She stood, turned her back on them, and ascended the spiral staircase toward her private sanctum. At the top, she paused.
As the delegation stumbled out into the suddenly silent night, Seraphina stood before her altar. The bones of saints, the feathers of extinct birds, a mirror that showed not her face but the face of every woman who had been drowned, hanged, or silenced. Dominant Witches
Seraphina knelt before Graves—not in supplication, but like a chess player examining a doomed king. “You came here thinking you had leverage. That we needed your permission, your treaties, your legitimacy . Darling.” She touched his chin with one cool finger. “We are witches. We were burning before you had grammar. We will be dancing on your graves before your grandchildren learn to lie.” She stood, turned her back on them, and
“Let them wait,” Seraphina said, not turning. She watched her reflection in the rain-smeared glass. At forty-seven, she looked thirty. Magic was a magnificent cosmetician. “Fear is the only currency they understand.” The bones of saints, the feathers of extinct
Seraphina smiled. It was a predator’s smile—wide, serene, and utterly without mercy. She raised her left hand. Outside, the rain stopped. Not tapered off—stopped, mid-fall, hanging in the air like a billion frozen tears. Then, with a casual turn of her palm, she sent it blasting back into the clouds, which shredded apart to reveal a sky of violent, peaceful stars.
But Seraphina had no intention of simply helping .
Seraphina flicked her wrist. The man’s mouth fused shut. Not with stitches or glue—with a simple, absolute cessation of function. His eyes bulged. His companions stepped back.