Virelight Trilogy - Book One - The Witch of Westwood Lane

The Vault rumbles.

Not subtly this time. Not a polite little shiver like, "Pardon me, just a whiff of latent magic trickling through." No. This was a full-bodied, tectonic-tempered groan. The sort of sound that suggested the stones themselves had opinions and none of them were pleasant.

Elara Finch did not like it.

Not one bit.

It was the kind of rumble that makes your molars buzz, the kind that reminds you…very helpfully…that you had regrets. And that perhaps now would be a fantastic time to recite them aloud before the ceiling collapses and squishes you into a pancake of past mistakes.

The pedestal flares with a violent snap! of red lightning, so sharp it sounded like glass shattering inside her skull. Forks of magic lick across the rune-etched floor like a heartbeat going off-beat. Seizure-esque. Unsettling.

"Well," Elara mutters, "that's probably fine."

"That's freaky," Rowan says beside her, his voice low, tense. He steps in front of her, his hand going to the hilt of his sword, even though there was no visible enemy.

There was only...the feeling of intention.

And that was somehow worse.

Elara blinks against the light. The Vault was rearranging itself. Again. Of course it was.

Panels slid apart on silent, groaning hinges. 

Runes spiralled out from the pedestal in threads of molten red and ghostly silver, curling like vines. 

Two sigils form. One beneath Rowan's boots. One beneath hers.

"Oh no no no," she whispers. "That looks suspiciously symmetrical."

The floor beneath her boots lit up like someone had pressed a divine doorbell. 

And then...

Click.

Not a sound, exactly. A sensation. Like her bones had locked into some invisible puzzle, like she was being slotted into place.

She couldn't move.

Not truly.

She could breathe, barely, and her eyes flick toward Rowan. He stands rooted too, jaw clenched, light pulsing beneath him like a heartbeat counting down to something she really didn't want to name.

"What now?" she whispers.

The air thickens, syrupy and uncooperative. Magic presses against her skin, a humid fog of memory and meaning. 

Then...

A voice.

Not Isadora's. Not even human. Older than voices should be. Colder than any voice should sound.

"Two have entered. One must be chosen."

Elara's stomach executes a graceful nosedive.

"Oh good," she says, voice dry as old parchment. "Vault trial number two. I was beginning to worry this was going too smoothly."

Rowan doesn't answer. His body is still, like a coiled spring too aware of its own tension. The runes beneath them begin to pulse harder, faster. 

"One carries blood. One carries a blade."

"The Vault requires a Keeper. The false must yield."

"They know," Rowan says softly, fingers twitching on the hilt of his sword. "They know one of us doesn't belong."

"It's me," he added before she could stop him.

"No!" Elara's voice cracks like thunder. "It could be me. I'm just some barely-competent pseudo-witch who blows up rooms and occasionally hears voices in staircases. You're...You! You have got the training, Rowan. You've got discipline. You're good at not dying. You have the look."

Rowan gives her a look. The one that says, you're being daft, but with affection. A very Knightly Alpha sexy look, mind you, but the look. The one she hates and loves in equal measure, the one that works for her and her girly parts.

Then the Vault interrupts with its favourite party trick: erecting a shimmering wall of red light between them.

"Really?" she snaps at the glowing magical divider. "You're locking us apart now? What are you, a reality-TV producer?"

Moony hisses from atop a dangling iron chain. He is bristling like a wet mop left in the sun too long. "Oh, for the love of fish! You two are about to be soul-judged by an eldritch artifact and you're bickering like teenagers at a cursed prom?"

"Shut up, Moony," Elara and Rowan say in perfect unison.

"Decide," the ancient voice declares again.

Not barked. Not shouted. Just stated. Like law. Like gravity.

Then…columns of light erupt from the floor.

On Rowan's side: ash and fire, steel and silence. Images dancing like smoke…missions executed in shadows, orders followed without question, losses. A young man kneeling before the Council. His eyes dark with resolve.

On Elara's side: books and ink and lavender-scented air. Isadora's laugh. Moony in a basket full of yarn. Her fingers grasping the witch-forged key for the first time. A little girl left behind too many times, who had once read fairy tales by flashlight because reality was too sharp.

Elara's chest tightens. This wasn't about power. Or even bloodline.

This was about why.

Why were you standing here? Why were you trying? Why do you keep going, when it makes no sense at all.

Rowan lowers his head. The light flickers around him, almost mournful. "You belong here," he says softly. "This was never mine."

Elara attempts to step forward instinctively and is promptly smacked by the red light, like an angry moth.

"Ow! Stupid…magical…barrier…" she hisses, rubbing her nose. "This is deeply symbolic and physically inconvenient."

Rowan doesn't smile. Not fully. But there is a softness to his eyes, like he remembers something too important to speak aloud.

A voice threads through the air again. This time softer. Familiar. Woven with warmth and old grief.

Isadora.

"He saved others. Now ask again: will he stand by you when no one else will?"

Elara chokes on the swell of emotion. Her throat is burning. Her hands trembled. She feels it…not the pressure of power, but the weight of love. Of choice.

"Rowan," she breaths. "I'm not choosing between us."

She turns her face to the Vault, to the runes, to whatever ancient intelligence currently looming behind the magical glowsticks of fate.

"I don't care if you want blood or blade," she says firmly. "I'm not sacrificing him. We both belong. Together or not at all."

And for one long heartbeat…everything stops.

The light pauses. The runes flicker.

Then...

Shatter.

A thunderous crack tearing through the air as the red barrier disintegrates into a thousand fireflies of light. A gust of wind screams out like the Vault had been holding its breath for several centuries.

The pressure lifts. The magic ebbs.

And then they are free.

Rowan stumbles forward just as Elara's knees give way, catching her with one arm as the other clutches his side like it, too, having opinions about emotional trauma.

"I hate magical moral dilemmas," he mutters.

"I like that you didn't sacrifice me," she gasps out. "Ten out of ten. No notes."

"It felt like the right call."

The pedestal pulses gently. A nod. Or maybe just indigestion.

Then…with a sound like stone finally giving up and going on holiday…the great Vault door groans open. Inch by inch. Until a single shaft of pale light spears through.

Moony yawns theatrically, having jumped down from the iron chain, sitting regally, flicking his tail.

"Well," he drawls. "I see you two survived the Vault's romantic death trap. How quaint."

Elara glares. "You knew this could happen."

"I suspected," he says, licking a paw. "Vaults are dramatic creatures. Very Greek. Lots of trials. Less nudity."

"You could have warned us!"

"And spoil the dramatic tension?"

Rowan rubs his temple. "Worst familiar ever."

"And yet," Moony says smugly, "still more charming than you."

They climb the stairs out of the Vault slowly, each step like surfacing from a dream that had decided to get philosophical halfway through.

The Finch family graveyard greets them with surprising calm. The fog has cleared. The dusk is a soft sky painted in lavender and rose. A moment of peace.

But only for a moment.

Bong.

A sound ripples through Elara's chest. A bell.

Not one she could hear with her ears.

One she heard in her bones.

Elara jerks, clutching the witch-forged key. It pulses like a heartbeat, faint and urgent.

"Something's coming," she whispers.

Rowan tenses beside her. Moony's ears flatten, his tail stilling.

The bell fades.

The chill in the air does not.

Far Above

In the chamber of the Council, the black pool flares.

The image shimmers: 

Elara, Rowan and Moony emerging from the Vault. Weary. Whole. The seal cracked.

"They passed the first judgment," murmurs a Councillor.

"The Vault chose her," another says.

"She chose him," adds a third, fingers steepled.

"The bloodline is awake."

"And the weapon remains loyal."

The room falls into solemn silence.

Then...the silver-masked leader raises a hand. 

The pool darkens to ink.

"We underestimated the girl," she says, voice smooth, final.

"She's dangerous."

"She's curious," says the silver mask. "And clever. And protected. We must change tactics."

"Shall we summon her? Bring them all in?"

A pause.

"No. Let them keep digging. They will find truths even we cannot reach, but might aid us in its final destruction, helping us to finally close the seal permanently. And also because the Vault trusts her now and might show its weakness."

"And when she finds the truth?"

The silver mask turns. 

Voice now iron, cold and unyielding.

"Then we remind her and those who help her, that we have the power to bury it and them."