining room.
Despite Clarissa’s cheerful ease, tension gathers around us as we draw closer. The veil is thinning, and something momentous lurks in the air, just out of sight. As we stand before the room’s double doors, my grip on Dristan’s arm tightens, steeling myself for the darkness ahead.
Inhaling deeply, I summon my courage and heave the weighty oak doors ajar. The grand dining hall beyond has been utterly transformed for tonight’s ritual. Priceless furniture removed to create an open space, black candles providing the only illumination.
Shadows dance across the polished table, set with twelve chairs. Ornate candelabras line the center, their flames flickering erratically as if stirred by spectral breath.
Despite the hazy darkness, the diverse gathering radiates power. Vampires cloaked in preternatural stillness chat with brash, lively shifters. Watchful witch eyes follow everything, missing no detail. Ageless faces mix with unlined youth, predators keeping polite distance from prey.
Yet brittle camaraderie binds them—the sense of belonging to something meaningful. I ache to join in, to converse and forge connections. But uncertainty roots me in place, a moth paralyzed before that alluring flame of inclusion.
At my side, Dristan surveys the vibrant scene, allowing me time to recover my social bearings. A patient friend and guide when I need one most.
In the shadows, I spot Gavriil’s hulking guards flanking him. With surreptitious magic, I dash them a message to remain still, then melt back into the darkness beside Dristan. A moment’s worry will do my overprotective brother good.
At the room’s center, a lone figure stands by an empty chair—the thirteenth seat,biding its time for its owner to appear. Even across the distance, power thrumming around him prickles my skin. No ordinary man, but a blood demon, as the one beside me.
Jet-black hair spills across his proud brow, the ends caressing sharp cheekbones that any model would envy. His skin is alabaster pale, making his fierce green eyes stand out like blazing stars.
He stands with a coiled intensity, power thrumming from his athletic frame. Haughty features carved as if from marble mark him as vampire nobility, along with a subtle arrogance in his posture.
Yet grief shadows his striking face, betraying the turmoil beneath his polished exterior. Love and loss war within him tonight, beneath the ageless beauty and disdainful glamor.
Even across the distance, I feel the force of his ancient magic prickling my skin, raking like spectral claws. Raw yet refined, like a dagger sheathed in silk. Here stands a being who could end my life with a mere thought if he wished.
