"The wandering souls of Ashland know neither time nor end, they float eternally in the void."
{RAVEN'S POV}
With a hood concealing both my face and figure, I walked down Allen Street—one of the less conspicuous roads. Though it was daylight, the time when humans are most active, with some heading to work on foot and others driving by, no one spared me a glance. It was a busy day. I wore a black robe, and thanks to the spell I had cast—Maskai—I remained unnoticed.
Last night, someone knocked on my door using a secret pattern—one known only to my true clients. When I opened it, I found Michael standing there, bare-chested, with a woman cradled in his arms as if he were carrying a bride. His upper body was covered in scars, and his trousers were nearly shredded.
I turned my attention to the woman. She was undeniably attractive—her voluptuous figure almost stirred a flicker of envy in me. But then I remembered: I was just as voluptuous. The envy faded.
How did I even come to know Michael? It was two years ago when we first met. He was eccentric—so much so that I almost mistook him for a warlock, if not for my magical intuition telling me otherwise. He saved me from a vicious vampire who had nearly ended my life back then. Since that day, I've treated him as a friend. But even so, whenever he came to me with a request involving magic, I never waived the price just because of our friendship—well, except for a modest 5% discount.
So far, he had only sought my expertise twice. The first time was when he spoke of the voices in his head, asking me to uncover their source and their connection to him. The price he paid for that service left a frown on his face whenever he saw a smile dancing across my lips. I performed a ritual to tap into his subconscious, to feel what he felt—but those voices pushed back. They nearly shattered my sanity. At the time, I couldn't help but question whether the price had truly been worth the risk.
To my dismay, I discovered that the voices belonged to the Ashkedais—beings from the spirit world, widely known as Ashland. These entities were once warlocks who had lived among humans. Now, in death, they wormed their way into Michael's mind, slowly gnawing at his sanity.
Though their presence initially overwhelmed me, I managed to catch hold of something—an emotion, a whisper of intent. It felt like the answer to a riddle: the Ashkedais wanted him to grow stronger.
But why? He wasn't even a warlock, someone who would naturally have a deeper connection to the Ashkedais. He was a werewolf. Why were they so invested in his strength?
The mystery intrigued me more than I cared to admit.
He left after receiving his answer. The next time he returned—months later—it was to request a way to banish the Ashkedais from his mind. Unfortunately, that wasn't something I could do, and I had to turn him down.
Getting into a conflict with the Ashkedais was madness—even for a seasoned warlock. If it had been just one, I might've considered the risk. But it wasn't one. It wasn't even two. Not three. It was dozens.
Attempting an expulsion ritual—Exparis Midatus—would have only ended in my death. The Ashkedais were not to be trifled with.
I could have sought help from other warlocks, but the cost quickly ruled out that option. And even if I managed to gather a few, there was no guarantee they'd take the risk of confronting the Ashkedais.
There was one very specific reason we avoided offending them: the Ashkedais weren't just dangerous spirits—they were also considered magical conduits. As warlocks, we drew power from them. If marked by these entities, they could sever or restrict the flow of magic from Ashland to us.
No one in their right mind would willingly take on such a mission.
It wasn't until last night that he returned. His eyes were pitch black, and within them, I sensed an ancient magical force. I didn't need much time to reach a conclusion—those were the eyes of the Ashkedais.
I was ready to flee. Had they already taken control?
But then he spoke—softly. And just like that, I stayed rooted in place, my gaze locked on him.
He wasn't fully lost. Not yet. He was fighting them, constantly. That much was clear. Which meant he was half-insane—if not completely gone. Or perhaps, he had truly accepted what he had become.
I let him in, then immediately reinforced my home with additional layers of magic. I asked who the woman was, and he told me everything.
According to him, the Ashkedais had ordered him to capture her—the daughter of his former leader. He recounted the battle that took place, and I couldn't help but be surprised. He had grown stronger since our last encounter. He was now an Alpha—stronger, even, than some of the most powerful Alpha werewolves I'd known.
He wasn't just there to tell me the story. He came for another transaction.
This time, he wanted me to discover why the woman was so important—why she was the key ingredient in a ritual the Ashkedais had spoken of. But that wasn't his only reason for visiting.
He needed me to help him find one of the ritual's components: a magical plant known as the Rootless Flower.
As the name suggests, it has no roots.
This flower couldn't be found in any forest or garden. On rare occasions, it would drift through the air with the wind, its origin unknown to any living soul. Encountering one was incredibly rare—and even if you did, without strong magical intuition, you wouldn't recognize it for what it truly was.
To find it, I had to go to Maradox—a hidden marketplace where warlocks traded whatever they needed. It operated only under the cover of night.
After a few minutes of searching through Maradox, I found the flower—but the price was steep. I clenched my teeth as I made the purchase, silently vowing to bleed Michael dry when it came time for him to pay.
With the flower secured, I picked up a few other ingredients I needed. It took a few hours before I was finally ready to leave.
Still, questions nagged at me. What was Michael planning? Was he truly going to sacrifice the young woman? Didn't he say she was the daughter of his former leader—the man who raised him like a son?
Was it the madness consuming him, or was there something else at play?
Michael had never struck me as a particularly benevolent man, but he wasn't entirely villainous either.
Then again, it wasn't my concern. As long as he paid me well, we had no problem.
After walking for some time, I finally reached my house. It stood apart from the others—a four-story stone building, surrounded by high, walled fences. I passed through the gate after unlocking it with a spell.
This was the home I had inherited from my mother, who had also been a warlock. From her time to mine, the mansion had always been steeped in magic, its very walls laced with enchantments.
I made my way inside, moving through stairways and hidden doors, until I finally reached the third floor—where Michael was staying.
Just before I could knock, I heard them arguing.
"I knew you'd make a move," Michael said. "That's why I didn't bother telling you—this room is coated with magic. No ordinary person can enter or leave without the warlock's permission."
I was amused. Ordinary person? Was he implying she was too weak to escape, while he could?
Then the woman responded, "If I'm not mistaken, this is the Sheddai of the warlocks—a powerful spell designed to trap someone. Are you saying it's not strong enough to hold you?"
"Why don't you guess?" His voice was cold, almost mocking. "You think I trust anyone not to hurt me? I can't place my safety in the hands of a warlock. Not even one."
I couldn't help but smirk. He doesn't trust me? As if I ever trusted him. Still, there was a sting in his words—one I quickly pushed to the back of my mind. Perhaps I was more emotionally disturbed than I realized.
The door suddenly burst open, as though responding to my will. I stepped inside without glancing at either of them.
"You don't trust me," I said sharply, "yet you laid with me?"
He spoke suddenly, without hesitation. "It's hard to understand the footsteps of your kind. I knew you were outside the door. I said it on purpose, love. Why so serious?"
I focused on the duo, who were sitting on the bed—one lying down, the other sitting. From this angle, they looked like lovers, and a pang of jealousy twisted in my chest. Perhaps it was because I was in love with him, and that was why I kept helping him. It was just a pity that his emotions were never stable.
A nasty grin spread across his face, and the woman beside him seemed startled by his words. I wondered why. Was she surprised that a serious man like Michael could enjoy sex so freely? Or was it something else? I planned to ask her later.