NOVEL NEXT Chapter 226: hunts
"Yes," Lira admitted quietly, her eyes fixed on the steam rising from her cup. "But not while the world hunts us. Not while they're burning witches in the squares."
Silvia nodded, her jaw tightening. "I've seen it. The smoke. The pyres." Her voice faltered, a tremor breaking through her resolve. "I still smell it in my sleep."
Lira's hand squeezed hers again, their fingers interlocking, grounding each other in the shared memory of fear, of survival, of blood that bound them through it all.
The door creaked faintly then, a soft sound that made both sisters freeze, their breaths catching in unison.
But a small, bright giggle followed, shattering the tension.
"Mother?"
A little girl peeked in, her black hair glossy and smooth, her icy blue eyes wide with innocence.
She wore a pale dress, too long for her small frame, the hem dragging across the floor as she padded forward, her tiny feet bare.
"Kiara."
Lira's stern mask melted instantly as she opened her arms, her voice soft and warm.
The child ran to her, flinging herself into her mother's embrace, clinging tightly with both arms.
Silvia's heart lurched.
She had seen her niece before, but always from a distance—through windows, across crowded streets, fleeting glimpses that never allowed her to truly see her.
Now, close enough to smell the soft lavender in Kiara's hair, to hear the bright ring of her giggle, Silvia felt a pang of longing so sharp it nearly stole her breath.
Kiara clung to her mother's neck, her icy blue eyes turning to Silvia with unabashed curiosity.
"Who's this?" she asked, pointing a small finger, her voice high and clear.
Lira's voice caught for a moment, her smile faltering.
"An old friend," she said softly, stroking Kiara's hair to soothe her.
Kiara's eyes studied Silvia with an intensity that startled her, those icy blue depths—so sharp, even in a child—seeming to pierce straight through her.
It was a gaze that carried an echo of the future, a hint of the woman Kiara would become.
Silvia forced a smile, her voice warm despite the ache in her chest. "Hello, little one."
Kiara blinked, then buried her face in her mother's dress, suddenly shy, her small hands clutching the fabric tightly.
"She does that with everyone," Lira said gently, her smile returning as she stroked her daughter's hair. "Don't take it personally."
Silvia's heart ached, a deep, unvoiced longing to reach out, to touch her niece's cheek, to tell her the truth—that she was family, blood, a witch like her.
But she couldn't.
The risk was too great, for all of them.
Instead, she watched, memorizing every detail: the way Kiara's small fingers curled around her mother's hand, the way her laughter rang like bells when Lira tickled her side, the pure, fragile love between them that seemed to glow brighter than any magic.
For that moment, Silvia let herself believe in peace, in a world where witches didn't have to hide, where families didn't have to be torn apart.
The afternoon passed in hushed conversation and stolen laughter, the sisters reminiscing about their childhood—secret games played in fields now burned to ash, nights whispering under blankets as storms raged outside.
Kiara eventually dozed on her mother's lap, her tiny chest rising and falling in a soft, steady rhythm, her face peaceful in sleep.
Silvia's chest ached with a longing she could never voice, a desire to stay, to belong, to be part of this fragile, beautiful world.
But witches had no place in the sunlight, not in a world that hunted them.
As the sun dipped low, casting the estate in a golden glow, Silvia rose reluctantly, her movements slow, heavy with the weight of leaving.
"I should go. Too many eyes."
Lira nodded, her hand clinging to Silvia's until the last possible moment, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Promise me you'll come back. Don't disappear."
"I promise," Silvia whispered, hugging her tightly, their embrace a silent vow. "No matter what, we'll find each other again."
She pulled her hood back up, stealing one last glance at Kiara, curled against her mother, so small, so unaware of the storm waiting beyond these walls.
Then she slipped out, her footsteps silent once more, blending into the shadows as she moved through the estate's corridors towards her bedroom.
—
Outside, beyond the garden walls, a man walked with heavy steps, his cloak marking him as one of the High Mages, its dark fabric embroidered with silver runes that caught the fading light.
His staff gleamed with etched glyphs, pulsing faintly with power, and at his hip hung a crystal orb, smooth and clear as water, unremarkable to the untrained eye.
As he passed the Silverward estate, the orb shimmered faintly—then pulsed, a vivid pink light blooming within its depths, sharp and unmistakable.
The mage stopped, his eyes narrowing as he lifted the orb, studying its glow with a slow, deliberate intensity.
His lips curved into a knowing smile, cold and calculating.
"There's a witch nearby."
The words hung in the air, a quiet promise of pursuit, as the pink glow pulsed brighter, casting shadows across his face.
The hunt had begun.
.
.
The Silverward estate glowed warm in the twilight, its sprawling mansion alight with flickering lamps that cast golden pools across the polished stone.
For most of the noble household, the evening promised feasts, lilting music, and the low hum of political intrigue whispered in shadowed corners.
But tonight, the air carried a heavier weight—an unease that hung invisible, like the charged silence before a storm breaks.
The heavy iron gates parted automatically for the High Mage, the guards stepping aside with practiced deference, their eyes averted.
His cloak billowed behind him, silver runes glinting in the torchlight, his staff a silent threat in his grip.
At his hip, the crystal orb pulsed faintly, its pink glow brighter now, unmistakable, a beacon of accusation that needed no words.
"There is a witch here," he said, his voice ringing like a bell through the quiet courtyard, sharp and commanding, meant for all ears—those who listened willingly and those who wished they hadn't.