There were no more guards outside her door.
Not since the day she nearly set John on fire.
Instead, they posted men at the ends of the corridor, far enough to not hear incantations, close enough to keep her from walking free. Not that she could walk far anyway—not with the iron cuffs on her wrists and the long chains that dragged behind her like a bridal train made for a corpse.
Jane didn't care.
She had her book.
The Sacred Book, as the voice in her dreams called it. Its leather was dark and warm to the touch, like it breathed when her fingers brushed it. The violet insignia on the cover pulsed faintly each night as if recognizing its true master.
It had stopped closing now.
Only she could open it.
And only she could feel the pull it radiated each time she looked away.
In the still hours of night, after the servants had stopped bringing food and the last footsteps had faded into silence, Jane worked.
She set up her tiny worktable near the window, hidden behind layers of fabric and furniture. The candlelight flickered over bowls and vials she'd stolen from the corners of her room—perfume bottles, discarded glass flasks, tiny crystal containers from her mother's vanity.
She'd repurposed everything.
Salt became a focusing element.
Garlic—ironically meant to ward her off—was broken down and mixed into a charm of clarity.
A crushed flower from her childhood bouquet turned into a binding reagent.
It was messy. Improvised. Half-mad.
But it was magic.
Her fingertips were constantly stained with powder or ink. Her breath often smelled of herbs and ash. Her palms ached with the heat of her growing mark, which now glowed faintly even when she wasn't casting.
She didn't sleep much anymore.
Not because she couldn't—but because she didn't want to.
The book filled her mind. New pages unveiled themselves every day, as though it could sense her progress.
Mantras appeared in languages she should not have known, yet understood.
Diagrams shifted as she studied them—mimicking her thoughts, changing with her moods.
It was alive. And she… was consumed.
Sometimes, she laughed aloud at the thrill of it.
Other times, she cried without knowing why.
Her dreams grew stranger. The voice visited more often now.
Find the path. Learn the cost. Become what you were meant to be.
And still—she practiced.
She made her first potion three nights after the near-accident with John. A small vial of liquid moonlight that shimmered violet-blue when she held it to the window.
The book said it would enhance focus. The side effect? Heightened emotional instability for a few hours.
Jane drank it anyway.
Her heart thundered.
The walls rippled.
Her magic danced up her arms, and for the first time, the iron didn't burn. It bent slightly—just slightly—at the hinges.
That was when she knew.
She was growing stronger.
Faster than they could see.
Faster than they could contain.
She tested illusions the next night. Simple things at first: making her chains vanish from sight, or conjuring a copy of herself in the mirror. But on the fifth night, she created a firefly out of pure magic—then made it multiply into a swarm that lit her ceiling with ghostly beauty.
It was imperfect. It stuttered. It pulsed too bright.
But it was hers.
The side effect of Level One clawed at her bones.
Knowledge. Power. Knowledge. Power.
She was hungry for both.
Sometimes she forgot to eat.
Sometimes she forgot to feel.
Only the book mattered.
The Violet Ascension was no longer just a guide.
It was her salvation.
And her curse.
John had stopped entering her room without warning.
He used to knock once and step in before she could respond. Now, he lingered at the door longer, hand hovering over the knob like it might bite him. Sometimes he turned away without entering at all.
Tonight, he forced himself inside.
The chains clinked as she moved, but she didn't look up. Jane sat cross-legged near the window, a strange diagram drawn in chalk on the floor around her. Candles floated above her head—floating—casting an eerie, flickering glow on her pale face and shadowed eyes.
She looked thinner.
Not in body, but in presence.
As if part of her had been replaced by something colder. Something brighter. Her hair was a little messier every day. Her voice softer—but not from weariness. From focus. Obsession.
"Jane," John said quietly.
No response.
She was muttering to herself in a language he couldn't understand, fingers tracing symbols in the book with near-reverent care.
When she finally turned to him, her eyes gleamed.
Too bright.
Too alive.
Like flame behind glass.
"Did you need something?" she asked, as if she didn't remember he had a reason to be there at all.
John swallowed. "I—was just checking in. To see if you needed anything."
Her smile was faint, unreadable. "No. I have everything I need."
She turned back to the book.
John stood there for another minute. Watching her. Listening to the low hum of magic in the air. Feeling the room tremble faintly with a pulse he couldn't name.
He had never feared Jane before.
But now…
Now he wasn't sure who—or what—he was guarding.
He stepped back, hand tightening on the doorframe. His voice was almost a whisper.
"You're changing."
Jane didn't look at him. "I'm becoming."
Then she waved her hand, and the door slammed shut between them.
———
The wine in Lord Eddric's cup remained untouched. Maerina had long abandoned hers. She stood beside the tall bookshelf, running a gloved finger across the spines of forbidden histories and ancient tomes.
Her voice was quiet—almost reverent.
"You remember the legend, don't you? The Giftless child born to a noble house… the one who could only be saved through the death of someone with a powerful Gift."
Eddric didn't answer at first. His eyes were fixed on the fire, dancing without warmth.
"We believed it," she said, turning toward him. "The prophecy said the child would be empty. A vessel. That their salvation required blood."
"Not just blood," Eddric murmured. "Sacrificial blood. The stronger the Gift, the more potent the salvation."
"That's why we let him get close," Maerina whispered. "Why we kept John near her. We thought…"
"That she would remain Giftless. And that his death would save her."
A long silence passed between them. Eddric rose slowly, walking to the far cabinet. He unlocked it with a brass key, and from inside, retrieved a book older than either of them—leather-bound, sealed with a faded wax crest.
He opened to a page marked by a thin silk ribbon.
There, etched in rust-colored ink, was the legend. A child without power. A chosen sacrifice. A gift born from blood.
Maerina leaned in to read it again, her lips tight with memory.
"We planned everything around this," she said bitterly. "The prayers. The night she turned nineteen. The binding spells in the basement. We were ready."
"And now…" Eddric's voice hardened, "she has power. Not from a sacrifice. Not from John. She awakened it on her own."
"Then the legend was wrong," Maerina said. "All this time—we were preparing to kill that boy for nothing."
Eddric's fingers gripped the edge of the book.
"But if the legend is false… what is she?"
Before Maerina could answer, Eddric turned the page.
They both stared in silence.
The next sheet was torn—violently, as if someone had ripped it free in a moment of desperation.
Only a few words remained near the jagged edge.
The child… not Giftless… but cursed… Witch… beware the—
The rest was gone.
Just a blank expanse and the ghost of a warning.
"She's not our daughter anymore," Maerina said quietly. Her voice was brittle porcelain.
"She's dangerous," Eddric replied, fingers tight around the cup.
Maerina rose, pacing. Her hands trembled slightly. "We should've drowned her at birth."
"You don't mean that."
"I mean every word. Eddric, she bends space. She reads languages long dead. She mutters in her sleep, and the lights flicker. Do you want to wait until she loses control and burns this entire house down?"
Eddric closed his eyes. "The restraints won't hold forever."
"They won't. That's why we need a contingency."
There was silence.
Then—Eddric reached into the drawer of his desk and pulled out a small vial. The liquid inside shimmered black and silver, like mercury corrupted by shadow.
Maerina's eyes narrowed. "Is that what I think it is?"
He nodded once. "Nullroot Elixir. From the apothecaries in the Old Hollow. If we slip this into her tea… her powers will fade. Not permanently—but long enough."
"To kill her."
He didn't speak.
They both understood.
She wasn't their daughter anymore.
She was a Witch.
And witches in Arvenia had only one fate.
⸻
Back in her room, Jane paused over the book.
Her breath hitched.
Something felt… wrong. Distant, but real. Like a shiver up the spine of her magic.
The book's pages shifted on their own. A sentence rose from the ink like steam:
They will betray you again.
Jane's jaw clenched.
She stood, slow and deliberate.
And the candles above her flared without touch.