169

169

The air in the room feels heavier after they realized Adiorina must have blocked all links to reach her.

"We have to summon Melissa." Lumina says, Bianca's eyes lit up.

"That will require enough energy to call on the dead, is not just a soul, a soul buried in a curse..." Bianca warns.

"I have no choice Bianca, I am desperate... I can't watch my child suffer so much..."

The women nod in agreement.

The smell of burnt sage lingers, curling through the dim space as they prepare what's needed. Channeling the link Lumina had with Arwan who is a direct blood to Melissa.

"Are you sure it will work..." The young messenger ask.

"If Arwan was once bound to the Queen Mother, there's always a trace left. That's why you must be careful who you connect with, whether physically or spiritually." Ardan who used to be one of Latifa's witches explains.

No one moves at first. Lumina’s eyes are fixed on the center of the table where the bowl of darkened water reflects the flicker of candlelight. The others Bianca, Ardan, and two more witches from the circle shift in their seats, glancing between her and the symbols painted on the floor.

“Are we… doing this now?” Bianca’s voice is low, almost hesitant, as if the answer might summon danger faster than the ritual itself.

Lumina nods once, slowly, the tension in her shoulders making the motion stiff. “Now. Before the trail fades.”

One of the witches, an older woman with a sharp jaw and eyes like glass, leans forward. “The veil is thin tonight. But Melissa… she won’t come easy.”

“She doesn’t need to come easy,” Lumina says, her gaze still locked on the water. “She just needs to come.”

Bianca exhales sharply and pushes herself up from the chair. The wooden legs scrape against the floor, loud in the tense silence. “Fine. Let’s just get this over with.”

The witches begin moving, their steps measured, skirts brushing against the painted sigils. Ardan stays near the door, his arms folded, jaw tight. He’s not a witch, but his presence is both protective and restless…like he’s ready to drag Lumina out if things turn bad.

They form a half-circle around the table. Candles are shifted into position, herbs placed in a small clay dish. The sharp scent of mugwort rises as one of the women crushes it between her fingers.

Lumina takes her seat at the head of the table. Her fingers hover over the surface of the water before dipping in two drops of oil. The ripples spread slowly, the surface catching more light than it should, as if it’s already listening.

“Repeat after me,” the older witch says, her voice dropping into the cadence of ritual.

They chant, voices low, rhythm steady. Words in the old tongue roll through the air, their sound pulling at the edges of the room. The temperature dips. The candle flames thin and stretch toward the bowl.

Bianca’s eyes flick toward Lumina. The set of Lumina’s jaws tells her not to speak, not to break the flow.

The chant grows heavier, syllables pressing down on their chests. Lumina feels her pulse syncing to the rhythm, her skin prickling as if something unseen is circling just beyond the reach of the candlelight.

The older witch throws a pinch of the crushed mugwort into the bowl. The water hisses like it’s alive.

“Melissa, daughter of Eleora of PhantomMoon,” she intones, louder now. “By blood and by bond, by the threads you left behind, we call you here.”

The shadows on the wall seem to lean in.

Bianca glances toward the corner of the room where the darkness looks thicker, almost tangible. Her lips part to say something, but a sudden gust snuffs out two candles, plunging half the table into deeper gloom.

Ardan’s hand twitches toward his knife. “That normal?” he asks.

“Stay back,” Lumina snaps, not breaking her focus.

The older witch raises her voice, the chant sharper now, an order instead of an invitation. The air grows dense, like they’re breathing through cloth. The water in the bowl begins to swirl, slow at first, then faster, as if stirred by an invisible hand.

A faint whisper slides through the room. Not in their language. Not in any language Ardan recognizes.

Bianca’s hand tightens on the edge of the table. “She’s here,” she mutters.

Lumina feels it before she hears it—the weight of a presence pushing in, thickening the air until her ears ring. Her heart hammers. She forces her voice steady. “Melissa, we seek your spirit. We—”

The water erupts, splashing over the rim. A sharp, invisible force slams into Bianca, throwing her backward into the wall. The crack of impact is loud enough to make Ardan flinch.

“Bianca!” Lumina shoves back her chair, but Bianca groans, already struggling to sit up.

The older witch is still chanting, but now her voice is strained, the words pulling like barbed wire through the air.

A cold wind whips around the room though no windows are open, rattling the candles, making the flames bend low. The whisper turns into a voice—raspy, layered, like more than one throat speaking at once.

“You should not have called me.”

Lumina’s spine locks. The voice feels like it’s inside her bones. “We need answers. We—”

“You want peace?” The laugh that follows is a jagged sound, not quite human. “I don’t want peace.”

The older witch tries to speak over it, but the voice drowns her out.

“I want what was taken. I want blood. I want the boy.”

Lumina’s breath catches. “What boy?”

The candles gutter. The shadows pulse like a heartbeat.

“Your son.”

The words slice through the room. For a heartbeat, no one moves, no one breathes.

Lumina’s chair scrapes against the floor as she stands. “You will not touch him.” Her voice shakes, but not from fear—from rage.

The spirit’s presence swells, pressing against them from every side. “Then you should not have summoned me.”

Bianca pulls herself fully upright, wincing, one hand braced on the wall. “Lumina—”

The bowl of water tips over on its own, spilling across the table. The herbs scatter. The air seems to fold in on itself, and the cold deepens until their breath clouds in front of them.

The older witch slams her palm against the table, chanting faster, trying to force the presence back.

The voice fades to a whisper, but the last words are clear, cutting through the crackle of the dying candles.

“The boy dies… or the curse remains.”

The final candle goes out. Darkness swallows the room, then lit up again flickering, giving the dark room  a little light again.

"Woah, she won't make it easy" Bianca says.

Lumina nods slowly, the fire in her eyes dim but still smoldering. “I know.” She steps over to the flickering candle, watching the weak flame dance like a spirit refusing to die. The room feels colder than before, as if the darkness from the spirit’s wrath had seeped into every corner.

Ardan leans forward, voice low and sharp. “We underestimated her. The hatred isn’t just a curse; it’s a living thing, feeding on everything she left behind.”

One of the witches, standing near the doorway, lets out a slow breath. “If Melissa’s spirit can throw the Queen Mother around like that, what hope do we have?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy and unspoken. Lumina feels the weight of it like a stone sinking deep into her gut.

She clenches her fists, nails digging into her palms until they bleed. “I will not lose my son,” she whispers, voice rough. “Not to her or anyone.”

Bianca straightens, winces as she moves but forces herself up. “Then what? What do we do now? We can’t call her again—she won’t come. We can’t fight what we can’t see.”

Lumina’s gaze hardens. “We learn. We prepare. This is a war. And wars aren’t won by prayers alone.”

Ardan looks at Lumina, voice cautious. “How about you sacrifice what's more than what she gave?"

Lumina’s eyes sharpen. “Tell me more.”

He hesitates but then leans closer. “They involve bargaining with spirits, trading pieces of your soul for power or knowledge. The risk is losing yourself entirely—becoming something not quite human, that's what Melissa did but then it was for vengeance, what if it's done for the love you have for your child.”

The room falls silent again, each of them feeling the weight of that choice. The risk feels crushing, but the idea of doing nothing feels worse.

Bianca’s voice is soft but resolute. “If that’s the price, then so be it. We don’t get to choose what love costs.”

Lumina nods, swallowing the lump in her throat.