Wisteria Von Vexx's Arc

Chapter 10 of 13

Wisteria knelt beside the bleeding gravestone, watching the red liquid pool in the dirt. The blackened hand had stopped moving, but it remained there—fingers spread, waiting. The blood traced a shape as it flowed. Not random. Deliberate. The symbol formed slowly, drawn by gravity and intent both. A circular pattern with fractures radiating from its center, exactly matching the crack in the ring fused to her hand. Wisteria held up her palm, comparing the two. Perfect mirrors. The ritual had recognized her claim and answered by marking the ground where its power would take root. She reached toward the pooled blood, her fingertips hovering just above the symbol's edge. The ring burned cold against her skin, responding to the connection. This was the anchor point—the place where the binding would occur. But the gravestone continued bleeding, the red tracing thicker lines now, and she realized the symbol wasn't finished. It pulsed once, the same rhythm as before, and a jeweled dagger rose from the earth at its center, embedded in the glowing pattern as if it had always been there. Wisteria stood and backed away from the gate. The dagger hadn't been buried there yesterday. The ritual had created it, forged from whatever power slept beneath Nightshade Grove. She understood what it meant. The magic required more than passive observation. It demanded she take the blade and complete what she'd started. But touching it would bind her to the entity beneath the gravestone, tying her power to something she couldn't control or predict. The alcove stood nearby, its stone bench positioned to watch the graves. She could sit there. Wait. Study the symbol and the dagger until she understood their purpose fully. That's what she would have done before—calculated every risk, weighed every consequence. She stepped through the gate and gripped the dagger's hilt. The jewels flared bright, searing heat shooting up her arm and meeting the cold fire of the ring. The two forces collided in her chest, and she gasped as the binding locked into place. The gravestone stopped bleeding. The symbol in the dirt solidified, no longer liquid but burned into the earth like a brand. An iron seal lay where the pooled blood had been, split down its center with grooves like soil fissures, covered in dark patina. Wisteria pulled the dagger free and felt the ritual's claim settle over her. She'd chosen action over certainty, and the magic had accepted her offering. The entity beneath the grove hadn't taken control—it had given her a weapon. She turned back toward Alastair, the dagger balanced in her palm, and knew she'd crossed a threshold she couldn't retreat from. The ritual would proceed, and she would face whatever it demanded with the tools it had granted her.