THIRD POV
+25 Points
Janet moved quietly through the chamber, the soft rustle of her robes the only sound against the thick,
expectant silence.
Her fingers traced the edges of the small altar, lingering on the engraved sigils, worn smooth by repeated use. She could feel the lingering energy of the spell, pulsing faintly beneath her fingertips, subtle and
insistent, like a heartbeat that wasn’t her own.
The spell was working; she could feel it–drawing the chosen one, guiding her toward the moment Janet
had been planning.
Her eyes flicked over the carefully arranged objects around her: obsidian shards glinting in the dim candlelight, a small vial of blood from a previous offering, silver dust sprinkled in precise patterns around the circle, and the carved wooden figurines she had positioned at cardinal points to anchor the energy.
Each item was deliberate, a conduit for the spell’s subtle tug at fate. Her fingers hovered over the blood vial, and she tilted it slightly, letting a single drop fall onto the center of the altar. The liquid hissed softly against the carved stone, and she felt the pull of the magic intensify.
A dark smile curved her lips. When the chosen one arrived, it would all fall into place. Darren would rise, the pack’s loyalty anchored to him–and through him, to Janet herself. The ritual would not only cement his power but elevate the Stonevale Pack beyond anything they had known. And she would be the one orchestrating it. The thought sent a shiver of satisfaction down her spine.
Janet knelt by the altar, brushing her hands over the scattered symbols etched into the floor–some painted with blood, others etched with charcoal and silver powder. Each symbol pulsed faintly in response to her presence, responding to the intent she had infused into them.
Her lips moved in near–silent incantations, strings of words ancient and sharp, threading the spell tighter, coaxing it to life. She tilted her head slightly, observing the energy as it shimmered like a translucent mist
over the circle.
She imagined the chosen one, the Celestine Luna somewhere beyond the walls–unaware, restless, uneasy. Janet’s lips twitched as a slow, deliberate thought spread through her mind: curiosity. That’s all it would take. A gentle nudge, an unseen tug, and the Luna would follow–drawn by something she didn’t even know existed. Willingly.
Her mind drifted to Darren, kneeling in obedience somewhere in the house, unaware of his part in what was to come. He was a tool, a conduit, a puppet–but a strong one, strong enough to command the pack
once the time arrived, strong enough to serve as the focus for the ritual.
Janet’s hand brushed over a small obsidian figurine shaped like a wolf, positioned to mirror Darren’s place
Chapter 370
+25 Points
in the pack, and she felt the threads tighten, binding possibility and intent together. The thrill was almost
electric, a dangerous pleasure that made her pulse quicken.
Janet rose slowly, pacing around the circle, adjusting the symbols and objects with precision. She shifted
the silver dust slightly, aligning it with the sigils etched into the floor.
She rotated the figurines so that their gaze intersected with the lines of power she had drawn, imagining
the invisible currents twisting and spiraling through the chamber. She placed a small crystal on the altar,
whispering another incantation, watching it vibrate faintly as if it had awareness of its role. Every object,
every line, every carefully measured action served a purpose.
She closed her eyes briefly, drawing a slow, deliberate breath. In the quiet dark, she could sense the subtle
hum of the spell like a living thing–a quiet pulse reaching beyond the walls, searching, tugging.
Somewhere far away, a force would stir, restless, unaware that it was being nudged, guided, and eventually trapped in the pattern she had laid.
Janet’s work required focus, patience, and precision. Distractions were dangerous. Her fingers brushed over a small dagger etched with runes, placing it carefully beside the altar. It was a token, a focus for the spell’s binding energy, ensuring the Luna’s approach would be direct, unavoidable, and–most importantly
-unwitting.
She allowed herself a moment to imagine the scene that would unfold: the Luna stepping into the circle of influence, drawn by the spell’s pull, unsure of why she felt compelled to come. Darren would rise, the pack would rally, and the ritual would flow exactly as Janet had designed. Every loyalty would bend, every intention would bow, and she would be the unseen hand holding it all together.
Janet’s fingers danced lightly over the altar one last time, brushing against the obsidian shards and silver dust, still weaving threads of energy through the space. The hum of the spell grew faintly stronger, almost as if it recognized the final layer of intent being infused into it. She paused, tilting her head, letting her eyes glide over the circle one final time. Satisfied, she let the tension slip from her shoulders.
The chamber was dim, lit only by the faint flicker of the remaining candles. Janet extinguished them one by one, leaving only the faint, persistent pulse of magic lingering in the air. She could feel it moving outward, stretching beyond the walls, reaching silently, patiently. The plan was in motion. Soon, the Luna would come. Soon, Darren would rise. And Janet would be the architect of it all–unseen, untouchable,
holding the Stonevale Pack in her grasp without anyone realizing it, even those at the center of her plan.
She lingered for a moment in the darkness, letting the satisfaction of her orchestration settle in. Every
piece was in place. Every subtle adjustment, every carefully considered motion, had been performed with deliberate intent. The spell was alive, and it was hungry.
With a final glance around the chamber, Janet allowed herself a small, triumphant smile. She had done her work. Now all that remained was to wait.
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Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
