Chapter 9: Betrayal in the Coven

Chapter 9: Betrayal in the Coven

The Sanctuaire, which had once been a place of serene power for Liberté, now felt like a cage. The whispers of the ancestors in the magnolia leaves were no longer a comforting chorus of strength, but a cacophony of accusation. Three days had passed since the battle in the cemetery, and Grand-mère Delphine had summoned the Coven’s elders. The air in the sacred courtyard was thick with unspoken questions.

Liberté stood before them, the black knife, Le Silence, resting on a velvet cloth on the fountain’s edge. It was an exhibit in the trial of her own conviction.

“You did not use the blade,” Delphine stated, her voice heavy, not with anger, but with a deep, weary sorrow that was infinitely more damning.

“I was… we were attacked,” Liberté began, her voice carefully measured. She recounted the appearance of the Amalgam, the grotesque horror of its stitched-together form, a living testament to Otto Frost’s depravity. As she spoke, she could feel the elders’ revulsion, their shared horror validating her story.

But then she came to the battle itself. She couldn't lie, not here. The magic of the Sanctuaire was a truth serum for the soul. “My magic alone was not enough. It was a vessel of countless stolen powers. But the Frost… his power… it is not what we thought. He did not attack me. He… fueled me.”

A wave of shocked murmurs rippled through the assembled women.

“Fueled you?” a sharp voice cut through the noise. It was Camille. She stepped forward from the circle of elders, her black eyes burning with a venomous fire. Her arm was still bandaged from where the edges of the Soulfire had grazed her, a constant, physical reminder of her humiliation in the alley. “What pretty words you use, Liberté. ‘Fueled.’ Or did you perhaps ‘harmonize’? Did you find his cursed energy… compatible?”

“It was an act of desperation, Camille,” Liberté shot back, her temper flaring. “A protective instinct that manifested as a surge of raw energy. It was chaotic, untamed.”

“And you, our perfect Avenger, tamed it,” Camille sneered, her lips curling. “How convenient. You face the last of our ancient enemy, and instead of ending him, you dance with him. You weave your magic with his. Tell me, sisters, does that sound like an executioner, or an accomplice?”

The whispers of the ancestors grew agitated, their sorrow twisting into suspicion.

“He is not the monster we were taught,” Liberté insisted, her voice rising with a passion that felt dangerously close to heresy. “I have felt his mind, his memories! He is afraid. He is alone. He has spent his life trying to scourge this power from his very soul!”

“You have felt his mind?” Camille’s eyes widened in theatrical disbelief. She turned to the elders. “She has created a psychic link with him. The Frost parasite has already sunk its hooks into our Avenger. His rot is spreading.”

“Enough, Camille,” Delphine commanded, her voice cutting through the tension. But her gaze on Liberté was troubled, clouded by doubt. “Liberté, your duty is clear. Your compassion, while a virtue in other matters, is a liability here. The whispers of our dead are not a negotiation. The decree is absolute. This boy, whatever his personal struggles, is the vessel of a power that will inevitably turn to consumption. It is its nature.”

She gestured to the blade. “Take Le Silence. End this. End it tonight. There will be no more delays, no more… collaborations. Prove your loyalty has not been compromised.”

The meeting was over. The judgment had been passed. Liberté was left standing alone in the center of the courtyard, the elders retreating into the cottage, their distrust a physical weight on her shoulders. She stared at the black knife, its cold, hungry presence a symbol of the impossible choice before her. Kill a man who might be innocent, or betray every oath she had ever sworn.

---

Later that night, far from the luminous grace of the Sanctuaire, Camille stood in the damp, claustrophobic confines of a forgotten cellar beneath a Chartres Street bar. The air was stale with the smell of soured wine and rat poison. This was not a place of Coven magic. This was a place for things that festered in the dark.

Her ambition was a raw, aching wound. She had always been second to Liberté. Second in power, second in grace, second in the Matriarch’s favor. Liberté’s hesitation was Camille’s opportunity—a chance to prove herself the Coven’s true protector, the one with the strength to do what was necessary.

On the packed-earth floor, she had drawn a complex sigil with a mixture of graveyard dirt and ash. In the center, she placed a small, tarnished silver bowl. Unsheathing a ritual dagger, she made a swift, deep cut across her own palm without flinching. Blood, dark and thick, dripped into the bowl.

“Blood knows blood,” she whispered, the words of the forbidden rite feeling coarse and powerful on her tongue. It was a perversion of their Coven’s teachings, which forbade magic that coerced or controlled. This was a magic of domination. A hunter’s magic. “His power touched me. His fire marked me. Show me the source. Show me the flame.”

She closed her eyes, focusing her will, her jealousy, her rage into the pooling blood. The blood began to bubble, a faint, sickly red mist rising from it. An image started to form in the mist, blurry at first, then coalescing with sickening clarity: a dusty, book-filled room. High windows streaked with grime. And in the center, a pale young man with haunted silver eyes, bent over an ancient, leather-bound journal.

A triumphant, predatory smile spread across Camille’s face. She had him.

But simply killing him wasn’t enough. That would only prove Liberté was right to be cautious. No, she had to be proven a traitor. Camille’s gaze fell upon a small, velvet pouch on her hip. During the chaos of the Coven meeting, as Liberté had gestured in her passionate defense, one of the small, silver magnolia charms from her hair had come loose and fallen unnoticed to the floor. Camille had palmed it in an instant.

It was a piece of Liberté’s essence, imbued with her magic, her spirit. Perfect.

Her plan was simple and cruel. She and Bastien would ambush the Frost. They would kill him, and in the aftermath, she would leave the charm clutched in his cooling hand. When the Coven found the body, the evidence would be damning. It would look as though Liberté had been meeting with him in secret, perhaps giving him a Coven token as a sign of trust, and the meeting had turned violent. Her hesitation would be recast as treachery, her failure as a deliberate act of conspiracy. Camille would be the one who uncovered the betrayal and cleaned up the mess. She would be the hero.

---

Liberté sat by the fountain in the empty Sanctuaire, the weight of her impending choice pressing down on her. She ran a hand through her long curls, a nervous habit, and her fingers brushed against the silver charms woven into them. She paused. She counted them by touch. One was missing.

A cold spike of dread, sharper and more terrifying than any magic, pierced her heart. She remembered the fire in Camille’s eyes, the way her ambition had curdled into pure venom. She remembered Camille’s new bandage, a mark left by Kaelen’s power. A mark that could be used for a tracking spell. A blood rite.

The pieces clicked into place with horrifying speed.

The trap wasn't for Kaelen. Not just for him. It was for her.

Camille wouldn’t just kill him. She would frame her. She would turn Liberté’s mercy into a weapon against her. She would make her a traitor in the eyes of her family, her ancestors, her entire world.

Her choice, once a complex moral dilemma, was suddenly, brutally simple.

Duty to the Coven meant standing by while Camille murdered a man who might be innocent, and in doing so, allowing her own name to be destroyed, her legacy erased by a bitter rival’s lie.

Protecting Kaelen—the man she was born to hate—meant defying the Coven’s sacred decree, abandoning her post as Avenger, and becoming a true outcast.

She looked at the whispers of her ancestors in the glowing leaves, their demands for vengeance now sounding like chains. Then, she thought of the lonely boy in the monastery cell, praying for absolution. I am not him.

Liberté stood up. Her choice was made. In a single, fluid motion, she snatched Le Silence from its velvet cushion, its soul-drinking cold a familiar shock in her palm. But she would not be using it as her Grand-mère intended.

Tonight, the Coven’s Avenger would not be hunting a Frost. She would be saving one. And in doing so, she would be declaring war on her own family.