Page 4 of Moonveil and Magic

Exhaustion finally pulled me under. I left the mug half-finished on the bedside table and slipped between the sheets. Violet hopped up after me, circling twice before settling at the crook of my knees. I let my fingers rest lightly on the cat’s warm fur, grounding myself as I listened to the night. I told myself it was just another night in Ebonvale, that the city often sang with the sound of drunks stumbling home or lovers climbing out of windows. My gut, sharp as any omen, whispered otherwise.

Something’s different. Something’s wrong.

I reached down to pet Violet, and for a fleeting instant, I swore her golden eyes flashed with a sharp, almost magical light before settling back into a calm, cat-like gaze.

Sleep came heavy, but it did not last.

A sharp clatter jolted me awake. My breath caught. As my green eyes adjusted to the dark, my ears strained. The sound came again from the roof above me.

Every nerve went taut. I knew the familiar creak of my own building, the weary moan of old wood shifting in the wind, but this was different.

Heavier.

Intentional.

Someone was up there, moving with purpose, but my wards should have stopped them.

Heart hammering, I whispered a quick spell, and the invisible boundary shimmered faintly in my mind, like the brush of a string pulled taut. It was intact and untouched.

A muffled curse, harsh and low, slipped through the night. The wards stretched before snapping tight. Whoever it was hadn’t expected resistance. Footsteps scuffed, stumbled, then retreated across the tiles. Another curse faded into the distance.

Then silence.

I lay still, pulse racing, listening for any return. Nothing. Only the soft night sounds of Ebonvale reached my ears as I watched the fog pressing against the glass. Violet didn't move an inch, but her ears were pinned, watching the exact spot on the ceiling where the footsteps retreated.

My wards had held.

Relief flickered—quick and bright—and was just as swiftly crushed by dread. They hadn’t just found my building—they’d tested it. This wasn’t a coincidence. It meant knowledge. Intention. A hunter circling prey.

I shivered.

To the High Circle, the shard was a leash. But if the rumours on the street were true, men like Lucien and Kael would see it differently. From what I’d gathered of Lucien’s ruthless reputation, the billionaire warlock would likely use a fragment of primordial power to cement his status as the city’s undisputed kingmaker.

And Kael... everything about the man radiated the brutal, protective law of the streets. In his hands, this fragment, an elemental shard, wouldn't just be a power source; it would be a weapon to tear down the very corporate towers Lucien ruled from.

I was caught in the middle of a crossfire, holding a sun in my hands and praying I didn't get burned.

Unable to shake the chill of the rooftop intrusion, I slipped out of bed, my bare feet silent on the floorboards. Violet tracked me with her golden gaze but didn't follow as I padded over to the hearth. Resting on the mantelpiece, directly beneath the painted gaze of the family portrait, sat the iron-clasped Thornton family grimoire.

I pulled it onto my lap, tracing the faded silver sigil, the mark of the Ebonvale sentinels, embossed on the leather cover. I flipped the heavy parchment pages until I found my great-grandmother Violet’s handwriting. Her script was elegant but sharp, slashing across the paper as she detailed the raw mechanics of channelling elemental energy. The magic will burn, her fifty-year-old ink warned, unless the sentinel finds a grounding force strong enough to absorb the feedback. True power is never a solo act; it requires a triad of balance. We are the blood of the First Dawn, keepers of the wild currents, and the High Circle will always seek to bind us.

Right beneath her entry, she had tucked a newspaper clipping from fifty years ago, a portrait of a stern, unyielding man in midnight robes with the caption, High Warlock Alistair Vance. He is the supreme authority of the High Courts, a legendary figure known for his terrifying dedication to magical justice. My grandmother had written a single note in the margin beside his photo: The only man in the High Circle who cannot be bought. If the corrupt factions hunt you, find Vance. He executes the law without mercy.

Triad. First Dawn. Vance.

Those names made my chest tighten, the memory of Lucien and Kael crowding me against the counter rushing back with terrifying clarity. I slammed the grimoire shut, the iron clasps snapping together with a heavy click. Great-Grandmother had been a legendary sentinel, the most powerful witch of her generation, and even she had written about needing anchors.

I tucked the book back into its silk wrapping, settled it safely back onto the mantelpiece beneath the portrait, and climbed back into the safety of the blankets.

The mattress dipped as Violet padded closer, tail flicking once before curling into a warm ball at my feet. My familiar’s purr rose, steady and sure, as though declaring the danger past. I envied the certainty in Violet’s rumbling. Familiars did not doubt, nor lie awake questioning whether their wards were strong enough, or whether their secrets were written across their face.

If only I could be that sure. If only I could stop second-guessing everything.

I brushed my toes against her soft fur and let my eyes slip shut again. Sleep tugged at me, heavier now. Safe, for the moment. But just before dreams took me, a thought slithered through. The hunters were already searching the rooftops. The questions wouldn't stop tomorrow, and they wouldn't stop until my secret was uncovered.

Morning Intrusions

Morning broke bright and unexpected, a rare thing in Ebonvale, where fog usually clung to the cobblestones like a second skin. Sunlight spilled warm and golden across my bedroom, coaxing me awake.