CHAPTER 50: THE FIRST TONGUE

The library’s air was cool, the walls steeped in centuries of secrets. Afternoon light spilled across rows of carved oak shelves, and the silence was so deep that even the faint turning of a page seemed loud enough to echo.

As Elowyn had commanded before lunch, Anneliese stepped into the hidden chamber—a sanctuary of forbidden knowledge. Gold-tinted light streamed through the stained-glass skylight, washing over the spines of countless leather-bound tomes. She had been here before, yet today the weight of what was buried within pressed differently, as though the very air resisted her presence.

At the far table, Elowyn waited. Scrolls and a thick hand-stitched book—her ancestor’s work—lay open before her. Its pages bore curling sigils that shimmered faintly in the light. Elowyn did not look up at once. One long finger traced the page with reverence, or perhaps calculation, as if weighing each word before letting it breathe into the air.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low, even, and sharp enough to carve through the silence. "Sit."

Anneliese obeyed, slipping into the chair opposite her. The wood was cold beneath her palms.

Elowyn’s gaze flicked up, and she asked as if testing her, "Do you know about the history of the lands’ formation?"

"Yes," Anneliese said quickly. "I read about it in my town’s library."

Elowyn waited, and as if sensing it, Anneliese continued. "Our world was not always divided as it is now. Centuries ago, to end bloodshed among all kinds, the High Conclave was formed. An accord was signed, partitioning the realm into five lands—Fairyland for the fairies, Witchland for the witches, Demonland for the demons, the Sicilian Empire for humans, and Versimoil for the vampires."

A subtle smile tugged at Elowyn’s lips, her eyes glinting with approval. "You already understand more than I expected—that is... promising."

"Witches are the oldest creatures in our world," Elowyn continued, closing the tome with deliberate care. The sound was soft, final. "This script belongs to an age when names were not yet written, only spoken. It is the first tongue of witches—born before Witchland, older than any crown that thinks itself eternal." She leaned closer, her eyes catching the gold light, unblinking. "It is not meant for common mouths. Each word is more than sound—it is will. To speak it without understanding is to unravel what you cannot weave back together."

She slid a thin sheet of parchment across the table. Inked upon it were sharp black strokes that curved and intertwined, alphabets unlike anything Anneliese had ever seen. The letters seemed alive, quivering at the edges of sight, meaning pulsing just out of reach.

Anneliese’s breath hitched. Her throat was dry. "It... it doesn’t stay still," she whispered.

Elowyn’s mouth curved—not in amusement, but in acknowledgment. "The letters move because they listen. They lean toward the one who dares watch them. That is the first lesson—you do not simply read the language; the language reads you." Her voice lowered, heavier now. "For you to wield the Book of Spells, to unravel the map your father left—you must learn this tongue. I have tried to read the map, but it resists me. Just as the Book of Spells cannot be read by any save the bloodline of its creator, so too the map will yield only to you."

Her fingertip hovered over the first mark. "This is Kaleth. Flame."

As the syllables left her mouth, the candle at their table guttered, a faint tremor of heat rippling through the air. Anneliese’s skin prickled.

Elowyn’s eyes flicked to the next curve of ink. "Veynar. Veil."

Anneliese spoke it hesitantly. The space before her blurred, as though a thin sheet of glass had slid between her and the rest of the world. It vanished in a blink, leaving only the echo of cold against her skin.

"Good," Elowyn said, though her tone was unreadable. "Only one in whose veins magic flows may wield these words. But power spoken is not power mastered—it will take time and training before you can shape them. Our morning lessons will work alongside this, helping you learn to direct their force toward a chosen target... or a chosen creature."

She pointed to the next word. "Draveth. Bind."

The strokes of ink seemed to tighten as Anneliese mouthed the word. The chair beneath her creaked, as though unseen cords had drawn taut around its frame. Panic clawed at her throat. She bit off the final syllable, and the pressure snapped loose.

Elowyn studied her a long moment before shifting the parchment once more. "Solmir. Silence."

The moment Anneliese spoke it, the candle’s flame froze mid-flicker, the rustle of parchment hushed, and even the rhythm of her own breath was swallowed whole. The silence pressed in, suffocating, until Elowyn laid her hand flat on the parchment, breaking the hold.

Anneliese exhaled sharply, only then realizing she had been holding her breath.

More symbols followed. One word folded into the next, stranger on her tongue each time, each leaving a trace behind in her chest. She repeated them, faltering at first, then steadier, until the cadence of the language began to thread itself into her thoughts.

Hours slipped past unnoticed. What felt like moments stretched into something deeper, until the gold light in the skylight thinned toward evening.

At last, Elowyn closed the parchment with a decisive hand and rested her palm on the hand-stitched book. "Tomorrow we begin with this," she said. "And the map will remain with us, revealing its meaning slowly, piece by piece."

Anneliese blinked, her vision hazy from strain. "Okay," she murmured, her throat raw from shaping sounds that did not belong to her world. Yet in the hollow of her chest, something restless burned—ancient and alive, as though a part of her long asleep had begun to stir, and was listening still.

After dinner, Anneliese returned directly to her chamber. Vincenzo had not been present at the meal, nor had he appeared at lunch, and his absence weighed on her more than she had expected—almost as if she had only now realized how much she missed him.

She settled by the window, letting her gaze drift across the courtyard bathed in moonlight, replaying the day in her mind. The lessons with Elowyn had stirred something deep within her. Though it was only the first day of training, she felt a shift—a determination that thrummed alongside the ember of magic now alive within her. She would not be helpless again.

A steady thought rooted itself in her mind: she would unravel the shadows hiding the truths she sought. She would find the answers she needed, and she would find her family. No dark witch, no force of the Conclave, would bend her will or use the Book of Spells at their whim. She would not yield. She would not falter.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the cushioned window bench, restless as if tracing the path of the power that now lingered faintly within her. In the hush of the chamber, Anneliese allowed herself to feel it—the ember’s warmth, fragile but insistent, a whisper of what she could not yet command, a reminder that even in solitude, she had begun to awaken.

Then came the soft sound of footsteps, measured and calm, followed by a light knock. A shiver of expectancy traced her spine. Without even opening the door, she knew—Vincenzo had come.