Page 31 of Torn Ivy
“Fuck, right off,” I growl. “I’m not buying that for a second.”
Thunder rolls outside as I think back to that first day at Thornfield three years ago, the instant clash of power between us. How it had felt familiar somehow, even as we tried to blast each other across the courtyard.
“Why tell me now?” I ask, studying the family tree’s intricate lines, despite my unwillingness to accept this travesty. Names and dates spread across the parchment like a web, connecting people long dead to the two of us sitting in my rain-dark kitchen.
“Because I’m leaving.” He closes the grimoire carefully, ancient leather creaking. “Got a job offer at MistHallow. I can’t refuse it, and to be quite honest, when Death finds out I’ve betrayed him, my nuts will be on the chopping block. I don’t exactly trust you all to save my arse when the time comes, yeah?”
I study him - my rival, my half-brother, this person I’ve spent three years hating for reasons I never fully understood. The resemblance is there, now that I know to look for it. Something in the set of his jaw, the angle of his cheekbones. “This doesn’t change fuck all.”
“No. We are not suddenly going to be best friends just because we are family.”
“Too fucking right.” I think of Torin, who became more family to me than any blood relation ever could. Of that rainy night in an alley that changed everything. “Family’s what you make of it anyway.”
Vex nods, understanding passing between us like lightning. “That’s not all this book has. You’ll find it an interesting read. It has information about chaos magick that might help with everything.” He stands.
“Try not to be such a dick at MistHallow,” I say, but there’s no real heat in it. It’s strange how one revelation can drain away years of antagonism.
He chuckles, and then he’s gone, leaving me with a grimoire full of secrets and a family connection I never expected. Rain continues to fall outside, washing away the old as something new takes its place.
I pour another whiskey and pull the grimoire closer, thinking of Ivy, of chaos magick and bloodlines and the family you choose versus the family you’re born to, of power that recognises power, and connections that run deeper than blood.
Lightning flashes again, illuminating the family tree’s intricate branches. Sometimes, the past surprises you. Sometimes, it explains things you never understood about yourself, and sometimes, knowing where you came from helps you figure out where you’re going.
Time to see what other secrets this book holds.
The grimoire’s pages are brittle beneath my fingers as I read. The first few pages detail the Well family history and about how our bloodline traces back to the first convergence of magick in Britain.
It’s interesting, and I will definitely read more, but this isn’t about me. It’s about Ivy and what we can learn to help her. So, I search for the chapter on chaos magick. Detailed diagrams show how natural energy flows through ley lines and how certain bloodlines act as conduits for different types of power. The Wells, it seems, were known for their ability to channel and direct raw magick - exactly what Ivy’s struggling with now.
A hastily scrawled note in the margin catches my attention: “Chaos requires anchor. Blood calls to blood. Balance must be maintained.”
I turn another page, and a sketch makes me pause. It shows a warlock standing between two forces - Chaos and order - acting as a channel between them. The pieces are starting to fit together in ways I never expected.
The text swims on the page, ancient ink shifting as if alive. A whole section details how chaos magick seeks out natural conduits - bloodlines that can withstand its raw power without burning up.
“The Well line serves as the foundation stone,” one passage reads. “Where Chaos flows unchecked, our blood remembers. We do not control; we channel. We do not command; we guide. This is our gift and our burden.”
My hands tingle as I read, my Blackwell magick responding to the words.
Another page shows detailed notes about what happens when chaos magick meets an anchoring bloodline. The diagram is like a sketch of what happens between Ivy and me - her wild power meeting my more structured magick, the way they sync instead of clash.
“The anchor must be willing,” I read aloud. “The connection cannot be forced. Trust flows both ways, or the channel breaks.”
Lightning crashes outside as I turn to a chapter titled ‘The Price of Power.’ The words are darker here, written in what looks suspiciously like blood:
‘The Price of Power’ bleeds across the page in dark crimson ink. The storm outside seems to pause as if holding its breath.
“To channel Chaos is to court destruction. The anchor bears not only the weight of power but also its consequences. Each time chaos flows through willing blood, it leaves its mark. These marks accumulate like scars upon the soul. Few bloodlines canwithstand repeated exposure. Those that do emerge changed. The Well line carries this burden through generations, but even we are not immune to its effects.”That doesn’t sound good.
The grimoire’s pages rustle on their own and stop at a diagram that shows how repeated exposure to Chaos magick can alter a person’s essence over time. It’s not just about power - it’s about fundamental change on a cellular level.
“The anchor becomes both conduit and container,” I read aloud. “In times of great need, they may call upon the stored chaos, but at great personal cost.”
My mind races, thinking of how Ivy’s power stabilises when we’re together. Am I unknowingly acting as her anchor?
If this is true, then every time I help Ivy control her power, I’m taking on part of that chaotic energy and changing myself in ways I don’t fully understand.
Lightning flashes again, and for a moment, I swear I see pink energy crackling along my fingertips. But when I blink, it’s gone.Must be the booze.
