Chapter 543: A Tournant is Approaching
Seris D’Arkan lay back on her king-size bed, a luxurious work of black silk sheets and pillows so soft they swallowed her whole body. The Queen of All Witches’ bedroom was a reflection of her own presence: vast, imposing, yet mysteriously intimate. Heavy scarlet velvet curtains blocked the moonlight, and hundreds of candles floated lazily in the air, casting a soft glow that cast dancing shadows on the walls covered in arcane symbols.
At that mont, however, Seris didn’t feel like a monarch surrounded by cosmic secrets or a ntor shaping the future of magic. She felt… tired.
She had been ntally dragging herself since early morning, after another day of teaching Alice, her young disciple. Alice was a small fla that had grown too quickly, a sponge insatiable for knowledge. Every teaching, every sigil, every formula or incantation Seris poured her way was absorbed with absurd speed.
Seris wasn’t proud to admit it, but teaching Alice was exhausting. What should have been a natural flow of knowledge transmission was becoming a race: she felt she needed to always be one step ahead, reinvent teaching thods, pull from within herself fragnts she hadn’t even rembered possessing.
“This girl will exhaust before the gods even have another chance…” she murmured, turning over in bed until she was upside down, her legs still on the mattress and her body arched over the edge, staring at the inverted ceiling.
The ceiling of her room was adorned with fake constellations she had created herself, luminous symbols that moved according to her mood. Today, they were almost motionless, pale, as if reflecting her own exhaustion.
And it was in this reverie that the na appeared in her mind, uninvited, without warning: Vergil.
Seris blinked slowly, as if she’d heard herself whisper the na aloud. His face appeared in her mind—cold, arrogant, almost always with that crooked smile that irritated her and, at the sa ti, made her laugh to herself afterward. It had been eight months since he’d disappeared. Eight long months without news, without a trace, as if the world had decided to swallow him whole.
She hated to admit it, but she was worried. Not just worried, really. There was sothing else, sothing burning in her chest in a way the Witch Queen couldn’t describe. Vergil wasn’t like the other n who had passed through her life. He didn’t fawn, he didn’t kowtow, he wasn’t intimidated. He looked her in the eye with a boldness that not even the gods dared to sustain for long.
“Where have you gotten to, idiot?” she murmured, her eyes fixed on the artificial constellations. “You owe at least a visit, after turning your back on like that.”
For a mont, the silence seed to mock her. She sighed, and the sigh quickly turned into a blush that spread across her cheeks. Suddenly, she felt her entire body heat up, as if she’d just been caught red-handed with a shaful secret.
And then, the inevitable happened.
“No… no, no, no!” Seris muttered to herself, shrugging and covering her face with her hands. “What am I thinking?”
The image of Vergil beside her, sitting on that bed, laughing at her despair, was enough to make her lose her balance. With a sudden movent, she shifted too much on the edge, and before she could react, her body slipped and fell off the bed.
“Ah!” The thud against the plush carpet echoed with no dignity.
She lay there, staring at the ceiling, now at a normal angle. Her heart was beating too fast for what should have been just a fall.
“What the hell am I thinking…” she said aloud, covering her face with one hand. Her entire body burned with embarrassnt.
It was ridiculous. She, the Queen of All Witches, responsible for seals, treaties, and wars, lying on the floor like a teenager who’s caught fantasizing about the wrong man.
But before she could compose herself, a sound echoed from the other side of the door: a firm knock.
Seris hurriedly stood up, straightening her clothes and hair, trying to erase any trace of vulnerability from her expression. Her voice was firm, charged with authority.
“Who is it?”
The door opened with a soft creak. One of her most important witches entered the room. She was a tall woman with braided black hair and a dark purple dress that seed to have been stitched with shadows. Her eyes were deep, wise, and carried that natural reverence that always accompanied the Queen’s presence.
“Your Majesty.” She bowed slightly. “I need to report so urgent news.”
Seris leaned against the edge of the bed and crossed her arms, trying to hide the slight blush that still insisted on coloring her cheeks.
“Speak quickly.”
The witch took a deep breath, as if the words in her mouth weighed more than they should.
“The gods… are going to hold that shitty tournant again.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Seris blinked slowly, absorbing the information. Then, she snorted loudly, a bitter laugh escaping her lips.
“Of course they will.” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm. “They never tire of this little ga. They gather their pieces, choose their champions, and gamble with the fate of mortals as if it were a tavern bet.”
The other witch inclined her head but didn’t respond. She knew the Queen wasn’t speaking to her, but venting.
Seris stood, pacing the room with firm steps. Her nails scratched lightly against the wall as she spoke, as if each word were poison that needed to be expelled.
“And the mortals? Ah, those poor souls think they’re lucky to be chosen. They scurry like rats through the divine labyrinth, believing they’ll win glory, when in reality they’re only prolonging the gods’ amusent.”
She turned, her gaze flashing, and faced her subordinate.
“And have they announced the nas of the champions yet?”
“Not yet. They’ve only confird that it will take place.” The witch hesitated. “But, as always, your presence will be required.”
Seris closed her eyes, rubbing her temple with two fingers.
“Of course it will be.” The sarcasm in her voice was sharp. “After all, what’s the point of a puppet tournant without the Witch Queen to observe?”
For a mont, she felt sothing inside her stir. A mory. A recollection. Vergil’s face ca back to her, almost as if fate itself had decided to taunt her.
If he were here… oh, he would undoubtedly make fun of it. He would call the tournant a “ga of bored gods” or, worse, offer to participate just to see the chaos firsthand.
Seris took a deep breath, suppressing the smile that threatened to escape.
“Very well.” Her voice regained its cold tone of authority. “Inform the Council that I will be present. But I want detailed information as soon as it is released.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” The witch bowed again, already preparing to leave.
Seris, however, stopped her with a gesture.
“And have the wards on the portals doubled. I don’t want any surprises before the tournant.”
“As you wish.” And with that, the servant left, closing the door softly behind her.
The room returned to silence, broken only by the distant rustling of floating candles. Seris stood in the center, her heart still restless.
Eight months without news of Vergil. Now, a new tournant of the gods.
Coincidence? Or fate preparing another trick?
She sighed and lay back on the bed, this ti on her side, her eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the curtain.
“Where are you, Vergil…?” she murmured softly, allowing herself, just for a mont, the weakness of longing.
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