As I spread the ancient manuscripts across the wooden table in the cathedral archives, a memory surfaced unbidden—my mother's voice echoing through the years with cold disappointment.
I was twelve years old, sitting in Mother's study while she attempted to teach me basic elemental manipulation. My sisters had mastered these exercises by age ten, but my magic remained frustratingly weak and unpredictable.
"Again," Mother commanded, her storm-gray eyes fixed on the candle before me. "Light the wick."
I concentrated until my head ached, feeling the familiar trickle of power that never seemed enough for anything useful. The flame flickered to life for barely a second before guttering out.
"Pathetic," she sighed. "Morgana, show your sister how it's done."
My eldest sister stepped forward with smug confidence, igniting not just the candle but every piece of wax in the room with casual ease. Fire danced around her fingers like obedient pets.
"I don't understand why she's so weak," Morgana said, not bothering to hide her disdain. "The blood magic will never respond to her."
"What's blood magic?" I asked quietly, though I suspected I wasn't supposed to speak.
Mother's expression hardened.
"Nothing you need to concern yourself with, child. Blood magic requires strength and control you'll never possess. It's the most dangerous and powerful form of our craft—and the rarest. Those who can wield it are worth their weight in diamonds."
"But I felt something when I cut my finger yesterday…"
"You felt pain," Mother cut me off sharply. "Nothing more. Don't mistake childhood accidents for magical ability. You barely have enough power for basic charms, let alone something as sophisticated as blood work."
Lilith, who'd been quietly observing from her corner, spoke up with uncharacteristic gentleness. "Maybe she just needs more time to develop…"
"She needs to accept her limitations," Mother snapped. "False hope serves no one. Rowan will never be more than a minor practitioner at best. The sooner she understands that, the better."
The memory faded, leaving me staring at the manuscripts with bitter irony.
Mother had been wrong about so many things. But her words about blood magic being rare and valuable echoed in my mind as I returned to the present moment.
Armed with new knowledge from overheard conversations and carefully catalogued references, I'd finally managed to piece together the truth about the legendary sword I'd been hunting.
It wasn't just a legend. The Sword of Saint Michael was real, hidden within the Order's most sacred vaults, specifically forged centuries ago to combat witchcraft with devastating efficiency.
The weapon had been blessed by dozens of saints, infused with holy relics, and tempered in waters from the River Jordan.
According to the most recent documents I'd uncovered, it could cut through any magical defense, dispel enchantments, and cause fatal wounds to supernatural creatures that would never heal.
My family had every reason to fear this weapon. If the Order ever decided to move against the covens with serious intent, the sword could tip the balance of power decisively in their favor.
But as I sat surrounded by centuries of accumulated knowledge, a different kind of terror was building in my chest. The research had awakened something else entirely—something far more immediate and dangerous than any ancient weapon.
I retreated to a small storage closet deep in the archives, needing privacy for what I was about to attempt.
My hands were trembling as I picked up a sharp quill, steeling myself for the experiment that had been nagging at me since my confrontation with Dominic.
With grim determination, I pressed the quill into my fingertip. The metal bit into my skin with a familiar sting, and a single drop of crimson welled up from the small wound. But instead of falling to drip onto the stone floor, it hovered in the air at my unspoken command.
I stared at it with fascination and a growing alarm, watching the blood droplet dance between my fingers like liquid fire. I could manipulate it, shape it, make it respond to my will with an ease that felt both natural and terrifying.
Mother had been wrong.
So very, catastrophically wrong.
When I tried to force the blood to move in a specific pattern, tracing my initials in the air, it suddenly lost cohesion and splattered against the stone wall with violent impact. The moment it made contact, the wall began to sizzle.
My blood burned through solid stone like acid, carving a smoking pit into masonry that had stood for centuries.
The implications terrified me more than any legendary weapon ever could. This wasn't the minor magic I'd always possessed—this was something new, something powerful. Something that could expose me if I lost control at the wrong moment.
As I stared at the acid-scarred stone wall, another fragment of memory echoed through my mind—Mother's voice, cold and clinical.
"Blood magic awakens only under the most extreme circumstances. Trauma, mortal terror, or..." She'd paused, her expression thoughtful. "The kind of emotional awakening that comes from discovering something worth dying to protect."
My heart clenched as I realized what had triggered this awakening. Not fear or anger or desperation, as Mother had always taught.
Love.
The very emotion she'd claimed would destroy any blood magic practitioner. I fell in love with Mikael, and that love was unlocking power I'd never dreamed of possessing.
The weapon my family wanted to use for genocide might find salvation among their intended victims, but my own awakening abilities could prove even more dangerous.
Not to my enemies, but to myself and everyone around me.
I gathered the manuscripts with shaking hands, returning them to their proper places with meticulous care. Everything had to appear exactly as I'd found it, no trace of the horrifying discovery I'd just made about my own nature.
I needed air, needed to return to the safety of my small apartment and process what had just happened. But as I stepped into the corridor, I nearly collided with Father Atticus.
"My dear child," he said with his characteristic grandfatherly warmth, though his sharp eyes immediately took in my flushed face and trembling hands. "Working rather late tonight, aren't you?"
"Oh, Father Atticus," I managed, forcing a smile that felt brittle on my lips. "I didn't expect to see anyone else up at this hour."
"Couldn't sleep," he replied mildly, but I caught the way his gaze lingered on my appearance. "Old bones don't rest as easily as they once did. I thought a bit of reading might help."
His eyes flicked toward the archive door behind me. "What brings you to our dusty old records so late?"
"Research for tomorrow's correspondence," I said quickly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "Some of the references in the latest communications required historical context. I wanted to be thorough."
"How conscientious of you." His tone remained pleasant, but something in his expression had sharpened. "Though I must say, you look rather pale. Are you feeling quite well?"
"Just tired," I assured him, taking a small step toward the exit. "All those old manuscripts can be overwhelming. So much history to absorb."
"Indeed." Father Atticus moved slightly, not blocking my path but somehow making it clear that our conversation wasn't over. "Some of our older documents can be... disturbing to those unfamiliar with the more challenging aspects of Church history."
The way he chose words made my skin crawl with recognition.
He knew. Somehow, impossibly, he knew I'd discovered something I shouldn't have.
"Of course, Father," I said, proud that my voice remained steady. "I should return to Mikael, he'll wonder where I've gone."
"Yes, give my regards to your husband." Father Atticus said, finally stepping aside. "Sleep well, my child. And remember—some knowledge comes with a price. It's wise to consider whether we're prepared to pay it before we dig too deeply into matters that might be better left undisturbed."
I managed a polite goodnight and walked away with measured steps, feeling his eyes on my back until I turned the corner.