Chapter 2 — Chapter 2

Torin

Pain scalds my wrists and ankles. Silver. The sear of enchanted restraints bites into my flesh, the faint acrid smell of burned skin lingering in the air.

My eyes adjust to the earthy walls of this cell, damp to the touch and streaked with moss, a stark contrast to the cold stone of vampire holds. A faint drip of water echoes somewhere in the distance, underscoring the witches’ preference for natural confinement. Their wards pulse with a soft, steady hum, faint glyphs flickering briefly on the walls—a sound and sight that might calm if they weren’t crafted to trap creatures like me.

The sharp, astringent scent of binding herbs stings my nostrils—sage, blackthorn, and moonroot, known for sapping undead strength. They’ve spared no expense to keep me contained. A wry smirk tugs at my lips despite the agony. The irony isn’t lost on me—I freed Althea from her prison, only to claim one myself.

I shift slightly, testing the restraints. The silver chains clank against the metal frame of the bunk, sending fresh waves of torment through my limbs. The Maker’s Bond still gnaws at me from within, Maxwell’s final command clawing against my defiance, though its edge has dulled to a bearable ache. Between that and these chains, escape is a fool’s dream.

The wards’ hum sharpens in response to my movement, their magic pressing against my skin like a prickling weight. This cell was built for beings like me—I feel it in every suppressed instinct, every stifled urge to break free.

The cell door creaks open softly. Three witches enter, their steps measured and wary. The leader draws my gaze immediately—tall and lean, with dark eyes that cut through me like glass. His hair, black as pitch, brushes the collar of a long jacket that seems to ripple like living shadow.

Flanking him are a stocky man with close-cropped brown hair, his jaw tight as he grips something at his side, and a woman with silver-streaked black hair pulled into a severe bun, her pen poised over a small pad with sharp precision. Their faces are schooled into neutrality, but their stances scream caution.

Something about the leader sets my nerves alight. It’s more than the ancient enmity between our kinds or the chains binding me. His presence thickens the air, makes breathing feel like wading through deep water. The wards pulse harder, reacting to him.

“So,” he says, his voice heavy with command, “you’re the vampire who took… our Althea.” The slight pause before her name carries a bitter edge, hinting at something deeper—protection, perhaps, or possession.

I swallow a barbed reply. Semantics won’t aid me here. The chains dig deeper as I shift to face them, my expression a careful mask.

His eyes narrow at my movement. A chill creeps into the cell, though the dim light remains unchanged. Magic radiates from him in waves—not the warm, vibrant energy I’ve felt from Althea, but something colder, more precise, a trait that seems personal rather than tied to all witchkind.

My instincts howl to bare fangs, to challenge this display of dominance. But I hold still. One misstep, and I’ll lose any chance to explain.

He steps closer, boots silent on the earthen floor. “I’m Morgan Shadowmaster of the Coven Conclave.” His lips curve into something that might pass for a smile—if ice could grin. “I trust the accommodations meet your… standards?”

I keep my face blank. Five centuries of vampire intrigue have taught me when to bite my tongue.

“Now then,” Shadowmaster continues, “let’s discuss your time with Althea Blackwood. How long was she held at your facility?”

“I helped her esc—”

“Just the duration.” His tone slices through, sharp and unyielding.

I grit my teeth, a faint hiss escaping. “Eleven months, three weeks, four days.”

He nods to the woman, who scribbles on her pad, her pen pausing briefly as if weighing my words. The wards thrum stronger, prickling my skin.

“And during this time, what methods did you use to suppress her magic?”

“That’s not—”

“The methods, vampire.” A faint sneer flickers across his face, gone as quickly as it came.

I draw a steadying breath. “Standard dampening fields. Runic suppressors. Nothing that caused lasting damage.”

The stocky witch snorts, his hand twitching toward his side. Shadowmaster’s gaze sharpens.

“Were you present during the blood extractions?”

“Yes, but I was trying to—”

“Yes or no.” Satisfaction seeps through his controlled facade. “Did you personally participate in these extractions?”

The silver sears deeper as I shift. “Yes.” I’m not proud of it, but it was a lesser evil compared to Lucien’s sadistic methods.

“And did you consume her blood?”

“No!” The denial snaps out, sharper than intended.

Shadowmaster arches a brow, lingering on the question, letting the silence stretch until it feels like a noose. “No? Not even once? That seems… improbable.”

“I would never.” The lie tastes bitter, the thought of her blood stirring my fangs. But to take it unwillingly? Unthinkable.

“The truth will surface in time,” he says, his tone heavy with implication.

I see it now—they’ve already judged me guilty. Each question is a brick in the wall of my condemnation. My role in Althea’s escape means nothing; they’re crafting a case for execution, or worse, a magical binding that would strip me of will. My fate at the Conclave in two days feels like a blade already poised.

Memories of our escape surge unbidden, triggered by the silver’s burn mirroring the Maker’s Bond that night. Althea’s face, pale but fierce under moonlight. Her hand clutching mine as we fled the facility’s grounds. Then, in the vehicle, as her rescuers neared, the Bond had torn into me like molten steel, my chest crushing inward, vision dimming.

“Come with me!” she’d urged. “We can fix you. They’ll save you!”

I knew it was impossible, knew it would lead here. But seeing her run to safety, to her family’s embrace—that made every torment worthwhile. I’d endure it again for that single image of her freedom.

Yet, in that moment of agony, as the Bond sought to unmake me for defying Maxwell—a betrayal among vampires akin to shattering a sacred blood-oath—something else had intervened. Her voice, not spoken but resonating in my mind, clear and piercing.

*Torin.*

It was like tasting life itself, forbidden and impossible for my kind. Her essence—warm, vital—anchored me when all else sought to tear me asunder. For a fleeting second, I felt her fear for me, her gratitude, a depth of care that shattered centuries of guarded walls. That connection gave me the strength to endure, to see her safe.

Even now, with Shadowmaster’s frigid gaze on me, an echo of her presence lingers like a whisper in my thoughts. The Maker’s Bond, its purpose spent, has faded to a dull throb.

His voice cuts through. “…and, of course, the Blood Assembly has been notified of your capture.”

I snap back to the present, a chill tracing my spine at the mention. His slight emphasis on certain words, the calculated phrasing—these aren’t mere questions.

“They’re quite interested in discussing your… actions,” he adds, watching me closely. “Particularly regarding the facility uncovered during recent rescue efforts—and whether Maxwell Kern sanctioned your role there.”

“What?” I bite out, unable to restrain myself. “What does he have to do with this?”

“That remains to be seen.” His eyes glint with something unreadable. “He is your maker, isn’t he?”

How does he know? Maker lines aren’t hidden, but they’re not common knowledge to outsiders. Certainly not to witches. Yet he wields this like a weapon, slicing into the heart of my betrayal. My gut churns—Lucien’s shadow looms over this, and I doubt the outcome will favor me.

“You seem taken aback,” Shadowmaster observes, a faint chill deepening around him. “Did you think the covens ignorant of vampire hierarchies? Of the weight of Makers’ Bonds?”

I force my face to stone, though my mind reels. “The Assembly might be curious who’s feeding you such intimate details of our affairs.”

His smile is a cold, empty thing. “I’m sure they would. Unfortunately, you won’t speak with them until we’re through.”

The silver torments with every breath, but I keep my spine rigid, my gaze level. They won’t see me crumble, no matter the strain.

“And why is that?” My voice remains even, betraying nothing.

“The Conclave convenes in two days to hear your case,” he declares, finality ringing in his words. “Until then, you remain under guard. The charges include kidnapping, forced blood extraction, and conspiracy against the covens. We’ve records from the facility—testimonies of your involvement in Lucien’s… experiments.”

I open my mouth to protest, but a sharp gesture silences me.

“Althea’s testimony will be required, of course.”

My control slips at her name, a flicker of tension easing from my shoulders despite myself. “Is she…?” The question catches, softer than intended. “Is she alright?”

A spark of surprise—or is it disdain?—crosses Shadowmaster’s face, the chill around him briefly stilling.

“She’s recovering,” he says after a moment, his tone measured. “The healers are with her.”

Relief surges through me, a fleeting warmth against the silver’s bite, though worry gnaws in its wake. Will she speak for me at the Conclave, or has my aid come too late to earn her trust? I need to know more, but I can’t show further weakness. I lift my chin, forcing indifference back into place.

“Good,” I say, clipped.

“I’ll leave you to reflect on your past deeds,” he says, ice in every word. “And perhaps what awaits.” With that, he turns, the door thudding shut behind him. The wards pulse once, sharply, before settling into their steady hum, the sound echoing in the sudden silence.

Alone, I let my head rest against the damp wall, the faint drip of water marking time. The silver’s sting is relentless, but it pales beside the weight of what looms—two days until the Conclave’s judgment, a collective justice so unlike the solitary power plays of vampire courts I’ve navigated for centuries. Charges of cruelty, conspiracy, all tied to a facility where I stood by for a year, watching Althea suffer. I recall her flinch during one extraction, the quiet gasp as crimson welled under sterile lights, my hands steady but my soul fracturing—a memory that stabs deeper than silver now, even as I know I fought to free her in the end.

Centuries of calculated moves, of balancing power and shadow, and yet here I am, ensnared between vampire law and witch retribution—all because I couldn’t bear her pain any longer. If this is my penance, so be it. I’ve failed others in my long life, let ambition blind me to their suffering. Helping Althea was a chance to right that, a sacrifice I’d make again.

Althea.

Her name anchors me, drowning out the restraints, the fading Bond, even the specter of my fate. I see her eyes, fierce with determination as we fled, a beacon in the dark of that night. If the Conclave deems me guilty, if Lucien’s lies prevail, I’d still choose this path. The silver sears, but not as fiercely as the thought of never seeing that resolve in her gaze again.