Chapter 6 - The Weight of the Witch’s Resurrection

Moments later,

Lumira's Room,

Duskbane Estate.

Rina's POV

The clock in the hall downstairs chimed a deep, resonant two o'clock in the morning. The sound was a heavy, dull blow against the silence.

The rain had long since given up its desperate siege, softening into a cool, persistent mist that kissed the tall windows. Inside the grand, high-ceilinged room, the candles were dead, leaving the space illuminated only by the faint, angry orange glow of the dying embers in the hearth.

I lay beneath the heavy, purple velvet covers, the ancient Duskbane crest pressing faintly against my skin. The resurrected body held a strange, unnatural heat, but the oppressive weight of the bedding was a comfort, and a tangible anchor in this world that felt increasingly ephemeral.

I listened to the soft, rhythmic breathing beside me.

Seraphina slept like a blessed thing, a cherub tucked into a cradle of stormlight. Her golden curls were fanned across the linen pillows, catching the ember-glow and turning them to spun silk. Her small hand rested loosely over my arm. It wasn't clutching, but it was there, a featherlight weight that nonetheless felt like the heaviest, most necessary anchor to this harsh, cynical world.

In the shifting, faint light, her round face looked impossibly young, untouched by the shadows and betrayals that had defined Lumira's first life. This innocence was both unbearable and vital. Every few breaths, she murmured faint, half-formed fragments of dreams - a soft laugh, a muffled word that sounded like 'Mama.'

'If only I could sleep that easily again…'

I stared up at the frescoed ceiling where a stylized map of the constellations was perpetually suspended. Sleep had abandoned me the moment my chest stopped tasting of marble and started tasting of blood and air. Waking from the grave, waking in the body of another person - it had fundamentally altered my perception of time. Every second now felt sharper, louder, and alive with a hidden terrible meaning. The hours weren't a slow river; they were a high-tension wire, vibrating with the potential for disaster.

The wind sighed through the iron balconies like a whisper of the dead - or the thousands of witches, mages, and Lycans who'd fallen under the Duskbane banner.

I could feel the pulse of magic in the very stones beneath me. It was a low, powerful thrumming, like a colossal invisible heart beating in the earth. The old wards of Duskbane Estate - built not just by mortar but by generations of powerful secretive magic - were humming faintly.

I could sense that they were restless, and... confused?

Did they sense my resurrection? Were they trying to categorize the 'thing' that lay in the master bed?

The old signature had returned, but the crushing, almost adult soul that replaced the youthful spark they'd guarded was alien.

Careful not to shift the mattress and wake Sera, I eased myself out of the bed. The heavy velvet covers fell from my shoulders in a whisper of expensive silk. The sudden cold air - heavy with old woodsmoke and damp earth - wrapped around me like silk dipped in frost.

My bare feet curled in discomfort as they met the cool, polished black marble floor. I moved with a preternatural quiet and grace. The White Witch of the West was a creature of stealth, and this body knew how to flow into shadow.

At the far wall, between two arched windows, stood a seamless stretch of ivory stone. I paused before it. It was engraved with faint, almost invisible sigils - protective runes layered over geometric verification scripts, utterly undetectable to most mages. Only a powerful Duskbane would recognize the intricate pattern of the family's highest-level defense.

I lifted my palm, pressing it flat against the cold stone, and whispered the Words of Verification in the ancient, guttural Duskbane tongue. The language was closer to incantation than speech, a dialect of raw power.

"Aethelred mihi. Sanguis mihi. Locus iste meus est."

Translation: My will is my own. My blood is my own. This place is mine.

The runes flared to life in response, not with a blinding explosion, but a soft, controlled silver and purple glow that pulsed once, then dimmed again into absolute invisibility. It was a silent, magical confirmation.

"Thank goodness it's still untouched," I breathed out, the faintest tremor of unadulterated relief threading through my voice. The cold air turned my breath into a tiny, brief plume of white mist.

This was the vault, the true heart of my legacy.

My? Well, I'm Lumira now... aren't I?

In her first, doomed life, no one had known about this chamber - not the butler, not the grandmother, not even Jaxon, the man she had loved her and ultimately plunged the first dagger. The enchantments layered here were so complex, woven with ley line power diverted from the estate itself, that the Council's arrogant Arch-Mages would spend a lifetime trying - and ultimately failing - to unravel them.

Behind that innocent-looking wall lay everything she had hidden: dusty, forbidden grimoires, relics from the First Witch Wars, fragments of dragon-forged steel, priceless phoenix ashes, and detailed maps of the deepest ley lines. And deeper still, the most terrible secret: a mirror wrapped in chains of silver and runes, pulsing like a living, caged heart, capable of bending reality and seeing into the cosmos.

But tonight, I didn't need the power. I simply needed the cold air and the assurance of its survival.

Turning away from the vault, I moved to the tall narrow French doors that led to the balcony. I drew the thick glass open - a soft, almost inaudible schuss of metal on metal.

The night air rushed in, cold and sharp, tasting distinctly of rain-soaked earth, crushed pine needles, and the metallic, ozone tang of raw untamed magic.

I stepped out onto the iron balcony. The chill instantly seized me. My long silver hair whipped around my face like spinning starlight, and the thin silk hem of my black nightgown fluttered around my ankles like the wings of a trapped moth.

Below stretched the vast, shadowy expanse of the Duskbane domain. The hedge mazes and winding paths gleamed like wet obsidian under the weak, shifting moonlight. Farther off, the ancient forests shimmered faintly with silver, the massive, invisible runes of the ancient Duskbane wards carved deep into the tree trunks.

All of it - mine. All of it, they had nearly taken.

A surge of cold, righteous fury tightened my grip on the wrought iron railing. They stripped my name, mocked my death, and yet they dare to dance under my moon.

"I have returned. And this time, I will make them remember what that name means. I will make them weep."

My gaze lifted to the moon - full, round, and unbearably serene. Its cold, pristine light bathed my pale skin.

And then, quietly, I did what Rina Vale had always wanted to do.

"Author… if you are out there," I whispered into the wind, my voice low, steady, edged with magnificent defiance, "if you truly are the one who placed me here in this new story, then thank you."

The words caught in my throat.

"Thank you for giving me this second chance," I continued, my voice gaining strength, sounding more like a vow than a whisper. "I will not waste it. I will shatter the plot threads, defy the expectations, and survive the ending you planned."

A chilling challenge, delivered to the silent night.

"Guide me, if you can. Watch me, if you dare. Let me prove that I am not the Villainess they think I am. I am the Protagonist of my own destiny now, and my story begins tonight."

The wind answered first - a soft, long, mournful rush, then a sudden, localized spiral that tugged violently at my silver hair, coiling it tightly around my shoulders. I shielded my eyes. For a heartbeat, the night itself seemed to lean closer.

When the wind died down, I opened my eyes, fraying my hair with a graceful hand, and froze upon sighting something on the balcony railing before me.

It glimmered precisely where my hand had been just moments ago: a single rose, with petals of a deep, unnatural, and almost unholy purple. It shimmered faintly with a dew that hadn't existed a breath ago. The air immediately around it seemed charged and heavy, the low, unsettling hum of potent magic resonating through the wrought iron and into my bones.

'No one should be able to breach the wards without a trigger…' My breath hitched, at the thought.

My fingers trembled slightly as I reached forward, drawn to it as though under an irresistible spell. The stem was sleek and cool, like it had been carved from moonlight. The scent was intoxicating, rich and heady, but laced unmistakably with something metallic beneath: the sharp scent of blood and ozone.

The moment my skin brushed the thorns, a faint, visible spark leaped between them - purple, brief, and as sharp as pain. I hissed softly, withdrawing my hand.

A thin, perfect line of crimson welled across my fingertip, gleaming wetly in the moonlight. And then, just as quickly, the blood vanished. It was absorbed - sucked directly into the thick, dark purple tissue of the rose.

The flower's subtle glow deepened for a terrifying moment, pulsing once like a feeding thing - then dimming again. This was a Blood-Binding Charm of the rare and highly powerful Midnight Rose.

I spun around sharply, scanning the dark gardens below, but nothing moved. The stillness was absolute and unnatural, but my instincts screamed.

Down among the thick, oily shadows, near the base of an old, gnarled sycamore tree, something finally shifted. I saw a faint, almost imperceptible glimmer - like a reflection caught momentarily on disturbed water - flickered, then vanished again into the blackness.

And for a critical, paralyzing heartbeat, I saw them. A pair of red eyes, like molten embers or freshly spilled blood, watching me with terrifying intensity from the deep dark.

My lips parted, but before I could utter a single syllable of incantation, the eyes were gone. The shadows seemed to swell and swallow them whole.

'Impossible.' I thought, my mind an absolute mess. 'The wards still had not sounded.'

I turned back, picked up the rose, and carried it inside. The oppressive, luxurious warmth of the room embraced me again as I passed my bed. Sera was still peacefully and blissfully asleep, so I laid the Midnight Rose gently beside the sputtering crystal lamp.

Then, a whisper, faint as the passage of breath, brushed past my ear, seeming to come from the heart of the flower itself.

"Welcome back, Witch."

I spun around, but there was no one. Also, the thorn mark on my finger had not healed. It glowed faintly - a deep, vibrant violet hue that pulsed in perfect, chilling rhythm with my thundering heartbeat, like a brand.

"So… it truly lives up to its name." I drew my heavy black velvet shawl tighter around my shoulders, as I laid back on the bed.

I glanced once more toward the sleeping form of Sera, and allowed myself one final, determined smile.

"Sleep well, little dove," I murmured softly, a vow spoken to the future. "Tomorrow, the Witch of the West will rise again, and she will find the one who sent this."