(Elara POV)
The stronghold had always been a place of quiet power.
Deep beneath the northern mountains, carved from obsidian that drank light like water, the corridors wound in perfect spirals—each turn a ward, each shadow a sentinel. Violet witchfire burned in iron sconces, casting no warmth, only cold, shifting glow. The air tasted of ozone and old magic, thick enough to press against the skin.
Serena moved through it with the careful grace of someone who knew she was being watched.
Two coven guards flanked her—silent, cloaked in night silk, faces hidden behind featureless masks. They had met her at the outer gate at moonrise, searched her without a word, then led her inward. No small talk. No courtesy. Just the soft click of their boots on stone and the faint hum of wards brushing against her aura like curious fingers.
She kept her chin high. Let them see she was not afraid.
