Candles burned with green flame beneath the old church.
The walls were wet with condensation, the stones slick and dark. Jars lined the shelves—preserved organs, floating in murky liquid. Skulls sat in neat rows, their eye sockets stuffed with dried herbs. Scrolls of human skin hung from hooks, their scripts written in blood that had dried brown centuries ago.
Morgana stood at the center of it all.
Her hood was up, hiding her face, but her hands were visible. Pale. Long-fingered. Stained with something that never washed out. She had been old when the Ashen Guard was founded. Older still when the first hunters learned to seal the Veil. She had seen empires rise and fall, watched the world reshape itself around her, and never once doubted that she would outlast them all.
A coven member knelt before her.
"Valentine's forces have secured the gem."
"The crown?"
"The crown is in his possession. The gem has been fitted. All three artifacts are now functional."
Morgana said nothing.
