Scofield Estate… The Next Day Mira stood alone at the center of the main ritual hall, dressed in traditional Scofield attire, layers of fabric embroidered with ancient sigils that caught the light when she moved. The room itself felt older than the mansion that housed it, its high ceiling carved with symbols that told the story of generations long dead. The air was heavy, expectant, as if the walls themselves were waiting. She folded her hands in front of her, spine straight, chin lifted. Calm. Composed. Untouchable. This was her moment. The doors opened in unison. The elders entered one by one, each wearing the same ceremonial attire, their expressions unreadable. In their hands, they carried the seven totems. Mira’s eyes flickered just for a moment. One elder stepped forward and began to place the totems on the floor. One by one, they were arranged in a perfect circle around her, each artifact faintly glowing, resonating with the others as if recognizing their proximity. The

Cristy dropped to her knees beside Michael, hands trembling as she cupped his face. Gerald followed, slower but just as heavy with guilt, kneeling on his other side. The marble floor felt cold beneath them, the air thick with pressure and something far older than fear. “We’re sorry.” Cristy said, her voice breaking. “We tried. I swear we did. But we couldn’t stop the ritual.” Michael’s brow furrowed. The word echoed in his head, cutting through the pain for just a second. “Ritual?” He rasped. “What… Ritual?” His breathing came out uneven as he forced himself to lift his head. His vision swam, edges blurring, but then he saw it, the crimson glow bathing the far end of the hall. A barrier of pulsing red energy surrounded Mira, enclosing her like a living cage. The sight made his chest tighten, and the pain in his skull flared violently, like something responding to that light. He sucked in a sharp breath, fingers digging into the floor. Gerald swallowed hard. “This is my failure.”

The elder did not lower his voice when he continued. If anything, it grew heavier, layered with urgency. “We’re trying to keep the prophecy’s details from her for as long as we can.” He firmly said as he looked around discreetly. “If she finds out the full truth, and what role you play in it, she’s going to try to end you.” The words settled like dust. Michael’s eyes fell on the ritual book, the leather creaking softly as the elder held it in his arms. “Wouldn’t be her first time.” Barry cut in dryly, arms crossed. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but your new head sent some suicidal maniacs after us. They tried to crash the damn plane we were in.” Several elders stiffened. “Even had some men deployed outside the property to stop us from getting close.” Celia added, her voice calm but edged with restrained anger. “I don't know what you were thinking, making someone like that your lead when all you could've done was wait for a few hours.” A murmur rippled through the council chambe

Michael woke up sometime in the early evening. For a moment, he simply lay there, staring at the ceiling, registering the unfamiliar but welcome feeling settling in his body. He felt… Good. His muscles were relaxed, the lingering ache from the previous day of nonstop tension was finally gone. His head was clear, no pounding pain, no fog. Just a steady, grounded sense of awareness and motivation, like his body had finally caught up with his resolve. He turned slightly, and froze. Celia was asleep beside him. Her hair spilled loosely across the pillow, her breathing slow and even. One arm rested between them, fingers curled slightly as if she had fallen asleep mid-thought. For a split second, Michael was confused. Then the memory came back to him, her insisting for him to rest, the kiss, his half-joking demand that she stay. A small smile tugged at his lips. He watched her for a moment longer than necessary, committing the sight to memory, then carefully slipped out of bed, makin

Scofield estate. Dining hall. Silverware clinked softly against porcelain, the sound far too loud for how tense the room felt. No one spoke. The long table was filled, elders seated stiffly along the sides, Cristy and Gerald at the head, Mira across from them but it felt hollow, like a gathering of strangers forced into the same space. She calmly buttered her toast, took a bite, then finally broke the silence. “Your son paid a visit last night, stole my book too.” Cristy’s hand froze around her teacup. She looked up slowly. “What happened?” She asked, her voice tight despite her effort to keep it steady. Mira scoffed and leaned back in her chair. “Oh?” She tilted her head. “I bet you’re dying to ask how he is, Mother.” Cristy’s brows knitted together. For a moment, she said nothing at all. The answer was written plainly on her face, and that only seemed to irritate Mira further. Gerald cleared his throat. “It’s what happens when you forcefully take what isn’t yours.” The temper