Becoming Kitty Riley

Chapter 3: The Awaken

Three Months Ago-

I stared at the gleaming golden pages of the Book of Destiny, the blood moon casting a haunting glow through the tall, narrow windows of my office. The ancient tome lay open before me, its intricate symbols and prophecies illuminated by the flickering light of my desk lamp. My golden-feathered pen hovered over the parchment as I meticulously tracked the celestial movements and the intricacies of the prophecy. The revelation hit me like a thunderbolt—tonight, the Blood Moon would mark a turning point in the prophecy, and with it, the veil between eras would thin.

I am Bellamy Drake, a warlock of the Order of the Light, and the Watcher assigned to protect Ethan—the reincarnation of the werewolf king who once bound his fate with the fae queen, Sabine. My role as Watcher was not a matter of mere choice; it was a calling, an ancient duty handed down through generations. The responsibility came with a deep-rooted connection to the prophecy that spoke of balance and upheaval. I had seen countless cycles of the prophecy unfold, but this one was different. This one carried the weight of my own past, the echoes of old alliances, and the bitter edge of vengeance.

The celestial events tonight were critical. The Blood Moon had always been a harbinger of significant change, and the prophecy hinted at the convergence of Ethan and Sabine. As their Watcher, I had the solemn duty of ensuring that Ethan’s path remained true and free from the manipulations of those who would see him fail.

Without hesitation, I rose from my desk and made my way through the winding corridors of our sanctum. My heart raced with urgency as I glided toward the elder's office, the walls adorned with artifacts of forgotten magic whispering their secrets to me. The cool, polished marble floor felt like ice beneath my feet, a stark contrast to the heat of the impending crisis.

“The Blood Moon is here, Master,” I said, my voice tight with concern as I stepped into the room. My gaze flitted from the elder’s inscrutable face to the book I clutched, its pages heavy with foreboding.

The elder, his gaze fixed on the tome before him, turned a page with languid indifference. “The prophecy, Your Grace,” I pressed, my desperation evident in the tremor of my voice. “We must act.”

Elder Eliphas finally looked up from his ancient tome, his expression as inscrutable as the darkest night. The flicker of candlelight danced across his face, casting shadows that seemed to whisper secrets of their own. “The Order of the Thorn is always predictable,” he said, his voice a low murmur that carried an edge of disdain. “The dark queen must awaken for the prophecy to begin in earnest. So, relax, come sit and have a cup of tea.” He gestured toward a set of delicately carved chairs, his gaze drifting back to the pages before him, seemingly untouched by the turmoil brewing outside his sanctuary.

The room seemed to pulse with a hidden energy, the air thick with the weight of unspoken knowledge. As the elder turned the page with an almost casual grace, the enormity of the destruction he had set in motion loomed over us like an impending storm.

“Tell me,” he continued, his voice soft but laden with unspoken meaning, “have you found Lady Sabine and Master Ethan yet?”

"No, I have not, Master, but soon," I said, picking up the teacup and taking a sip of jasmine, my favorite.

There was a heavy pause filled with tension. The elder's question lingered in the air, carrying a sense of knowingness that indicated he knew more than he let on. His calm demeanor, almost too serene for the seriousness of the situation, hinted at a deeper, more sinister layer to the unfolding events.

As if reading my thoughts, the elder’s eyes, though calm, glinted with an inscrutable knowledge. The Order's machinations were woven into the very fabric of destiny, and though the path seemed clear to him, it remained obscured to those of us caught in its web. His eyes flickered with a hidden satisfaction as he turned another page, seemingly unfazed by the chaos unfolding beyond these walls.

I left the elder’s office with a growing sense of dread, knowing that the secrets of our Order were deeply intertwined with the fate of those we sought to protect—or perhaps, to control.

Across town, another dark ritual unfolded beneath the Blood Moon’s sinister glow. In a courtyard of cracked cobblestone, seventeen young women stood in formation, their faces pale and anxious. Their blood-red dresses fluttered in the wind, casting eerie shadows under the faint moonlight.

Lady Lucinda stood tall and resolute, surveying the scene. “Bring her out,” she commanded, her voice resonating with an almost otherworldly authority.

Two robed acolytes emerged from the shadows, carrying a ceremonial platform draped in dark velvet. Upon it lay a young woman, her features serene yet disturbingly pale. Her blood-red gown was adorned with silver thorns.

The seventeen girls chanted in unison, their voices rising and falling like a dark hymn:

“He who follows the light shall be covered in thorn,

In absence of the light, may darkness prevail.”

Lucinda’s movements were slow, methodical as she traced arcane symbols in the air with a wand of dark wood. The virgins’ voices wavered, their eyes wide with fear as they chanted louder, the energy in the courtyard growing heavier, darker.

"Who will make the sacrifice so that the Mother may live?" Lucinda’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

A girl stepped forward, her trembling hands clasped together as if in prayer. "I will," she stammered, teeth chattering. Gimma, barely seventeen, stepped up to the altar.

Lucinda’s gaze softened briefly, though her expression remained cold. “Thank you, Gimma. The Goddess will reward you.” Her voice, filled with feigned compassion, sent shivers down the girl’s spine. Gimma lay beside the Mother, her face twisted with fear and resignation as the ceremonial dagger glinted in the moonlight.

With precision, Lucinda drew the blade across Gimma’s skin, her blood spilling onto the dark velvet below. The liquid shimmered under the moon’s glow, pooling around the altar in an expanding circle. The Mother of the Order began to stir, her pale form drinking in the blood as if it were life itself.

The chant reached its fevered pitch as Lucinda, her hands steady and practiced, directed the flow of blood toward the Mother. The moon’s light intensified, painting the courtyard in crimson hues as the Mother absorbed the sacrifice, her body trembling back to life. Her eyes snapped open, glowing with a dark intensity that silenced the night.

Lucinda dropped to her knees, her posture submissive as she bowed deeply. The others followed, their voices stilling as they watched their Queen emerge. “All hail the Fae Queen,” Lucinda whispered, her voice barely above a breath.

The Queen surveyed the courtyard, her gaze cold and calculating. Her lips curled into a smile as dark as the shadows that surrounded them. “What century is this, servant?” she asked, her voice sharp, crackling with centuries of accumulated power.

“The 21st century, Your Grace,” Lucinda replied, head bowed low, a tremor running through her voice.

A low, sinister laugh filled the courtyard as the Fae Queen straightened. “And so it begins again,” she mused, her voice dripping with malevolent glee. “Ethan, Sabine, just you wait. I will ruin you. You will beg for mercy, and it will not come.”