So the witches of the mortis coven thrived and their descendants gave birth to more geniuses and vera was the best above all.
She stood now in Valerian's study, poised with a grace that did not feel natural, but crafted. Every movement measured. Every breath controlled. Even her stillness seemed intentional.
Her beauty was striking, but it was not gentle. There was no softness to her presence. It was sharp. Defined. Dangerous in a way that did not need to announce itself.
And when Valerian entered—Her gaze lifted to meet his. For the briefest moment—Something flickered in her eyes.
It was recognition, curiosity, and beneath it all…Caution. Because she knew. Of all the beings that walked the realms—kings, warriors, witches, and beasts alike—there were very few Vera Mortis would ever consider a true threat.
And Valerian was one of them.
With the Mark of Vireon etched into his very being, he stood as something witches did not challenge.....Could not challenge.
