The first time I held forbidden magic in my hands, I was twenty-three and already marked for death.
Not by blade. Not by fire.
By silence.
The High Oracle at the time—Sylas, with his silver eyes and colder heart—had decreed that any witch who studied the ancient blood rites, the cross-species sigils, the Emberborn incantations, would be stripped of their power and cast into the Blood Pits to feed the thralls. Knowledge, he said, was more dangerous than rebellion. And I, young Orin of the Northern Coven, had dared to read.
I didn’t steal the texts. I didn’t break into vaults or bargain with Fae. I found them—hidden beneath the roots of the Black Ash Tree, where the first witches carved their truths into bark before the Council existed. And I read. I learned. I *understood*.
And for that, they would have killed me.
But Lysara saved me.
Zara’s mother.
She burned the warrant. Faked my death. Gave me a new name, a new face, a new life in the shadows. And in return, I swore to protect her daughter. To keep her safe. To ensure the truth never died.
Now, centuries later, I stand in the ruins of the old Witch Vault—the chamber where the Council locked away every spell, every scroll, every whisper of magic they feared. The stone walls are cracked, the sigils broken, the air thick with the scent of ash and old parchment. And at my feet, scattered like fallen leaves, are the books.
Not just any books.
The forbidden ones.
The ones that speak of unity. Of hybrid power. Of love between species. Of magic drawn not from blood sacrifice, but from consent. From trust. From *truth*.
And I am no longer afraid.
—
“You’re really going to do it?”
Lira’s voice cuts through the silence, soft but sharp. She stands in the archway, her hybrid eyes—gold ringed with storm-gray—watching me. Rook is beside her, arms crossed, fangs just past his lip, his posture tense. They’ve come not as rebels. Not as soldiers.
As students.
I don’t answer right away. Just kneel, brushing my fingers over a brittle page—*The Rites of Shared Breath*, a ritual once used by witch-werewolf couples to bond without blood. The ink is faded, the edges charred, but the words are still legible.
“Yes,” I say, lifting the book. “I’m going to publish them.”
“You know what that means,” Rook says, stepping forward. “The Oracle will see it as an act of war. The Vampire Elders will call for your head. Even some of the witches will turn on you.”
“Let them,” I say, rising. My bones ache—centuries of hiding, of running, of silence—but my voice is steady. “The war is already over. We won. And now, we *rebuild*.”
Lira steps closer, her hand hovering over the book. “But what if it’s too much? What if they’re not ready? What if—”
“What if they *are*?” I interrupt. “What if the reason we lost for so long was not because we were weak, but because we were silent? Because we let them control the truth? Because we let fear dictate what magic could be?”
She doesn’t answer.
Just looks down at the book, her fingers trembling.
And I see it—the same fear I once carried. The same weight. The same *shame*.
But beneath it—
Hope.
“You were born in the Blood Pit,” I say, my voice gentle. “Your mother was a witch. Your father, a rogue werewolf. They killed her for loving him. And you—” I step forward, placing a hand on her shoulder. “—you were raised in chains. Told your magic was a curse. That your blood was poison. That you were *less*.”
She nods, her eyes glistening.
“And now?” I ask. “Now that you’re free? Now that you’ve fought? Now that you’ve bled for this city?”
“I feel… powerful,” she whispers.
“Then *be* powerful,” I say. “Not just with fire. Not just with fangs. With *knowledge*. With truth. With the understanding that magic is not a weapon to be hoarded, but a gift to be shared.”
She looks at me—really looks—and for the first time, I see it.
Not just a survivor.
A *leader*.
“Then help me,” I say, lifting the book. “Not as my student. Not as my follower. As my equal. As the woman who will teach the next generation what it means to be free.”
She doesn’t hesitate.
Just takes the book.
And the weight of it—of history, of legacy, of *power*—settles into her hands like it was always meant to be there.
—
The printing begins at dawn.
Not with machines. Not with surface-world technology.
With ink and parchment and magic.
Witches gather in the Hollow Maw—elders who once cowered in silence, young ones who’ve never known fear, hybrids who’ve spent their lives hiding their power. They work in pairs, one scribing, one enchanting, their hands moving in rhythm, their voices whispering ancient words that make the ink *glow*.
Each page is sealed with a truth-rune—a sigil that burns if the words are altered, if the magic is corrupted, if the intent is not pure. And each book is bound not with leather, but with silver thread—woven from the melted-down cuffs of the Blood Pit.
It is not just a text.
It is a *reclamation*.
I stand at the edge of the cavern, watching. My cane rests against the stone, my storm-gray eyes scanning the room. I don’t direct. Don’t command. Just *witness*.
And for the first time in centuries, I feel… light.
Not weak. Not frail.
Free.
“They’re calling it *The Ember Codex*,” Lira says, stepping beside me. She holds a finished copy—black cover, silver sigil, the title etched in fire. “After Zara’s bloodline. After *you*.”
I shake my head. “Not after me. After *her*. After Lysara. After every witch who was silenced. Every hybrid who was hunted. Every truth that was buried.”
She smiles—just slightly. “Then let it burn.”
And it does.
By midday, the first hundred copies are ready. By nightfall, a thousand. They’re not stored. Not hidden.
They’re *distributed*.
Hybrids take them to the streets. Witches leave them in doorways. Wolves carry them to the outer packs. Humans—Elira and her network—smuggle them to the surface, where journalists and scholars and ordinary people read them, share them, *believe* them.
And the world begins to change.
—
Three days later, the Oracle summons me.
Not to the Council Hall. Not to the Spire.
To the Garden of Whispers—a hidden grove where the first Oracles communed with the spirits, where the air hums with old magic and older regrets. The trees are black, their leaves silver, their roots tangled with bones. And at the center—
Her.
The Oracle sits on a stone bench, her silver eyes closed, her hands folded in her lap. She doesn’t look up as I approach. Doesn’t speak.
Just waits.
“You asked to see me,” I say, stopping a few paces away. My cane taps against the stone. “I came.”
She opens her eyes.
And for the first time, I see it—
Not power.
Not authority.
Fear.
“You’ve broken the oldest law,” she says, her voice quiet. “You’ve given magic to those who were never meant to wield it.”
“Magic was never meant to be *owned*,” I say. “It was meant to be *lived*. To be *felt*. To be *shared*.”
“And what of balance?” she asks. “What of control? Without the Edict, without the laws, magic will run wild. Bloodlines will mix. Power will be unchecked. Chaos will reign.”
“And what was the Edict, if not chaos?” I ask. “What was the Council, if not control? You didn’t maintain balance. You *twisted* it. You didn’t protect magic. You *imprisoned* it.”
She doesn’t argue.
Just rises, her silver robes whispering against the stone. “You were my teacher once,” she says. “Before I took the mantle. You taught me that truth was the highest law. That knowledge was the purest magic.”
“And now?” I ask.
“Now,” she says, turning, “I wonder if you were wrong.”
“No,” I say. “I was *afraid*. And so were you. And so was every Oracle before you. But fear is not wisdom. And silence is not peace.”
She looks at me—really looks—and for a moment, I see the girl she once was. The student. The seeker. The one who believed in truth.
And then—
She closes her eyes.
“You will be watched,” she says. “The Council will monitor your teachings. Your students. Your books. If there is violence—”
“There will be,” I say. “Because freedom is not given. It is *taken*. And some will fight to keep their lies. But we will not hide. We will not run. And we will not be silent.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just turns and walks away, her silver robes vanishing into the shadows.
And I know—
This is not the end.
But it is a beginning.
—
The first class is held in the ruins of the old Vault.
Not in silence. Not in secrecy.
With light.
With fire.
With *life*.
Twenty students—hybrids, witches, even a few human mages who’ve crossed the veil—sit on the cracked stone, their eyes bright, their magic flickering. Lira stands at the front, *The Ember Codex* in her hands, her voice clear.
“Magic,” she says, “is not in the blood. Not in the name. Not in the purity of your line.”
She lifts her hand.
Fire erupts—red-gold, alive, *hers*.
“It’s in the *choice*,” she says. “In the will. In the fire that burns when you say, *‘I am not afraid.’*”
The students don’t gasp.
They *rise*.
And one by one, they light their own flames.
And the Vault—once a prison—becomes a *sanctuary*.
—
Later, I sit with Zara and Kaelen in the eastern chambers. The fire crackles. The wind howls. The city sleeps.
But we do not.
“You’ve started a revolution,” Kaelen says, his storm-gray eyes sharp. “One that might be harder to control than the last.”
“It was never meant to be controlled,” I say. “It was meant to be *free*.”
Zara leans forward, her storm-gray eyes fierce. “And what if they come for you? What if the Oracle sends assassins? What if the Vampire Elders declare war?”
“Then we fight,” I say. “Not with fangs. Not with fire. With *truth*. With books. With classrooms. With every child who learns that their magic is not a curse, but a *gift*.”
She smiles—just slightly. “You always were the real rebel.”
“No,” I say, rising. “I was the coward who waited too long. But now?” I look at them—really look. “Now, I am the one who ensures that no one else has to hide. That no one else has to die for knowing the truth.”
Kaelen stands, offering his hand. Not in dominance. Not in command.
In *respect*.
And I take it.
—
The next morning, I walk through the city.
Not with guards. Not with fear.
With *pride*.
Children wave. Hybrids nod. Witches bow. And in the alleys, I see them—copies of *The Ember Codex*, passed from hand to hand, read by candlelight, whispered in secret.
But not for long.
Because the truth—
It burns brighter.
And I am no longer afraid to let it.