Chapter 79 Ascension

Chapter 79 Ascension
The house was quieter than usual, though Lorraine could still hear the faint murmur of Roman’s coven gathering in the great hall below. Preparations for the night’s ritual stretched through the corridors: the smell of sage smoke, the soft thud of boots against marble, the whisper of fabric as witches moved with purpose.
Lorraine, however, wasn’t ready to join them. Not yet. Her feet carried her down the dim hallway toward Roman’s room. The door stood ajar, a thin line of golden lamplight cutting across the darkened corridor.
She hesitated for a moment, gathering her courage. She wasn’t sure what she would say—only that she needed to see him.
Inside, Roman sat at his desk, shirt sleeves rolled up, a tumbler of whiskey untouched beside a scatter of parchment. His brow was furrowed, his hand resting against his temple as if he could press away the storm already brewing outside.
He didn’t look up when she stepped inside. “I thought you’d be with the others.”
“I will be,” she said softly. “But first, I needed to check on you.”
That made him lift his head. His eyes, pale and storm-bright, locked on hers. “Check on me? Lorraine, it’s you who’s about to step into the fire tonight.”
“I know,” she admitted, crossing the room until she stood beside him. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not carrying the weight too. You always are.”
Roman exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair. “I should be the one asking if you’re afraid.”
“I am,” she said honestly. Then she placed her hand over his. “But seeing you like this—bent under everything you hold inside—it reminds me that I’m not the only one walking into something bigger than myself. You don’t have to pretend with me, Roman."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, warm and heavy. Then his hand turned, his fingers threading through hers.
“You steady me,” he said finally, his voice low. “Even when I feel like I’m falling apart inside.”
Her chest tightened. She sank down onto the arm of his chair, leaning into his shoulder. “Then let me steady you a little longer. We’ll walk into this together.”
Roman pressed a kiss to her temple, his lips lingering. “You’ve no idea how much I need you.”
She smiled faintly, though her heart hammered in her chest. “I think I do, because I need you, too.”
When she stood to leave, she felt lighter. Stronger. Ready.
The air was thick with candle smoke and murmurs. Roman’s estate had never felt so alive, its walls holding the heartbeat of every ally gathered within. Lorraine stood in the center of the circle, her hands trembling at her sides, not from fear but from the weight pressing on her chest. Tonight was not practice. Tonight was not just ritual. Tonight was a threshold.
Shanta moved first, sweeping her hand in an arc of salt, her bracelets clinking as though echoing the ancestors. Despoina followed, placing black candles at the four directions, her voice steady and commanding as she whispered invocations in French. Roman’s coven flanked them, each witch adding threads of their unique power to the air. The room vibrated with a low hum, a symphony of magic gathering like a storm waiting to break.
Lorraine caught Rhyan’s gaze across the circle. Her sister of the moon. Her anchor. The prophecy weighed between them now, unspoken but undeniable.
“Are you ready?” Rhyan whispered.
Lorraine swallowed hard and nodded.
Despoina’s eyes glittered with both pride and warning. “Then call them, l’élu. Call the blood that runs in your veins.”
Lorraine shut her eyes and let go. Her breath slowed, her heart synced to the rhythm of the chants around her. She reached deeper than she ever had before—beyond muscle, beyond bone, into the very marrow where her blood hummed with Moreau fire.
And they came.
The first was a woman with gentle eyes and braids streaked with silver. The next, a tall man cloaked in shadow but smiling with warmth. Then dozens more, faces she did not know but hearts she felt as intimately as her own breath. Their voices rose together, overlapping like waves, filling her mind with songs older than time.
“Lorraine…” they whispered. “Child of Jadis. The door is open. Step through.”
She opened her eyes. Around her, the air shimmered, heavy with light. Her skin glowed faintly, veins lit like molten silver. She looked down and gasped—sigils were scrawled across her forearms, not written but burned into being, ancestral marks of the Moreau line.
Rhyan’s voice cut through, strong and sure. “We’re here together. You’re not alone.”
Lorraine stretched her hand toward her. Their palms met, and the connection flared.
Moonlight burst between them, flooding the circle. It poured from their joined hands, rising in a column that pierced the ceiling. Outside, thunder cracked, Dwade’s storm answering in fury. But Lorraine’s light didn’t falter. It surged outward, pure and relentless, forcing the shadows at the edges of the room to shrink.
The ancestors stood taller now, behind them, chanting in unison. Their power funneled into Lorraine and Rhyan, weaving their bond into an unbreakable cord.
“Now,” Despoina urged, her voice breaking with awe. “Sever the tie. Break his hold.”
Lorraine focused, seeing not the estate around her but the bayou—the broken bridge, the house that reeked of rot, the pulsing blackness that anchored Dwade’s storm. It glowed like a festering wound, and she saw the thread: a tether of shadow stretching from him to the pact site, thick as a serpent.
She and Rhyan lifted their joined hands higher, light pouring between them. With the ancestors behind them, with the moon itself above, they hurled their power at the tether.
The shadows shrieked.
The cord bucked, twisting, trying to hold. Lorraine felt her body strain, felt her skin splitting under the sheer force of channeling so much magic. But Rhyan gritted her teeth, grounding them both, keeping the circle whole.
Lorraine screamed, her voice raw with both agony and triumph, as the tether snapped.
A blinding crack split the air. The storm outside faltered, its roar cut into silence for one long, impossible moment. Then the ground shuddered, like the Quarter itself had exhaled after years of being strangled.
The light dimmed. The ancestors faded back into the veil, but not before one, a woman with familiar eyes, pressed her hand to Lorraine’s chest.
“You are not done,” the voice whispered. “But you are chosen.”
Lorraine fell to her knees, gasping. Roman rushed to her side, his arms catching her before she could collapse completely.
“It’s done,” Despoina said, breathless. “The pact is weakened. His storm is no longer invincible.”
Lorraine leaned against Roman, her body trembling, her skin still hot with sigil-light. She had never felt so alive—and so terrified. She knew this was only the beginning.
But as Rhyan knelt on her other side, gripping her hand, Lorraine felt the bond between them blaze. Sisters of the moon. Heirs of Jadis.
And for the first time, she believed they could win.