The witches' final words echoed eerily around her:
"But remember… every face carries a destiny.
And the face you choose may not be the face you survive with."
The cave still pulsed with the echoes of their welcome when Seraphielle stepped into the circle of runes. Pale violet fumes coiled around her ankles, drifting up her legs like curious serpents tasting her fear.
Her heartbeat thudded in her ears, loud enough to drown out the dripping stalactites and the restless sigh of the wind outside.
The Draemir did not move. They stood where they had stood since time immemorial—three cloaked silhouettes wrapped in shadows deeper than night. Their staffs, tall as birch trees, pulsed with quiet starlight, the glow shifting with each breath they took.
It was impossible to tell which of them truly looked upon her; beneath their hoods was only darkness.
