Chapter 75 The translation

Chapter 75 The translation


Blackmar Manor — Evening

"This is a cursed language."

The old woman's voice was raspy, like wind through dead leaves. She stood in the center of Draven's study, her ancient fingers hovering over the spell book's pages with a mixture of reverence and disgust.

Draven's crimson-black eyes fixed on her intently. "Can you translate it?"

She looked up at him, her pale eyes sharp despite her age. "I can translate it. But it's not easy. It will take me a little bit of time."

"I don't care how long it takes," Draven said, his voice cold and precise. "I need those spells and rituals translated properly. Every word and every symbol. No mistakes."

The old woman studied him for a long moment, and something like pity flickered across her weathered face. "Yes, sir. I will do as you wish."

They had brought her to him just before dark, exactly as Draven had demanded.

She was old enough to be his grandmother perhaps even older than that but she didn't look it in the way most ancient beings did. Her face was lined with age, yes, but there was a vitality to her that defied the years. Her hair was long, impossibly long, falling to her knees in silver-white waves that seemed to shimmer faintly in the candlelight.

She wore a long silver garment that dragged behind her as she walked, the fabric catching the light and shining dully with each movement, like moonlight reflected on still water.

Draven didn't care about her appearance. Didn't care about the warnings in her eyes or the way she looked at the spell book like it might bite her.

He only cared about one thing.

The translations.

And he would get them.

"You have everything you need?" Draven asked, his tone making it clear this wasn't really a question.

"I do," the old woman replied, already turning back to the book.

"Good." Draven moved toward the door. "I'll return in a few hours. Don't disappoint me."

He left the room without waiting for a response, the heavy door closing behind him with a decisive thud.

Draven paced the corridors of his manor, restless energy thrumming through his veins.

Three hours felt like an eternity.

He tried to occupy himself with other matters reports from his scouts, updates on the Varex defenses, intelligence about Morgana's movements but his mind kept returning to that room. To the spell book. To the power that was finally, finally within his reach.

The Varex had been untouchable for too long. Protected by their Blood Diamond Key, their alliances, their insufferable superiority.

But that was about to end.

Once he understood the spells in that book, once he could wield Morgana's ancient magic for himself, nothing would stop him. Not the Moonborn. Not the Varex siblings. Not even their precious wards and protective enchantments.

He would tear them apart.

And he would enjoy every moment of it.

When three hours had passed, Draven returned to the study.

The old woman stood by the window, her back to him. She looked tired no, more than tired. She looked drained, like the work had pulled something vital from her very essence.

"Well?" Draven's voice cut through the silence.

The old woman turned slowly, and Draven saw the exhaustion etched into every line of her face. Her eyes were dim, her movements sluggish.

But there was satisfaction there too. The satisfaction of a job completed.

"I have translated your book," she said, her voice weaker than before but steady. "And all the spells you may need are all in there." She gestured toward the table where the spell book lay open, now covered in her careful annotations. "So have at it, child."

Draven's eyes lit up with something dark and hungry. He moved past her immediately, his attention wholly focused on the book.

The old woman watched him for a moment, then bowed slightly a gesture that seemed almost mocking despite its formality and turned toward the door.

"Wait," Draven said without looking up from the pages. "Your payment. Name your price."

The old woman paused in the doorway. "I require no payment from you, Draven Valios. What you're about to unleash will be payment enough."

She walked away, her silver garment trailing behind her like a funeral shroud.

As she descended the manor's stairs, she muttered under her breath, her voice barely a whisper but laced with grim certainty.

"That child plans to destroy us all with that book."

But she didn't turn back. Didn't try to stop him.

Some fates, she knew, were inevitable.

Draven barely noticed her departure.

He was already consumed by the translations, his eyes devouring the careful notes the old woman had left in the margins. Spells of corruption that could twist a person's mind from the inside out. Binding rituals that could chain even the strongest magic. Curses that could break bloodline protections.

And there his breath caught there it was.

The Severance Ritual.

A spell specifically designed to sever a Moonborn's connection to their pack, to their ancestors, to the very source of their power. It would leave them vulnerable and powerless. Worst of all human.

Easy to kill.

Draven's hands trembled slightly as he read through the instructions. It was complex, yes. It required specific components, precise timing, and a level of magical control most witches didn't possess.

But he could do it. And he would do it.

A slow, cold smile spread across his face.

"Finally," he murmured to the empty room, his voice thick with dark triumph.

He closed the book carefully, almost reverently, and looked up at the ceiling as if he could see through it to the sky beyond. To the estate where the Moonborn lay unconscious and vulnerable.

"Get ready, Moonborn," Draven whispered, his crimson-black eyes glowing in the dim light. "You are mine."

The pieces were in place. The spell was translated. The trap was set.

And soon very soon the Varex would fall at his feet.

And the Moonborn would be his to destroy.