Maika's gaze was unrelenting as she stepped closer, her voice steady but edged with tension.
"It's Lysandra," she said. "The witch who enchanted you that night… the one carrying your child… is Lysandra of Moonwell."
Caveen froze.
His breath hitched, lips parting slightly in disbelief. The name echoed in his mind like a curse, unraveling something buried—dormant—until now.
Lysandra.
The beautiful, mysterious witch he had briefly noticed during the Moonwell bride-pooling event. She hadn't even been part of the final selection. Just a silent presence among the crowd… eyes like night skies, an aura so gentle it barely rippled the atmosphere. He hadn't known why his attention was drawn to her that day. Not when dozens of carefully trained witches vied for his glance.
Now he knew.
"It wasn't her beauty…" Caveen murmured, almost to himself, his voice deep with dawning horror. "It was the child's aura… I felt it. That's what pulled me to her."
A bitter taste filled his mouth as the realization coiled inside him like venom. That connection, that inexplicable tug toward a stranger—it hadn't been fate. It had been blood. His own child, already pulsing with life and magic, reaching out to him before he even knew it existed.
Carl's fists clenched at his sides. Maika gave a slow nod, confirming what Caveen now understood in his bones.
"She planned it," Caveen growled, his expression darkening, jaw tightening with fury. "She cloaked herself in moonlight, wrapped me in her spell… and let me walk away without a clue. A Landon child conceived under the veil of illusion and manipulation."
His voice dropped, dangerous and low. "And now we're all tangled in it."
Maika didn't flinch at his anger. She understood. But there was no time for emotional collapse. Not now.
"We need to act quickly," she said firmly. "The child must be brought here, to the Landon estate. Protected under our seal. If Lysandra is concealing the pregnancy, she's already risking her life and the child's. The Moonwell magic will only hold for so long—once the child's aura matures, the Council will sense it."
Carl's face was unreadable, but his silence meant agreement.
Caveen let out a sharp breath, raking a hand through his dark hair, tension rippling through his lean frame. "You think they don't already suspect?"
"They don't," Maika said. "Not yet. And we intend to keep it that way. I will handle the negotiations with the Matriarch personally. No threats. No accusations. Just… quiet diplomacy. We'll offer sanctuary—for Lysandra and the child. On paper, it will appear as nothing more than a political alliance between old houses."
"And if they refuse?" he asked bitterly.
"They won't," Maika said. "Not once they realize what she's carrying."
Caveen looked toward the Elandra Tree once more. His name still glowed softly on the trunk, and beneath it, the hollow of life shimmered with power—his legacy, etched in ancient magic.
He hated how much it called to him.
"We'll protect them," Carl added, voice cold and steady. "But everything must remain in absolute secrecy. If the Council suspects there's a child born of Vellaria and Landon bloodlines, they won't hesitate to intervene. And this time, we might not be able to stop them."
Maika's voice lowered, her eyes sharp as steel. "This isn't just about family anymore. This child… with Nexus, Carello, and Moonwell blood combined… may be the Council's greatest fear come true."
Silence descended again.
Until Caveen spoke, his tone clipped and unforgiving. "I'll agree to bring her here."
Maika's eyes flickered with quiet relief.
"But don't expect me to treat her like some innocent victim," he continued, voice hard. "She knew what she was doing. She violated my mind, stole my bloodline, and risked all our lives. I'll make sure she's safe—but she won't get my kindness."
Carl gave a single approving nod. "That's fair."
Maika said nothing—only turned her gaze toward the moonlit horizon, where the distant hills of Moonwell shivered with ancient magic. The war between bloodlines was no longer political. It was personal now. Twisted by secrets, spells, and a child who might one day bring everything crashing down—or raise it anew.
And far away, under the silver shroud of Moonwell's forests, a witch stirred in her sleep, her fingers resting over a stomach that pulsed with faint warmth.
She didn't yet know the storm that was coming for her.
But soon…
Very soon…
She would.