Chapter Text
Aurelia
The first thing Aurelia noticed was the pain. She felt nails–digging into the skin of her biceps, hauling her along by the elbows– and her feet. Her poor feet, she grimaced inwardly. Pulled across the uneven stones, the tops of them scraped raw with every movement. Stale air kissed her damp neck, slack, head bowed, and swaying with each step her captors took. She had an optimal view of the cobblestone floor as she pried her heavy eyelids open and brought herself to assess her predicament.
The pairs of shoes marching on either side of Aurelia were obviously women’s. In her drugged state, she guessed it wouldn’t take much power to subdue her.
Guess my plan of “blend in and graduate unnoticed” has failed spectacularly.
Either way, these women didn’t need physical strength– they had their ancestors to feed them magic.
Aurelia’s eyes scanned the shadows between the pillars and archways, trying to make sense of where she had been dragged. The air was thick with the tang of damp stone and the faint metallic bite of magic. Every surface seemed alive with a subtle pulse, a rhythm she could feel pressing against her bones. She shifted slightly, testing her balance, and the tops of her feet screamed in protest.
That’s when she noticed the cold, heavy shackles clamped around her ankles, the chain between them scraping and rattling across the stone with every harsh tug. Splendid, she thought, metal jewelry that bites back.
The women flanking her moved with an eerie precision, their gazes fixed ahead, unflinching. There was no warmth in the way they handled her—no hesitation, no flicker of doubt. Friendly, as always, she mused.
She recognized them now: Blackroot Academy alumni through and through. Aurelia clenched her teeth and tried to remember herself—the pack, the academy, the hidden life she had built.
They didn’t know everything yet, she realized. Not all of it. And as much as the pain burned along her limbs and scraped feet, a flicker of defiance sparked in her chest. They didn't know everything yet.
She’d counted 189 steps, marking cracks in the stones and praying she’d remember them, when they reached a cell door. Rusted iron bars lined the doorway, its hinges screeching when the witch to her left–Hex Hag #1, for lack of a better name–swung it open. With no time to spare, Hag #2 took the honor of promptly throwing Aurelia face-first into her new humble abode. The floor met her knees with a sharp jolt, but she managed to catch herself with her hands before her face met the same fate. The captive witch grit her teeth to keep from crying out. She wouldn’t spare showing such weakness in front of them.
She heard the cell door slam shut, and she hated herself for flinching at the sharp clang of it.
Without a word, #1 and #2 walked back the way they came, the sound of their footsteps fading along with them. Aurelia took a minute to survey her surroundings.
The cell was narrow—uncomfortably so—with walls of damp, uneven stone that seemed to press in the longer she looked at them. Moisture clung to the surface, catching what little light filtered in from a single torch fixed somewhere beyond the bars. It flickered weakly, just enough to cast long, shifting shadows that made the space feel smaller than it already was. The floor beneath her was the same rough cobblestone that had just finished tearing up her feet, cold and unforgiving against her palms.
And then there was the magic.
It hung in the air—thick, metallic, wrong. Not hers. Never hers. It pressed against her skin like a second atmosphere, humming low and constant, as if the very walls were breathing with it. Runes had been carved into the stone at uneven intervals, their edges faintly glowing, pulsing in a rhythm that made something in her chest tighten.
Oh, good, she thought dryly. They decorated.
Her gaze dropped then, catching on the weight still fastened around her ankles. The shackles. Not just iron—no, of course not. Faint etchings traced their surface, old and intricate, the kind of craftsmanship she’d only ever seen illustrated in the margins of ancient texts. Recognition settled in slowly, uneasily.
Anti-siphoner restraints.
The kind designed to suppress, not just contain. To cut a siphoner off completely—sever the instinct before it could even form.
Aurelia swallowed, reaching for her magic. Nothing answered. No flicker, no pull, no hum waiting to be drawn in. Just silence.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Her gaze dragged over the space again, slower this time, more deliberate. No windows. No exits. No obvious weaknesses. Just stone, iron, and magic designed to keep someone in.
Well, she exhaled quietly, shifting slightly, this is cozy.
Hours passed.
Or at least, she assumed they did.
There were no windows, no shifting light to mark the hours—just the steady, suffocating dim of torchlight and the slow, maddening drip of water somewhere beyond her cell. It echoed at uneven intervals, each drop stretching the silence thinner and thinner until it felt like it might snap.
Aurelia shifted, wincing as stiffness settled into her limbs. Every inch of her ached—her arms, her back, her knees, her feet most of all—but the worst of it wasn’t the pain. It was the waiting.
No footsteps. No voices. No sign that anyone was coming back.
Intimidation tactic, she decided after a while, tilting her head back against the cold stone wall. Classic.
Leave her alone long enough to let her imagination do the work. Let the silence sink its claws in, let the uncertainty fester. Make her wonder what they knew, what they planned to do with her—how long they intended to keep her here.
She exhaled slowly through her nose, closing her eyes for a brief moment before forcing them open again. No. She wasn’t going to spiral. That’s what they wanted.
Instead, she observed. Counted breaths. Noted every sound, every flicker of torchlight, every faint pulse of magic in the walls.
The shackles remained inert, dead weight against her ankles. No matter how many times she subtly tested them, there was nothing—no magic to grasp, no thread to pull. Just that same hollow silence where her instincts should have been.
Rude, she thought, flexing her foot before giving up on that particular battle.
Her gaze drifted, tracing the same cracks in the stone for what had to be the hundredth time before finally settling on the bars of her cell. Beyond them, the corridor stretched into shadow, empty and still.
Too still.
Aurelia frowned slightly, her head tilting as she focused.
There—
Something shifted. Not loud. Not obvious. But different.
A presence.
Not the hum of the runes or the stale weight of the coven’s magic. Something else. Something older. Heavier.
Alive.
Her fingers curled slightly against the stone as her attention sharpened, eyes narrowing on the darkness beyond the bars.
“…Hello?” she called, attempting and failing to lean past the narrow bars. Her damn big head wouldn’t fit through. Curse my humongous brain, she chided herself.
“…Hello?” she called again, louder.
Her voice echoed down the corridor, swallowed almost immediately by the stone, but she didn’t care. Someone—or something—was here. She could feel it, just out of sight, patient and watchful.
Great, she muttered under her breath, talk to strangers in dungeons. Always a solid life choice.
She shifted slightly, testing the chain again, listening for any clink that might give away a reaction. Nothing. Just the low, steady pulse of magic in the walls she could feel, even with the shackles suppressing her siphoning ability.
Her eyes scanned the floor of the corridor beyond the bars, the uneven cobblestones stretching into darkness. There, she noticed with pause. There were subtle signs of movement—a shift in the dust, a faint scrape that could have been a rat, or… something else entirely.
Okay, Aurelia, she said to herself, chin up despite the sore muscles and bruised pride, keep it casual. Maybe he’s friendly. Maybe he’s polite. Maybe he’s a she! What do I know?
The air carried it too clearly: a presence that was not human, not benign. Predatory, patient, heavy. The kind of presence that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up, even when you swore you weren’t scared.
Aurelia squared her shoulders and, for the first time since being thrown into this cell, let a smirk creep onto her face.
“Well, whoever you are,” she said quietly, almost to herself, “you'd better have a good reason for lurking down there.”
She leaned closer to the bars, testing the distance, the sound, the vibration of the stone. Her hands grazed the floor, palms scraping against cold cobblestone as she braced herself.
“If you’re going to hear me, I hope you’re amused,” she whispered, tone light, sarcastic, teasing. “I don’t do small talk. Not unless I’m getting out of here afterward.”
And somewhere beneath her, hidden in shadow, the creature was listening. Silent. Patient. Waiting.
Aurelia drifted into an uneasy sleep, her mind unable to shut off the echoes of a memory she never truly buried.
She was back in the shadows of the old coven hall, the night they had discovered her secret. Hands clenched around daggers, voices sharp with disbelief and accusation, teeth bared in anger and fear. She could almost feel the brush of magic seeking to tear her apart, to punish her for being something she wasn’t supposed to be.
She tried to run, but the walls closed in, voices overlapping with the screech of iron and the shouts of witches she had once called kin. Then, a familiar presence: calm, protective, grounding. Her uncle’s voice, his power surrounding her, guiding her away from the chaos. The dream always ended there—the escape, the fresh start, the careful building of a new life—but the fear lingered like smoke, clinging to her even now.
When she awoke, the stone beneath her cheek was damp with sweat. Torchlight, or maybe magic, flickered along the walls, painting uneven shadows across her face. Her muscles were stiff, every limb aching from the overnight position and the weight of her shackles.
The siphoner stilled–
She wasn’t alone.
A figure stood in the corridor, robes flowing, posture deliberate and commanding.
Dean Morwen.
Aurelia’s eyes snapped open, and she forced herself upright, dragging her gaze over the intimidating figure.
Morwen was tall, impossibly straight-backed, and moved with the kind of precision that suggested every step was measured, deliberate, and unavoidable. Her robes were black as midnight, embroidered with faint silver runes that caught the torchlight just enough to glimmer, giving her an almost ethereal presence. Her hair, long and coal-dark, framed a sharp, symmetrical face—one that betrayed none of the decades behind it, courtesy of her restoration spells.
Her eyes were pale—icy gray, almost unnatural—calm and unreadable, but carrying the weight of decades spent bending magic and people alike to her will.
“What a lovely twist on this year’s grad ceremony,” she muttered dryly, sarcasm thick in her voice. Really sets the mood for a day of bonding and confetti, doesn’t it?
Morwen’s expression didn’t change. Calm, precise, terrifyingly controlled. “You’re awake,” she said, voice measured. “Good. We have much to discuss.”
Aurelia’s chest tightened, instincts already coiling around her. Even without the words yet, she could tell the conversation would involve no small stakes. Morwen paused, letting the quiet tick and swell between them like a drumbeat.
“We have plans for you,” Morwen continued. “Plans you will follow precisely, or consequences will be severe. You understand?”
Aurelia’s eyes narrowed. She had a thousand questions. Who? Why? What did they want from her? But the words that followed twisted the knife:
“Your friend—the one who welcomed you to the academy—will suffer if you resist.”
Her stomach churned. Abigail, her dormmate and closest friend.
“We’ve prepared a note explaining your absence and apologizing for your lack of farewells. Abigail will be none the wiser that we’ve captured her friend. She’ll carry out her last year here and live a peaceful life serving the Blackroot Coven. Unless, of course, you decide to make her pay for your defiance.”
Morwen’s voice continued, calm, practiced, cruel: “From the moment you arrived at Blackroot Academy, we knew what you were. The founder was very careful about letting… abominations in. Impure, yes, but useful. We let you stay. We let you learn. Grow. Strengthen. Precisely so that you could serve a purpose.”
Aurelia swallowed hard. She was used to being called such things.
She was not used to people threatening her friends. Years of study, years of blending in, now boiled down to a single ultimatum: obey, or her friend would pay.
Aurelia flexed her fingers against the cold stone floor, weighing her options.
Morwen’s eyes didn’t waver. “You will help us weaken him,” she said, voice measured, as if stating the weather instead of threatening a life. “A magical being of great power. You have the ability to strip some of that strength away.”
She had a feeling she knew exactly what powerful magical being she was talking about. So I was right about him being a he, she thought smugly.
She didn’t need to see him to know what the Blackroot Coven leader meant—strong, dangerous, and utterly fascinating.
Her gaze lifted to reach Morwen’s. “Do I make myself clear?” The ogress’s voice left no room for argument.
Aurelia’s chest tightened, pulse hammering. She forced a smirk, summoning up her bravado. “Crystal,” she said, her calm tone dripping with sarcasm. Because agreeing out loud is totally going to make me feel better.
Morwen didn’t flinch. Calm, precise, terrifyingly controlled, she simply nodded once. “Good. You will begin immediately. Your training, your lessons, everything you have learned—it all culminates here. Your cooperation is not optional.”
Aurelia shifted slightly on the stone floor, testing the limits of her shackles again. The anti-magic etchings hummed faintly in the torchlight, reminding her that even a thought of resistance would go unanswered. Brilliant, she thought, immobile, powerless, and terrified. Really hitting all the classics today.
Morwen’s pale, icy eyes traced her movements like a hawk circling prey. “We have already observed your potential,” she said, voice low, almost conversational. “The founder herself would have been pleased at your… aptitude. But potential alone is insufficient. Precision and obedience will determine whether your friend lives or dies.”
Aurelia’s stomach churned. Abigail. Her best friend, her anchor, the one person who had welcomed her when she came to the academy without a known bloodline, was now a pawn dangling from the strings of this coven.
The weight of it pressed down, heavier than the chains on her ankles.
Her gaze flicked towards the corridor to her left, imagining the man she would siphon—dangerous, powerful, and utterly unknown to her.
Perfect, she thought wryly. I get to drain magic from a stranger while chained like a glorified paperweight, all so they can use him for whatever twisted plan they’ve cooked up. Indeed, a lovely twist on this year’s grad ceremony.
Her mind raced, fingers flexing against the cold floor again. Despite the shackles, despite the threat, despite the sheer magnitude of what Morwen demanded, one thought remained stubbornly bright in her mind: They think they’ve cornered me. They have no idea.