Chapter One Hundred Fourteen
School didn’t care about emotional breakthroughs or prophecy-induced exhaustion. School wanted attendance. Training, And so, the morning after returning to the academy, Avery and her mates slipped back into their routine - a routine that felt strangely steadier now, strengthened by the time they’d spent together, and the bonds they continue to strengthen every day.
Avery’s birth mom, Remy, had taken over their magic training, and honestly? It made sense. Avery’s abilities were… a lot. Elemental, Psychic, Healing, Shadow-touch. And the strange, ancient magic that no one had names for yet.
Her mates had each inherited pieces of her abilities through the bond - which meant they all needed to train together, learn how their powers interacted, and figure out how to not accidentally blow up a classroom.
Remy handled it with the patience of a saint and sarcasm, “Avery, sweetheart, that’s too much fire. Kael, stop encouraging her. Lucien, shields up. Riven, not everything needs to be solved with a blade. Molly, thank you for being the only one listening.”
Molly was absolutely not listening…. But she smiled sweetly, and Remy let it slide.
Outside of magic training, Avery;s schedule was almost normal; regular classes, supernatural realm history, medical training; where she shared a few classes with Riven and Molly, combat and strategy, which was always with her mates.
The days blurred together in a comforting way. Study. Train, Eat. Laugh. Sleep tangled together. Repeat. Her mates were always close - not suffocating, just present. A steady orbit around her, and she around them.
And the council, they handled all of the prep for the summit. This was the hardest for the five of them. The waiting.
Varyn moved quickly once Londrell gave the order. Within an hour, every faction loyal to Londrell was gathered - either in the great hall of his high rise, their main base of operations, or appearing on shimmering projections along the walls. Warriors, strategists, scholars, shade-binders, and the old guard who had served Londrell’s grandfather before him. The air was thick with tension, Expectation, fear, and something darker simmering beneath the surface.
When Londrell steps out onto the raised platform, the room falls silent. He looked different. Not weaker, not broken, but changed - like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, staring down at the truth he could no longer ignore. Varyn stood to his right, arms crossed, eyes sharp. The others watched with a mixture of loyalty, suspicion, a nd hunger.
Londrell took a breath, “I returned to the supernatural realm to visit my grandfathers grave.” A murmur rippled through the crowd - grief, respect, and the echo of the old man’s influence.
Londrell continues, “While I was there, the fairies confronted me. They showed me visions - not of prophecy, but of consequence.” He let his words sink in before continuing, “I saw destruction, desolation. The land dying beneath our feet. Rivers drying, forest rotting, and magic unraveling.”
Some of his followers stiffened, others scoffed, a few exchanged uneasy glances. Londrell pushes on, “This is what our path leads to. Not the victory or dominance like we believed. There is no purity. Just everything we hold dear, our identities will die. We are heading towards Extinction.”
The hall erupts into murmured voices - disbelief, anger, confusion. Varyn lifts his hands, and silence falls again. Londrell’s gaze sweeps the room, “The fairies offered me an invitation. A summit. A chance to speak and be heard. To explain our intentions. We will have an audience with Avery and her mates.”
A free followers snarled at Aver’s name. Others looked wary. Some intrigued. Londrell says, “I accepted.”
There are gasps, shouts, and a few curses. Varyn steps forward, voice sharp, “Youu will hear him out.” The room quieted, but the tension thickened.
Londrell’s voice drops, heavy with something raw, “I hate what this war is doing. I hate what it is turning us into. I never wanted the supernatural realm to die. I never wanted to poison the land we claim to protect.” He looks down at his hands = hands that had commanded shades, spilled blood, carried his grandfather’s legacy like a curse, “But if we continue as we are… that is exactly what will happen.”
Silence. A heavy, suffocating silence.
Londrell straightens, “I am opening the floor. I want your opinions. Your suggestions. Your truth.” He spreads his hands, “How do we handle this invitation? How do we move forward? Is death and destruction truly the path we want?”
For a moment, no one spoke. Then voices rose - hesitant at first, then louder. Some called for diplomacy. Some urged caution. Some demanded strategy.
Londrell didn;t notice those that weren’’t speaking. The ones in the back, whose eyes had gone cold. The ones whispering to each other with sharp, hungry expressions. The ones who wanted the world to burn. The ones who believed the supernatural realm deserved to fall. That chaos was purity, and destruction was destiny.
They watched Londrell with growing resentment. Because in their eyes…. He was wavering, he was softening, he was betraying the legacy of the man buried beneath the willow. And they would not follow a leader who hesitated. Not when they creaved annihilation. Not when they believed the prophecy should end in blood.
Londrell didn’t see the danger forming behind him. But it was there. Growing, waiting, and ready to strike the moment he faltered.