The afternoon sun was high overhead by the time they finished their picnic. Despite Simon's concerns lingering in her mind, Amriel felt a growing determination as she helped Niamh gather the twins for their nap. The sooner she spoke with Kortana, the sooner she might understand what was going on.
Even with Niamh's advancing pregnancy, the two women maintained a brisk pace toward the Coven Tower. In just over forty minutes, they left behind the sprawling fields that stretched beyond the city walls and entered Khymar proper.
The landscape transformed around them as they walked—first the modest dwellings near the outer gates, then the merchant quarter with its colorful storefronts, and finally the affluent district where cobblestone streets wound between imposing marble estates. The homes of nobility and wealthy scholars stood like silent sentinels, their perfectly manicured gardens and ornate facades displaying the prosperity that always flourished in the shadow of power.
Ahead, dominating the skyline, rose the two spires that defined the heart of Khymar: the Tower of Illumination with its somber gray stone representing Knowledge, and the gleaming white marble, veined with silver, azure and pale gold that caught the light, of the Coven Tower embodying Power—two forces eternally balanced.
The architecture was a blend of elegance and power, a seamless marriage of arching gothic grandeur and ethereal beauty. Tall, arched windows lined the tower's façade, their glass inlaid with delicate tracings of enchanted silver that pulsed faintly with magic.
At its base, the entrance was framed by a massive white stone archway, where the veins of azure ran deep. Master stonecutters had meticulously carved the archway with intricate runes in the sacred language of the Vha'Ree—the primordial Witches who had first discovered how to harness and channel the Power. These ancient symbols, flowing in an unbroken circle around the entrance, were said to both protect and welcome those who approached with proper intentions.
Beneath this archway stood imposing double doors of ancient oak, their wood painted the rich, deep purple that marked the domain of Witches throughout the kingdom. This particular shade, created from rare Soraysa flowers and imbued with protective enchantments, was reserved exclusively for those who had mastered the Power.
Standing sentinel on either side of the entrance were life-sized statues carved from the same white marble as the tower itself. They depicted a female Witch and a male, also called Warlocks. Both Power wielders were caught in the eternal moment of spellcasting—their expressions serene yet intensely focused, hands extended with fingers precisely positioned in the ancient gestures of conjuration.
Unlike most imposing towers that loomed, casting shadows, the Coven Tower seemed to invite rather than intimidate. Deep green ivy and flowering vines curled around its arches and pillars, softening the harshness of the stone.
A stone pathway led up to the entrance, lined with lanterns glowing with witch lights that never flickered.
Niamh hesitated first. She stopped mid-stride, her sharp gaze fixed on the tower's entrance. "Are you sure you want to do this?" Her voice was quieter than usual.
Amriel's instinct was to turn on her heel and leave. No, she wasn't sure. She was far from sure. But turning back wouldn't change anything. If she walked away now, she would only be prolonging the inevitable.
She exhaled. "No," she admitted. "But I have to."
Niamh studied her for a long moment, then nodded. A small, reassuring smile tugged at her lips. "Alright. If you're going in, I'm going in."
Without waiting for a response, she reached out and gave Amriel's hand a quick, firm squeeze. Then she started forward, and after a brief pause, Amriel followed.
The twin purple doors of the Coven Tower opened with a light push, Amriel felt the weight of the door give way, creaking open just enough for them to slip inside.
The moment they crossed the threshold, reality itself seemed to transform. The world outside—with its mundane concerns and ordinary beauty—faded into insignificance as they entered a realm of absolute perfection that defied mortal craftsmanship.
The air caressed their skin with gentle coolness, carrying an exquisite blend of fragrances—bright citrus that awakened the senses, sweet Yasa flower that evoked memories of summer evenings, and the subtle warmth of tyndra spice. This harmony of scents were meticulously woven into the very substance of the stone, designed over centuries to elevate the spirit, clarify the mind and embrace the soul of all who entered.
Sunlight poured through towering arched windows of crystal, each pane subtly enchanted to capture and amplify the light's purity. The resulting illumination transformed the main hall into a cathedral of golden radiance that seemed almost liquid in its quality—flowing around corners, softening harsh lines, and lending an ethereal glow to everything it touched. Where the gothic architecture might have appeared severe or imposing elsewhere, here it achieved a transcendent grace, as if the stone itself had been persuaded to defy its nature and embrace lightness.
The floor beneath their feet was a masterwork of green marble shot through with veins of luminous silver.
Dominating the center of this splendor rose a spiral staircase that defied conventional understanding of stone and metal. Its steps, crafted from the same green marble as the floor, appeared to float without visible support, each one precisely balanced to create a harmonious ascent.
This magnificent stairway wound upward toward the mysterious upper levels where the true work of the Coven took place—private studies filled with ancient tomes, ritual chambers where reality could be reshaped, and ultimately, Kortana's private sanctuary at the tower's apex.
Throughout witch lights glowed within crystal sconces of unparalleled clarity. Unlike common magical illumination, these lights possessed an intuitive awareness, responding not just to the time of day but to the needs of those nearby—brightening when concentration was required, softening when reflection was needed, always in perfect harmony with the natural rhythms of sun and moon. As afternoon light streamed through the windows, the witch lights maintained a complementary radiance that eliminated all shadows without creating glare—perfect illumination that seemed to emanate from the air itself.
The entire space existed in impossible harmony—a testament to what could be achieved when human imagination, magical prowess, and centuries of refinement converged in pursuit of absolute beauty.
Unlike many halls of learning, the Coven Tower was never silent. There was a soft murmur of students discussing theories, the rustle of parchment, the whisper of purple robes, of all shades, against the green marble floors. And underneath it all, there was something deeper—a hum of magic woven into the very walls, as if the tower itself was alive, listening, remembering.
Here, magic and knowledge were not hoarded, nor locked away in shadowed vaults. Inside these walls, Power was to be discovered, shared, and, most importantly, understood.
From across the sunlit hall, a slender figure emerged—a young acolyte no older than sixteen. She moved with the quiet grace of someone used to treading sacred ground, her plum robes swaying with each measured step. Her black hair cascaded neatly over her shoulders, framing a face both youthful and composed, her almond-shaped eyes reflecting the golden light streaming in from the windows.
"The Goddess and her Power welcomes you," she said, voice warm as she pressed her palms together in greeting. Three bangles on her wrist chimed together as she raised her hands, and marked her as a third circle Witch.
Cerennis, the Goddess of magic, watched over the Witches of the realm, just as Frenrith ruled wisdom and knowledge. They were two sides of the same coin, their blessings intertwined.
Amriel and Niamh responded in unison, their voices a soft echo beneath the tower's vaulted ceiling. "Blessed are those touched by Cerennis." And clasped their hands together, mirroring the Acolyte.
The acolyte nodded in acknowledgment, her smile polite, expectant. "How may I be of assistance?"
"I came to speak with Coven Leader Kortana." Amriel said.
The acolyte hesitated—just for a breath. A flicker of something crossed her face, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. When she smiled again, it was well-practiced, but her eyes betrayed the truth.
"Coven Leader Kortana is a very busy woman," she said, the words smooth but impersonal. "Perhaps I can relay a message?"
Amriel's jaw tensed. That momentary hesitation, that flicker of uncertainty, told her all she needed to know—Kortana was in, and for whatever reason, this girl had been instructed to turn visitors away.
Beside her, Niamh shifted slightly, her stance casual but attentive. She had noticed it too.
Amriel met the acolyte's gaze, her own steady and unwavering. "No, but thank you." She let the words settle before continuing, softer but firm. "Tell her that Nythia's daughter is here. We'll wait."
The words felt strange on her tongue—using her mother's name as a key to open doors.
The acolyte's expression flickered—recognition, curiosity, maybe even caution. She had heard the name before.
That didn't surprise Amriel. Nythia, who had abandoned her without explanation, still cast a long shadow. One Amriel both resented and relied upon.
For a moment, Amriel thought the girl might refuse or insist on taking the message again, but after a heartbeat's hesitation, she dipped her head. "As you wish," she murmured, her voice quieter than before. Then, with a practiced grace, she turned on her heel and disappeared through an arched doorway.
As soon as she was gone, Niamh let out a quiet breath. "That was interesting. Good move on throwing your mom's name around. Heavy hitter here."
Amriel shot Niamh a look and received a wry half grin in return.
She exhaled, crossing her arms as she let her eyes wander the grand chamber.
The Coven Tower had always been a place of power, but unlike the cold, foreboding halls of the royal court, there was warmth here—an openness that belied the mystery woven into its foundations.
Fear was born from ignorance, and ignorance could be mended with education. So the Witches of the Coven Tower made sure that all who entered felt welcome.
Or at least that's what Amriel had been told. So far, she wasn't quite sure.
"Feels different than the last time I was here," Niamh mused, her hands wrapped over her belly.
Before she could respond, the arched doorway reopened, and the acolyte returned, her hands clasped neatly in front of her.
"Coven Leader Kortana will see you," she announced, her gaze lingering on Amriel for just a breath before shifting away. "Please, follow me."
Amriel and Niamh exchanged glances. That had been quicker than she expected.
The spiral staircase climbed ever upward through the heart of the tower. The exquisite white carpet beneath their feet—plush and yielding, embroidered with azure filigree that occasionally shimmered with its own inner light—absorbed the sound of their ascent, creating an almost otherworldly silence. Just when Amriel felt the burning protest of her muscles and the subtle shortening of her breath, they reached the uppermost landing where the air itself felt different—thinner yet somehow more potent, charged with subtle energy that raised the fine hairs on her arms.
The acolyte led them through an open set of magnificent double doors of ancient oak—painted a deep purple and embedded with the signet of the Coven Leader.
The study beyond was a perfect circle, its walls lined with rare texts and magical artifacts collected across centuries. Golden afternoon light poured through a domed skylight, not merely illuminating the chamber but seeming to caress everything it touched—the polished desk of rare blackwood, the celestial instruments of silver and crystal, and the woman who stood at its center like the living heart of all magic in Khymar.
Kortana, Grand Witch and Leader of the Coven, commanded the space with her mere presence. She stood perfectly still, yet conveyed such innate power that the air around her seemed to bend in subtle genuflection. At nearly six feet tall, her statuesque figure possessed the kind of timeless beauty that transcended conventional attractiveness—not pretty, but magnificent, like a perfect storm or a mountain peak that has withstood millennia.
Her silver-grey hair cascading down her back, streaked faintly with black—a ghost of the youth she had once been.
Her robes, in the deep purple that only the highest-ranking witches could wear, appeared deceptively simple from a distance. Yet as light moved across the fabric, complex enchantments revealed themselves in subtle patterns that continuously shifted and reformed.
Around her wrists and at her collar, ancient runic embroidery shimmered with contained power. These were not mere decorative elements but functional spells—protection, perception, power amplification—all woven into her daily attire with such skill that they appeared as natural as breathing.
No one but those who could sense Power would know the true strength behind them.
When her gaze fell upon Amriel, the full force of her attention was palpable—a pressure that felt almost physical. Her eyes, so dark they appeared black in most light, held the depth of centuries of accumulated wisdom and secrets. They assessed Amriel with precision that felt like being simultaneously examined, measured, and weighed against some internal standard that remained unknown. In that penetrating look was neither warmth nor coldness.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, Kortana inclined her head ever so slightly.
"Welcome, Amriel."
A flicker of something passed through Amriel's chest, though she wasn't sure if it was relief or unease.
She straightened. "Coven Leader Kortana."
Kortana gestured toward the seating area by the large bay window, where a tea service was already set. Steam curled from delicate porcelain cups, as if their arrival had been anticipated long before the acolyte had even fetched her.
"Come," Kortana said, her voice smooth as silk, but with an edge that hinted at steel beneath. "Let us talk. I get the sense there is much for us to talk about."
Amriel exchanged one last glance with Niamh before stepping forward, knowing this conversation could change everything.