Lord of the realm

But neither of them held true command of the chamber.

That belonged to the women clad in scarlet and shadow.

The Redmoon Witches had come.

Their presence sucked the warmth from the air; even the torches guttered low, as though bowing in respect—or fear.

Among them, one figure stood apart: a tall woman draped in dark crimson silk, her posture regal, her silhouette outlined by the morning light streaming through the window. She stood with her back to the chamber, hands clasped behind her, staring out across the endless sweep of the sea.

Cornelia.

High Mistress of the Redmoon Coven.

Her name was a curse spoken in hushed tones throughout the realm, for she was said to command storms, to still the heart within a chest, to whisper a name and condemn it to shadow. That she was here in person made Earl's throat tighten. He had dealt with witches before, yes, but always their lesser sisters—never her.

Earl felt his palms dampen.

If Cornelia had come herself, this would be no trivial matter.

"They told me the boy is of Origin," Cornelia's voice cut through the silence, smooth but cold, a tone that carried across the chamber like the tide pulling out.

"A rarity in these lands. A dangerous rarity."

Saphyra lifted her chin, glancing from Cornelia to Earl. "At first, your sisters sought only the Ashen Witch, did they not? Yet now…" Her lips curved faintly.

"Now you stumble upon a prize greater than your hunt."

Cornelia turned her head slightly, just enough that one pale eye caught the torchlight. "Do not mistake fortune for stumbling, Queen."

The Siren queen looked sharp. Her beauty was otherworldly, her very being carrying the smell of brine and salt, her voice like the susurration of waves.

She narrowed her eyes at Cornelia's blatant rudeness.

She had demanded to see the boy—Jaenor—herself. Her claim was not without weight, for she too held power in the seas, and her interest had been keen, almost possessive.

But Cornelia had denied her.

"You will not lay eyes upon him," the High Mistress said, her tone brooking no debate.

"The boy is ours to judge, ours to shape. You may hunger for him, but your hunger will wait."

The Siren Queen's smile, lovely and terrible, faltered into a line as sharp as a blade.

"Careful, Mistress. The seas do not bend to the moon alone."

For a heartbeat, it seemed the chamber might split open from the force of their quarrel.

The witches at Cornelia's back stiffened, scarlet robes whispering as they shifted.

A strange current of power rippled between the two women, salt and shadow clashing like unseen storms.

But in the end, it was the Siren Queen who yielded, stepping back with a laugh that rang hollow in the chamber.

"Very well. Keep your boy. For now."

Her gaze slid across the torches, across Earl, lingering on Cornelia.

"But tides change, Mistress. And when they do, the sea claims what it desires."

With that, she swept from the hall, leaving the faint scent of brine in her wake.

The silence she left was suffocating.

Earl let out a breath he had not realized he'd been holding.

Cornelia turned back to the window, as if the quarrel had been nothing more than a passing inconvenience.

"Make sure the boy is secure," she commanded softly, and her voice was more chilling than any scream.

"And continue the search for the Ashen."

The other witches nodded.

Cornelia turned from the sea for a moment, her voice calm yet carrying the weight of command.

"We will be using this castle for a while. I trust we are not troubling you?"

Earl straightened in his chair, the words catching in his throat before he forced a quick reply.

"No, no, it is nothing. You are free to use it as you please."

He spoke swiftly, careful not to let even a trace of arrogance slip into his tone. He knew well enough that she was not truly asking for permission—merely toying with him, reminding him of his place.

The High Mistress did not ask; she declared.

Cornelia turned back to the window without another word, as though he no longer existed in the room. The light of the dawn sea washed her figure in pale silver, her hood shadowing most of her face, leaving Earl uncertain whether she was smiling or not.

Earl swirled his untouched wine, his knuckles white upon the goblet.

He had dealt with pirates, nobles, and even kings.

But witches… witches were another matter.

He thought it wiser to remain silent, to let them weave their webs.

Whatever Jaenor was, whatever fate was being spun for him in that chamber, Earl would not stand in its way.

Not tonight.

-

In the deepest dungeons of Basmonte Castle, a young man hung suspended by crimson energy bonds that burned against his skin like liquid fire.

There were women in the dungeon, dressed in scarlet robes, the witches belonging to the Redmoon Coven, an extremely terrifying group.

These women were the ones who took Jaenor from the streets and held him here.

The Redmoon witches had worked on him for hours, their methods both forbidden and merciless.

The dungeon was a place without time. No day, no night—only the stink of damp stone, rusted chains, and the lingering stench of old blood.

They wanted what lay inside him—answers, secrets, and a power he himself barely understood.

But when their rites failed, when they could not pry open his soul or sift through his memories, their patience soured into cruelty.

They wanted answers about who he was and how he grew to control the Origin power.

About the woman who was staying with him.

Jaenor didn't answer their single question.

The first strike was a whip across his back, the crack echoing like thunder through the narrow chamber.

ARGHH!!

He clenched his teeth until copper filled his mouth, refusing to give them the satisfaction of his cries.

But the second blow split his skin, and the third broke his silence.

His screams filled the dungeon, bouncing off the stone walls until it seemed as though a hundred voices suffered with him.

AHH!! AHH!!

He still didn't open his mouth. Not a single word leaked out of his mouth except for the screams.

They were an erratic woman who enjoyed torturing men, and it's not every day you stumble upon a male who uses Origin power.

The Redmoon Coven wasn't part of the Council; they are a separate entity and acted as an agency.

And they did not stop.

His stubbornness only fueled their despair.

Blades kissed his flesh, shallow cuts at first, meant to sting and bleed him slowly.

Each drop of blood that fell to the floor seemed to mark time in this place where time no longer existed.

The witches watched coldly, their hooded faces unmoving as though his agony were nothing more than a tool, a process.

After a while they removed their robes and continued.

When the knives and whips were set aside, the torment shifted.

They spoke to him in whispers, words that curled like poison in his ears.

They told him he was nothing, that he was a mistake, a tool to be broken.

They showed him illusions—faces of his friends, Aldran among them, torn apart or burned alive. They forced his eyes open until he could no longer tell what was real and what was cruelty painted upon his mind.

Exhausted, bloodied, and shaking, he slumped in his chains.

Yet something in him refused to break.

Even when his body screamed for rest, even when every nerve begged him to surrender, he clung to that small ember of defiance deep inside.

-

The next day, the dungeon was silent but for the dripping of water from the stone ceiling, each drop echoing like a cruel reminder of time's slow passing.

The torches burned low, their flames coughing out thin ribbons of smoke that clung to the air, heavy and suffocating.

Jaenor hung against the wall, his arms bound in cruel iron cuffs, the links of the chain biting into his skin. His body bore the marks of his torment—cuts across his shoulders, bruises darkening his ribs, his breath shallow and ragged.

Yet his eyes, though clouded with exhaustion, still burned with that quiet defiance that had so far denied his captors satisfaction.

The two witches, Delia and Ember, who were leading the interrogation, talked in hushed tones.

The iron doors of the dungeon suddenly groaned open, flooding the chamber with a burst of cold air.

A hush fell instantly among the witches who had been lingering in the shadows. Their murmurs died as they turned toward the tall, graceful figure entering the room.

"High Mistress…" they whispered, bowing their heads as though the mere sight of her demanded reverence.

Cornelia stepped into the chamber, her presence filling the space like an oppressive perfume. She was tall and statuesque, her every movement deliberate, draped in a gown of deep scarlet silk that trailed across the filthy stones without daring to catch the grime.