47. The Ritual.

LUCY’S POV

I didn’t sleep the night before.

My body felt too heavy to move, yet too restless to stay still. I kept hearing my father’s words again and again—“You have to do it whether you like it or not.”

But underneath that, buried and stubborn, Adrian’s voice kept cutting through everything: “Have some self-respect… wolves don’t mate without desire.”

Those two voices battled in my head until dawn broke.

By morning, I felt like something inside me had cracked open.

Something dark.

Something tired.

Something ready.

My father said the witch had already sent for us before sunrise—that the ritual had to begin under the half moon. I didn’t argue. I didn’t complain. I didn’t ask questions. I simply walked behind him, my feet dragging on the path, my mind numb.

We reached the shrine a little after noon.

The air was dry, smoky, heavy with burnt herbs. The trees bent inward like they were listening. The stones around the old shrine were dark with time and something I didn’t want to name. My father held the sealed urn of ashes with both hands, clutching it as if it were some sacred treasure and not the remains of a vampire general whose life had been taken for power.

Beside him, two men carried the dead werewolf—the prisoner he said was “necessary.”

I tried not to look at the body.

But the stench of dried blood still clung to it, mixing with the bitter smell of the forest.

When the witch appeared, she didn’t walk.

She seemed to glide.

Her robes dragged across the dusty ground, sweeping it clean like a living shadow.

Her eyes glowed faintly—too bright for daylight, too knowing for my comfort. She didn’t greet us. She only looked at me long and hard, then turned to my father.

“You came early,” she said in a low voice that felt like wind scraping through bone.

“The earlier, the better,” my father replied firmly. “We don’t have time. The council is restless.”

The witch nodded once. “Follow me.”

She led us down a path behind the shrine—a narrow, winding descent that I never knew existed. The deeper we went, the colder the air became. The forest noises faded until everything was hollow and still. Then, suddenly, the trees parted, revealing a clearing with a massive stone door carved into the hillside.

The witch raised her hand.

The stone slabs shuddered…

Groaned…

Then slowly opened with a crackling sound.

“The forbidden oracle,” she said.

My breath caught.

I’d heard whispers about it since childhood—an underground chamber where rituals that were too dangerous, too unpredictable, too cursed were performed. But I never believed it was real. I never imagined I’d be brought here. I never imagined I would be the reason it was opened again.

The witch stepped inside first, then motioned for the men to bring the body. My father followed after her, still gripping that urn like his life depended on it.

But when I tried to step in, she lifted her hand sharply.

“Only the father may enter with the offerings.”

I froze.

My father didn’t hesitate. He walked in, vanishing into the darkness of the stone doorway. I stayed outside, shivering despite the heat.

Minutes stretched.

Maybe hours.

I couldn’t tell.

When he finally came back out, the witch was behind him. She handed him a cloth to wipe his hands, and I didn’t ask why the cloth was stained dark.

“You will wait outside,” the witch told him. “I need to speak with your daughter alone.”

My father looked at me, nodded once, then walked away toward the trees where the shade swallowed him whole.

The witch turned to me, her face unreadable.

“Come.”

I stepped inside.

The air inside the oracle was colder, thick, and humming with something ancient. Torches burned with blue fire, casting long shadows that stretched in impossible directions. Symbols carved into the floor glowed faintly beneath my feet.

The witch led me to the center of the chamber.

“Before anything begins,” she murmured, “I must know something.”

She stepped closer until I could feel her breath on my skin.

“Do you truly want to do this?”

My chest tightened.

Adrian’s voice echoed instantly—“Have some self-respect…”

His eyes, his disappointment, his refusal, all of it collided with the council’s threats, my father’s pressure, my rank hanging in the balance.

The witch tilted her head.

“Do you want the power? The safety? The validation? Or do you want revenge?”

I swallowed hard.

My reasons tangled together—anger, humiliation, pressure, desperation, a desire to prove myself, a desire to punish someone… maybe even myself. But I forced all of it down.

All that mattered… was that I was tired of being powerless.

“Yes,” I whispered. “I want to do it.”

The witch watched me in silence, her eyes piercing into places inside me I didn’t want anyone to see. Then she nodded slowly.

“Very well. But listen carefully. If you break my instructions—if you flinch, resist, or let your mind wander during the binding—there will be consequences. Not for me. Not for your father. For you.”

I shivered.

“I understand,” I whispered.

“Good.”

She motioned for me to step deeper into the oracle. The floor beneath me vibrated lightly as she began drawing lines around me with a powder that glowed faintly—silver and blue.

Then she placed three objects before me:

The sealed urn.

A bowl containing the werewolf’s blood.

And a black stone knife.

“Do not speak,” she warned. “Do not move unless I tell you to. And do not—under any circumstance—look away from the flame when it appears.”

I nodded.

The witch began chanting—low at first, like a murmur beneath the earth. Then louder. Then louder still. The air around us thickened until every breath felt like swallowing dust. The ground pulsed, vibrating under my bare feet.

A thin line of light broke through the darkness.

Then another.

Then the torches flared violently, their blue flames stretching upward like claws.

The witch’s voice grew sharper, twisting through the chamber like the shriek of something waking from centuries of sleep. She lifted her arms, and the symbols beneath me throbbed, lighting up with painful brightness.

My heartbeat slammed against my ribs.

Suddenly, everything went silent.

Utterly, terrifyingly silent.

Then—

A blinding flash erupted.

The world around me dissolved.

The oracle vanished.

The torches vanished.

The witch vanished.

Everything went white.

Then black.

Then nothing.

I felt myself falling—slowly at first, then faster, as if pulled by invisible hands. My ears rang. My vision blurred. My knees buckled beneath me. Pain shot through my head so sharply that I gasped—but no sound came out.

The whiteness swallowed everything.

Then my legs gave out.

And I collapsed.

Flat against the cold stone floor.

My last thought before darkness dragged me under was a whisper I couldn’t control, a final betrayal of the mind I swore to harden:

Adrian…

Then everything went blank.