Chapter 3 The White Witch is Summoned

Moments later,

In the Duskbane Manor,

[Rina P.O.V]

The Duskbane Manor felt like a tomb - cold, marble-floored, and full of the kind of silence that comes after death.

I stood in the Grand Hall, wrapped in black silk robes that hung loose on Lumira's frame. My feet were bare against the black marble, and I could feel how thin this body was. How fragile. How ready to break.

Seraphina hadn't let go of my hand since we'd crossed the threshold.

Across the hall, Grandmother - Matriarch Evelyn Duskbane - sat rigid in a high-backed chair, her posture a blade. She hadn't spoken since we'd arrived. She just watched me with eyes that looked too knowing, too sharp. Like she was cataloging every difference between the Lumira who'd jumped and the one who'd crawled out of the grave.

I was a catastrophic deviation. The original Lumira was supposed to stay dead. A cautionary tale. Instead, I was here - a soul from another world wearing her skin like a costume. If Grandmother looked hard enough, she would see the seams. She would know.

"Finch," Grandmother said, her voice cutting through the suffocating quiet. "Bring the Healer."

The butler - an elderly man with silver at his temples - appeared at her elbow. He didn't question her. Just bowed and vanished into the shadows.

Seraphina's grip tightened on my hand. "What's happening?" she whispered.

I didn't answer. I couldn't. Because I didn't know if Grandmother was calling the Healer to help me or to confirm what I wasn't.

The Healer arrived with brisk, efficient movements. Corvin was older, his face weathered like parchment, his eyes the color of ash. He barely acknowledged my existence as he set his leather bag on the black marble floor.

"Matriarch," he said with a curt bow. "The patient?"

"Examine her," Grandmother commanded. "Tell me if what I'm looking at is real."

Corvin's eyes flickered toward me. For just a moment, I saw something crack in his professional composure. Recognition, maybe. Or horror.

He approached and gestured for me to sit. I did, sinking into the offered chair like my bones had gone liquid. Up close, I could see the faint tremor in his hands as he began running his fingers through the air above my skin, reading the residual mana the way a musician reads sheet music.

His frown deepened with each pass.

"The magical core is severely damaged," he murmured. "Fractured. Like something inside her shattered and nobody bothered to put the pieces back together."

He stepped back, rubbing his temples. When he looked at me again, his eyes were full of clinical pity. The look you give to something that's already dead but doesn't know it yet.

"I advise she should not practice magic, for now," he said flatly. "Not a spark. Not even a thought of casting. The moment she tries to channel anything - anything at all - the remaining threads will snap. The core collapse will be instantaneous and fatal."

My stomach dropped.

"How long?" Grandmother asked.

"If she remains dormant? Weeks. Months, if she's careful. If she tries to use her power?" He shook his head. "Hours. Minutes, depending on what she attempts."

Seraphina made a small, wounded sound. I squeezed her hand, trying to tell her it was okay. Trying to believe it myself.

The Healer packed his bag and left without another word. The silence that crashed down in his wake felt physical.

I was crippled. Defenseless. Something had bound me in a blood contract and then stripped away the one thing that could have helped me survive.

How was I supposed to change what came before if I couldn't even cast a simple spell?

"Prepare her," Grandmother said, and her voice was so cold it sounded like it was coming from very far away. "An Emissary from the Decemvirate will arrive within the hour."

A Shadow Emissary?

The name alone made my skin crawl. From what I remembered of the original story, the Emissaries were the Council's enforcers - beings of pure magical bureaucracy, sent to verify and judge. They were neither kind nor cruel. They were correct, and correctness was far more terrifying than either.

---

The hour passed like a countdown to an execution.

Seraphina helped me bathe in water scented with rose petals and protective herbs. The servants dressed me in a burial gown - white, elegant, like something a corpse should wear to its own funeral. Appropriate, since that's what I was. A corpse wearing a stolen face.

Every touch made me flinch. Every breath felt borrowed.

When the Grand Doors groaned open, I was standing in the center of the hall, Seraphina at my back, Grandmother watching from her throne of judgment.

The figure that entered wasn't human. I knew it the moment I felt the air around it compress.

It didn't walk - it displaced, and the shadows bent around it like water around a stone. I could make out the shape of a cloak, black as the void between stars. A hood. That was all. Beneath that hood was nothing. No face. No eyes. Just the absolute, suffocating absence of a person.

Seraphina whimpered and pressed closer to me.

The Emissary moved to the center of the hall and withdrew a scroll. The parchment was ancient, stained the color of old blood, and the moment it unfurled, purple runes ignited across its surface.

They didn't glow - they sang, a sound that vibrated in my teeth, in my bones, in the hollow cavity where my magical core used to be.

The pull came without warning.

It was like a fishhook driven through my sternum, yanking me backward and inward simultaneously.

It was violation. Pure violation. Something reaching into the fragile threads of magic still tethered to what remained of my core, dragging at them like it was trying to unravel me from the inside out.

I couldn't breathe.

"Stop!" Seraphina was screaming, pulling on my arm. "Stop it! You're killing her!"

But I was being examined. Not tortured. Not yet.

My knees buckled. I dropped, catching myself on the marble floor with my palms. The cold bit into my skin. My vision fractured into white spots.

"I merely carried out a minimal probing," the Emissary said. Its voice wasn't human - it was a chorus, multiple tones layered over each other, slightly out of sync, like dozens of people speaking the same words through the same mouth.

The dragging sensation stopped.

I gasped, sucking in air like I'd been drowning. My hands shook so badly I couldn't hold myself up. Seraphina caught me, and I let her, needing her solidity, her warmth, her proof that I was still real.

The Emissary tilted its head toward me. I still couldn't see eyes, but I felt them. A presence pressing down like a physical weight, examining me the way a jeweler examines a stone to determine if it's genuine or a fake.

"You carry the mark of Duskbane blood," it said. "The bloodline signature is intact."

A pause. The weight intensified.

"And yet."

My heart stuttered.

"The essence is wrong. Fractured. Like something wearing a dress that doesn't quite fit. Like a hand that doesn't belong in a glove." It leaned closer, and I smelled ozone and something older—the smell of things that had existed before the world had names for them.

"What are you, child?"

'Dead,' I thought wildly. 'It knows. It can smell the lie in my blood. It's going to rip me apart right here on this marble floor and Grandmother won't even blink.'

But I forced the words out anyway: "I don't know."

It was true and a lie twisted together, and the Emissary's silence stretched like a taut wire.

The presence pressed down harder, probing. I felt it examining me like I was a lock and it was trying to pick every tumbler. Trying to find the place where I broke.

"I don't know what I am," I whispered. "I don't remember anything from the moment I jumped. Just... waking up in the coffin. Just coming home."

The silence stretched longer.

Then Grandmother stood.

"Enough."

The word cut through the oppression like a blade, sharp and absolute. The Emissary's attention swung toward her, and I saw something that surprised me - Grandmother actually straightened, standing taller despite being half the thing's height. Despite being mortal and fragile and bound by the laws of the world.

"I invoke the Duskbane Right of Sanctuary," she said, her voice iron. "She will answer your summons. She will submit to your judgment. But she will not be destroyed in my home. Not tonight. Not while she stands as a daughter of this house."

The voices in the scroll whispered to each other. A debate I couldn't hear, couldn't follow. Just the susurrus of bureaucracy trying to calculate if pride was worth more than protocol.

Finally, the scroll dimmed. The purple fire died.

"Very well," the Emissary said. "Sanctuary is noted. However, the irregularity remains. The girl will present herself at the Grand Spire of Aethelred tomorrow at six bells for the Confirmation. The Council will determine her fate then."

It paused.

"If she fails to comply, execution will be immediate. If she attempts to flee before then, the Duskbane name is forfeit entirely. All property seized. All titles revoked. All magic stripped from this line, down to the weakest blood-cousin."

The weight lifted.

The Emissary turned and glided back toward the doors. They swung open like a mouth, and it stepped back into the darkness.

When they closed, the sound echoed through the hall for what felt like forever.

I was alone on the cold marble. Seraphina was still holding me. Grandmother had sat back down, her posture rigid, her expression unreadable.

Six bells tomorrow.

The Grand Spire of Aethelred.

A test I had no idea how to pass.

"Finch," Grandmother said into the silence. "Prepare her. We leave at five bells."

Her voice was steady. But as I watched, I saw her hands trembling in her lap. Just for a moment. Just enough to tell me she was terrified too.

I'd escaped the Emissary's judgment by an inch.

Tomorrow, I wouldn't be so lucky.