Chapter 72: The Road Home The ferry ride back to the mainland was quiet.No one talked about Morrigan’s promise. No one talked about the 30 days. No one talked about the half-Stones, the missing Stones, the truth Morag’s voice had whispered up through the loch water. They sat on the hard wooden benches, sipping bad coffee, watching the Scottish coast fade into the mist, holding the people they loved, just glad to be alive, just glad to be together.Mia didn’t leave Lila’s side the whole trip. She held Lila’s hand, her thumb brushing the faint scar on Lila’s wrist over and over, like she was making sure she was real, making sure none of it had been a dream — the bite, the Turned venom, Morrigan wearing her skin, driving the dagger into the Queen’s heart, the cold of the loch water on her ankles. She kept apologizing, over and over, quiet, for the things she’d said, the things she’d done while the Queen was in her head, even though Lila told her a hundred times it wasn’t her fault, t

Chapter 74: The Witch Who Hid Her LightThe first thing Lila felt was heat.Burning, searing heat on her left arm, the smell of pine and old lumber and ash thick in her throat, the sound of the mill groaning and cracking around her like a dying animal. She tried to move, tried to open her eyes, but a heavy beam was pinning her legs, the weight crushing, the fire creeping closer, licking at her jeans.She was going to die here.Then the beam lifted.Strong arms wrapped around her waist, yanking her free, dragging her through the falling debris, the heat fading, the air getting cooler, sharper, until they burst through the mill’s back loading dock doors into the cold night air, the rain starting to fall, soft and steady, putting out the embers on Lila’s shirt.“Got you, baby. I’ve got you.”Lila’s eyes flew open.Sarah was kneeling over her, her yellow sundress torn and blackened with ash, a cut on her cheek, her hair wild, but her hazel eyes bright, warm, alive, the same eyes Lila had

Chapter 76: The Oak That Held the SkyThe lightning hit the oak tree first.Not the altar. Not Lila. Not the seven thrones.The big, gnarled oak Sarah had planted the day Lila was born, its branches spread wide over the yard, its roots sunk 50 feet deep into Trenton soil, soaked in 13 years of birthday cake crumbs, scraped-knee tears, late-night laughter, quiet goodbyes, every single drop of love this family had ever poured into the ground.It caught the full force of Morrigan’s bolt like a shield.Light exploded outward, white and gold, searing the night bright as noon. The oak’s leaves blazed, not burning, glowing, every vein in every leaf lighting up like a circuit board, the power surging down the trunk, into the roots, into the seven thrones, into the Stones mid-air, feeding the ritual instead of breaking it.Sarah was the first to understand.She screamed, standing up from her throne, ignoring Jules’s yell to sit down, her hands outstretched toward the tree, the dormant Voss mag

Chapter 78: The Heir the Veil Forgot The cheering died in the valley’s throat.The soda slipped out of Lila’s hand, hitting the grass with a soft fizz. Elspeth pressed herself tight to Sarah’s side, the rabbit clutched to her chest, her small face pale, recognizing the new woman’s power, the old, hungry evil rolling off her in waves, older than Morrigan, darker than the First Witch, the thing the Voss line had spent 10,000 years lying about, erasing from every book, every journal, every family tree, scared to even speak her name.Lyra was the first to find her voice.She was staring at the new woman, at the shard armor, at the silver Voss crest carved into her chest plate, her hands shaking so bad the journal slipped out of her grasp, hitting the grass with a soft thud. She’d seen that face before. In the oldest, most forbidden section of the Voss archives, the pages bound in iron, locked in a lead box, the words DO NOT READ — ERASED FROM HISTORY scrawled across the cover in Morag’

Chapter 80: The Face At The TableThe yard went dead silent.Hale’s rifle wavered, just for a second. Cole’s hands tightened on his pistol, his knuckles white. Veyra’s knives slipped half an inch out of their sheathes, her face draining of all color. Tom—the thing wearing Tom’s face—stepped out of the shadow of the oak, his flannel shirt, his worn jeans, his scuffed work boots, the scar across his left eyebrow, every single detail perfect, right down to the chipped tooth he’d gotten fighting a swordfish off the coast of Norway in ‘98. The only thing wrong was his eyes: solid, glowing silver, no pupils, no warmth, nothing but endless, ancient hunger.“Remember that storm three weeks ago?” the Unnamed said, in Tom’s slow, salt-stained drawl, smiling that jagged, too-wide smile, leaning against the oak like he had a hundred times before, spitting a stream of tobacco juice into the grass. “The night you killed the shard queen? I pulled the real Tom out of his truck on his way home from th