CHAPTER 46: A WITCH’S ARRIVAL

The forest was steeped in a hush that did not belong to ordinary silence. Branches twisted overhead like blackened ribs, their leaves whispering in tones the wind did not own. Even the soil seemed to hold its breath, reluctant to stir beneath the wheels of the carriage cutting through its path.

For four days, the carriage had devoured the miles—crossing rivers that slowed their flow until it passed, valleys where birds stilled mid-flight, unwilling to stir its shadow. Nothing lingered in its path.

It was no mortal carriage. Its iron frame, darkened by ash, gleamed faintly with runes that pulsed like embers. The wheels turned without sound, though the earth bent beneath them and left no track behind. Curtains of smoke-colored velvet veiled the Witch within.

The horses that drew it were pale as bone, their breath cold as frost. They did not tire, did not falter. Witchland’s craft bound them to the road, pulling them forward through night and day.

When at last the forest broke, the looming trees gave way to the outer reaches of Versimoil. The guards at the gates straightened, tightening their grips, though none dared step forward. The gates of the City of Versimoil yawned open without command, for the wards woven into its stone recognized not a visitor, but a force.

The carriage emerged like a storm cloud into a sky too pale for it, its aura dragging silence into the bustling morning. Merchants stilled mid-call, children froze with laughter reserved. It was not every day that an iron carriage—emblem of Witchland—crossed into Versimoil, its presence casting a shadow upon their soil.

It pressed on, wheels whispering over cobblestone as it glided deeper into the city. Past the markets, past the broad avenues lined with silver-barked trees, it moved with unnatural ease, trailing its hush. Instinctively, heads lowered, as though pressed down by an unseen hand—though most did not know why.

At last, the carriage drew still before the gates of Versimoil Castle. By the time its iron weight reached the gates, the hush it carried had already seeped into the corridors within.

Vincenzo had gone to Anneliese’s chamber but found her still asleep. Now he and Adomas walked the corridor toward the dining hall, their footsteps echoing softly as Vincenzo spoke of the conclave’s meeting the day before.

Shafts of pale sunlight poured through the tall windows, catching on polished marble and casting a calm glow across the hall. Servants’ distant movements hummed faintly, the castle waking with quiet rhythm. Yet that rhythm faltered the moment a figure appeared at the far end of the corridor—cut stark against the light slanting across the floor.

She moved with measured grace, her boots whispering against the marble. A long coat of storm-blue trailed behind her, embroidered silver filigree catching what little light the corridor allowed. Beneath, black velvet clung close, laced tight at the bodice, the contrast sharper than steel against dusk. The flare of her sleeves spilled into patterned edges, the designs twisting like runes in motion.

Her hair, pale as frost, gleamed like spun silver. A dark choker circled her throat, anchored by a pendant that seemed to drink the light instead of reflecting it. Her gloved hands moved with quiet certainty, unhurried, untouched by hesitation.

Elowyn Moonflare.

Recognition flickered in Adomas’s eyes, narrowing quick with disbelief. He leaned toward Vincenzo, muttering under his breath, "Of all the witches in Witchland—you summoned her to guide Miss Levine?"

A playful curve tugged at Vincenzo’s mouth as he replied, "What can I say? I wanted to surprise you."

Vincenzo’s smirk curved into something deceptively charming as the distance finally closed between them. "Long time, Moonflare. I hope the paths weren’t too troubled by your company."

Elowyn’s steps slowed, her gaze settling on Vincenzo with the faintest tilt of her head. "Ah, Vincenzo... still weaving charm with provocation, are we?" Her eyes gleamed with quiet amusement. "The journey was fine. Even the paths would sooner break than dare hinder me—you, of all people, should remember that."

Elowyn’s gaze slid from Vincenzo at last, her amusement sharpening as it landed on Adomas. "Well, well," she said, her voice lilting like silk drawn over steel. "If it isn’t the ever-stoic Adomas. I half expected you’d have found some excuse to be anywhere but here."

Adomas’s lips curved into a tight smile, his eyes never wavering from hers. "Believe me, Witch—had I known you were coming, I’d have made certain of it."

Elowyn’s laughter slipped soft and low, carrying the tease of someone who had drawn blood and meant to press further. "But then I’d have missed the delight of seeing your handsome face. And where would the fun be in that?"

Adomas’s smile came too quickly, too polished, the faintest muscle ticking in his cheek. "Flattery ill-suits a serpent’s tongue."

Unbothered, the glint in her eyes turned wicked with amusement. "Ah, but it suits you best when you grit your teeth rather than give me the answer I crave."

Adomas did not so much as blink, the steel of his stillness its own reply.

Elowyn stepped closer, the soft sway of her coat brushing against the floor. Her voice dropped to a near whisper. "I wonder... how long can a man resist when the answer is right in front of him, so deliciously simple?"

Adomas’s gaze held hers, unflinching, every inch of his posture taut with control as he mirrored her step forward. "Some witches," he said evenly, "live in denial, even when the answer is right in front of them."

Vincenzo’s smirk deepened, a faint glint of amusement in his eyes as he stepped between them, breaking the silent standoff with effortless authority. "Ah, I see the reunion has gone... well," he said, voice light, teasing yet commanding. "But I insist we save further... strategizing... for later."

Elowyn’s lips curved in a small, reluctant smile, though her eyes lingered on Adomas for a heartbeat longer. "Very well, Vincenzo," she murmured, her tone provocative.

Elowyn fell into step with Vincenzo, the soft rustle of her coat the only sound marking her passage. Mischief danced in her eyes as she glanced back at Adomas, who deliberately walked a step behind, daring him to hold onto that steel a moment longer.

The glint of amusement in Vincenzo’s eyes faded, replaced by something sharp and serious. "After breakfast," he said evenly, "I will introduce you to Anneliese."

Elowyn’s lips curved into a curious smile. "I shall be intrigued to see if she lives up to the tales," she replied, the mischief in her eyes dimming slightly.

The corridor seemed to exhale around them, the faint hush of the castle settling once more. Vincenzo led with quiet certainty, and Elowyn followed, a faint smile lingering, as though the morning held promises yet to be revealed.