Chapter 203

Chapter 203: Chapter 203

Gideon

The smell of wet earth and rotting pine wrapped thick around the mouth of the ravine.

Deep in the neutral borderlands, far beyond the reach of the town and the territorial guards, the law was a distant memory. Here, in the damp, fog-choked hollows, lived the practitioners who dealt in ancient, forbidden arts, those who operated strictly in the shadows for a price.

I have gained knowledge since I was brought back, I knew everything about the darkness I resided in."

I pulled my wool cloak tighter around my broad shoulders, my boots sinking slightly into the black mud as I stepped into the mouth of a low stone cavern.

The air inside was warm, thick with the heavy, metallic tang of dried blood, bitter herbs, and dark sorcery. Small glass vials filled with dark liquids hummed faintly on rough wooden shelves carved directly into the rock walls. In the center of the chamber, hunched over a low stone altar, sat a woman wrapped in dark, frayed silks.

Her skin was pale, almost translucent, her dark eyes hollowed by decades of tapping into dark magic.

"You walk into my sanctuary without an invitation, Gideon," the witch rasped, her voice sounding like dry leaves dragging across stone. She didn’t turn around, her thin, gnarled fingers continuing to sort through a pile of bone needles. "The purebloods usually send their executioners when they come down into these woods."

"I did not come to execute you, witch," I said smoothly, stepping into the dim amber light of the oil lanterns. "I came to offer you a trade."

She turned slowly, her dark eyes scanning my face, taking in the clean, aristocratic lines of my clothes and the silver crest pinned to my collar. A slow, toothless smile curled her dry lips.

"A lord of the borderlands," she purred softly, setting a bone needle down on the stone altar. "And what does a noble lord need from a rogue practitioner who lives in the dark?"

"I require a blood curse," I replied, my voice flat, level, and completely devoid of emotion. "A delicate, targeted spell capable of severing a life before it matures."

She raised a thin, dark eyebrow, her interest instantly piqued. "An unborn child?"

"An unborn vampire," I corrected smoothly, taking a small, heavy leather pouch from beneath my cloak and tossing it onto the stone altar.

The pouch landed with a solid, metallic clink, spilling a handful of pure, unrefined silver coins across the smooth rock.

Vespera glanced down at the silver, but her eyes quickly returned to my face, dark and calculating. "A hybrid carrying pureblood magic is no simple task, Gideon. The blood of a High Sovereign is aggressive. It fights back against foreign magic. If I am to wither a pureblood core without killing the carrier, the curse must be woven directly into his bloodstream."

"The carrier is currently confined in my fortress," I explained, leaning slightly toward the altar. "He is weak, exhausted, and isolated from his mate. You will have full access to his chamber, but the work must be clean. It must appear to any examining physician as a natural failure caused by physical stress and hybrid instability."

Vespera let out a quiet, raspy cackle, reaching out her thin, gray hand to scoop the silver coins into her palm.

"Natural or magical, the result will be the same," she whispered, her voice dropping into a dark, intoxicating register as she held a small glass vial filled with black, shimmering oil up to the lantern light. "A single drop of this, combined with a chant over his blood, and the thread binding the child to this world will snap like dry straw. Drake will feel nothing but a sudden, quiet void in his marrow."

"Then prepare your tools," I commanded flatly, turning back toward the cavern entrance as the cold wind whipped through the pines outside. "We move under the cover of dusk. Do not fail me, witch."

"I never fail when the price is paid in silver," the witch whispered into the dark, her quiet laughter echoing off the damp stone walls as I stepped out into the fog.

Lysander’s pov

I was on my feet instantly the second the door swung open, my fingers tightening around the sharp wooden stake I had hidden behind my back. My chest heaved in short, rapid breaths, my hybrid wolf senses straining through the thick, dulling pressure of the room’s wards.

Gideon stepped across the threshold first. Behind him walked a woman wrapped in dark, frayed silks, her pale skin covered in faint grey runes, her hollow eyes locking straight onto my face. In her hands, she carried a small stone bowl filled with a dark, shimmering oil that smelled of rot and dried blood.

"Stay back!" I snarled, stepping out into the center of the room, my voice a low, warning growl.

Gideon didn’t draw a blade. His sharp face remained entirely calm, completely devoid of mercy. "Be reasonable, Lysander. This is for your own good. The child is a chain that will keep you bound to Drake until it destroys you."

"Get away from me!" I screamed, lunging forward with everything I had left.

I aimed the sharp wooden stake straight for Gideon’s chest, my hybrid speed surging through my veins in a desperate bid for freedom. But before the point could graze his dark coat, Gideon raised his right hand, his fingers spreading wide as a pale-blue light flared around his knuckles.

CRACK.

The invisible iron spike slammed straight into my forehead. ℯ

The cold, suffocating wave of spell-craft crashed through my skull, sweeping through my nervous system like liquid ice. The sharp wooden stake slipped from my limp fingers, clattering uselessly against the hardwood floor.

My body froze instantly.

My legs locked in place, my arms dropping dead to my sides, my chin held forced and high. Inside my head, my mind clawed frantically against the dark wires, screaming until my soul felt raw, but my flesh refused to twitch a single millimeter.

"Hold him still," the witch rasped, her voice sounding like dry leaves dragging across stone as she stepped toward me.

"He is completely bound," Gideon replied flatly, his glowing fingers pointed straight at my face. "Do your work."

The witch reached into her stone bowl, dipping two gnarled, gray fingers into the dark, shimmering oil. She stepped close, her cold, rotting breath fanning across my skin as she raised her wet hand toward my face.

No! I roared inside the dark prison of my skull, my blood thrashing violently against the compulsion. Touch me and I’ll tear your throat out! Don’t touch my baby!

She dragged her wet fingers down my forehead, tracing a crude, cold rune over my skin. A sharp, burning sting flared where the dark oil touched my flesh, seeped straight through my skull, and traveled down my neck like a line of liquid fire.

"A line for the mother," the witch purred into the quiet room, her hollow eyes widening with dark satisfaction.

She dipped her fingers into the bowl again, stepping lower, her cold hand reaching toward the loose linen tunic draping over my waist.

Drake! my spirit wept, screaming into the void of the pureblood bond as her fingers hovered an inch above the subtle curve of my lower middle. Drake, help us! Please!

The dark magic began to hum against my skin, sending an icy, sickening shiver straight into my core.