Chapter 30

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Chapter 30: Title

After the celestial phenomena manifested globally that day, while Zhongxia’s events caused domestic uproar, similar ripples occurred abroad.

Since Merlinka had drawn the attention of England’s authorities during the live broadcast incident, covert surveillance—though not overt—had become inevitable.

She didn’t know why she’d suddenly grown sensitive to these invisible eyes, even pinpointing the locations of hidden cameras.

A moment’s reflection revealed their origin: she’d offended no one, yet even her usual clients seeking divination had dwindled—an unsettling shift.

Merlinka Endor’s reputation spanned Europe, with North American clients vying for appointments. Her fame had only surged after the broadcast.

It defied logic—greater renown should’ve brought more patrons, not fewer.

Yet since the castle incident, Merlinka found herself retreating into her family’s ancient tomes, their weathered pages offering solace. The ritual of studying these ancestral texts rekindled memories of her mother’s patient guidance—those sunlit afternoons when mystical knowledge flowed like honey, sweet and nourishing.

Two days later, as she bent over a manuscript, an inexplicable pull drew her gaze upward.

A pristine sky stretched above—impossible, for the clock read 1:17 AM. Dawn’s clarity had no place in midnight’s domain.

Before bewilderment could root, aurora-like radiance fractured the clouds. A luminous web materialized overhead, its threads shimmering with alien geometries that danced at the edge of comprehension. Merlinka’s breath caught—a scholar’s rapture tempered by frustration.

The vision dissolved as suddenly as it appeared. Blinking away the afterglow, she glanced down.

Her windowsill erupted in silent fireworks—buds that had clung to secrecy now unfurled in unison. Dew-kissed petals quivered as if laughing, their trembling stems whispering of parched earth finally drinking rain, of roots rejoicing at the world’s rebirth.

A self-deprecating smile curved her lips. “Books and solitude,” she chided herself, “breeding florid delusions.”

The RV’s doors slammed outside. Black suits emerged—sunglassed sentinels she’d come to recognize.

“Miss Endor.” Their leader’s voice held bureaucratic urgency. “An emergency requires your immediate presence. And bring the ancient coin.”

England’s officials had left the relic in her care post-broadcast, its value indeterminate, their diplomacy cautious. The thorn necklace, however, now languished in MI5’s vaults—a specimen for their curiosity.

She’d anticipated this. The celestial display hadn’t been private theater—monitoring agents would’ve seen it too. Post-castle incident protocols had honed England’s reflexes.

“One moment,” she murmured, retrieving the coin with practiced ease. The agents’ stoicism couldn’t mask their chagrin—trained observers out-observed from day one.

The black sedan awaited, its opened door swallowing her into leather-scented silence. They sped toward familiar grounds: MI5’s labyrinth, where armed silhouettes framed a nondescript door.

“Miss Endor.” Myers rose, his promotion to head of supernatural events evident in his bearing. No introductions needed—their last encounter had rewritten his career.

“This concerns the dawn’s anomaly?” Her question floated between them, deliberate as a tarot placement.

His nod carried the weight of institutional reckoning. The castle incident had been no isolated oddity—only the first their bureaucracy hadn’t dismissed as childish pranks.

In this era, who would believe in haunted tales? Listeners would dismiss them as fabrications without hesitation. This held doubly true for police or government officials—had the haunted castle incident not caused such an uproar, they wouldn’t have spared it a second thought.

"Bring the item forward. Handle it with care," Myers instructed his companion.

The attendant cautiously opened the vault, revealing a glass case housing a necklace—its black gemstone carved into intricate brambles.

"What’s this?"

"When the celestial anomaly occurred moments ago, this necklace emitted a soft glow," Myers explained, gloved hands cradling the container. "Its original mistress still resides within. Since you share a stronger connection with her, we requested your presence."

"May I examine it?" Merlinka’s gaze remained fixed on the jewelry, her request immediate.

"By all means," Myers acquiesced.

The woman retrieved the necklace and performed an astonishing act—clasping the carefully guarded relic around her own throat.

Seconds stretched like minutes as witnesses beheld the same marvel that had once transpired at the castle. A luminous haze enveloped Merlinka, coalescing into feminine contours that solidified into…

Waylin Beers Mandala—the Six Hundred Years spectral enigma.

"It seems I’ve slumbered long again," the apparition murmured, sapphire eyes widening at the assembly before settling on Merlinka. "Have I departed my fortress?"

"Miss Merlinka," Myers interjected, "would you brief her on current circumstances?" This arrangement had been predetermined—should their phantom guest awaken, the explanation fell to Merlinka.

"Lady Waylin," the addressed woman inclined her head, warmth softening her features. "It’s been considerable time."

"Indeed it has," the ghostly noble acknowledged with equal grace.

"Might you hear what transpired after that fateful night?"

"Proceed."

The recounting proved brief, focusing on crucial events preceding Waylin’s disappearance.

"Such developments after my return to the necklace!" The spirit marveled. "I sensed the surge—magical energies swelling within this pendant like tidal waters." Comprehension dawned. "Thus my manifestation."

"Magical surge?"

"Can’t you perceive it?" Waylin’s brow furrowed. "The world’s essence transforms."

"I noticed… alterations since dawn. No—truthfully, since that night." Merlinka hesitated. "Sharpened senses. Occasional… intimations of others’ thoughts. Is this… natural?"

"’Tis a witch’s heritage awakening," Waylin answered, her smile bittersweet. "Heightened magic stirs latent potentials. The golden token I bestowed—do you retain it?"

Producing an ancient coin from her locket, Waylin revealed timeworn metal gleaming like new. "In childhood, a witch lady gifted this," she recounted, observing her audience’s rapt attention. "She vowed I’d awaken my magical lineage by blooding the coin at eighteen—thus becoming a true witch."

“Did you succeed?” Merlinka inquired, barely containing her eagerness.

“No. Had I succeeded, matters wouldn’t have come to this,” Waylin replied, gesturing at her translucent form – an immutable truth, for she’d been deceased over six centuries.

“In my youth, I scarcely understood what transpired. Only upon growing older did anticipation for my eighteenth year take root.”

“Yet when the time came, my attempts yielded nothing – some unknown factor thwarted me.”

“Thereafter, I pursued the world’s hidden truths with desperate fervor. My father, the Duke of Beers, stood second only to His Majesty himself. Many sought to indulge my interests with lavish gifts.”

“This necklace numbered among such offerings,” Waylin remarked, her gaze lingering on the pendant at Merlinka’s throat.

“Though I never rediscovered those ‘beings’, my accumulating tomes revealed why awakening eluded me – not methods, but revelation.”

“The ambient magical elements then were thinner than mist, scarcer even than during my recent reawakening. No lineage could stir in such impoverished ether.”

Waylin’s eyes gleamed as she posed, “Tell me – whence springs the power of mages?”

Merlinka shook her head, curiosity burning in her silence.

“Once, humanity knew neither wizard nor witch. Then came unions with magical beings. Their hybrid descendants carried dormant bloodlines – fonts of power awaiting ignition.”

“Only through awakening this lineage might one command surrounding elements.” Waylin leaned closer, spectral tresses shimmering. “Would you rouse the non-human heritage within?”

“I possess such?”

“Undoubtedly. Else you’d never have summoned me. Bloodlines dance in many veins, yet few attain awakening’s threshold.”

Myers, who’d been quietly absorbing this, now blinked in bewilderment. Magical beings? Interbreeding? Their prior research suggested entirely different paradigms – perhaps ten percent alignment at most.

“Miss Waylin,” he ventured cautiously, “is lineage awakening… arduous?”

“For you? Impossible.” Her dismissal fell like a guillotine blade.

Myers winced as though physically struck.

“Moreover,” Waylin continued, tilting her head with courtly grace, “this ancient coin awakens but one. Merlinka pleases me – thus I offer it.”

“Acceptance remains her prerogative.”

As the coin levitated before Merlinka, Waylin’s smile held centuries of secrets. “Until refusal, it’s hers to claim.”

The silence stretched taut. Myers fought to keep still, dread coiling in his gut – what wrath might follow rejection from this capricious spirit?

At length, Merlinka raised an open palm. The coin descended like autumn leaf meeting still pond.

“A blood droplet suffices?” Her question trembled faintly.

“Seek solitude,” Waylin advised, eyeing Myers meaningfully. “Disturbances could prove… hazardous.”

“Mr. Myers, might we–”

“Of course! We’ll prepare chambers instantly!” His haste betrayed government mandates – Merlinka being England’s sole confirmed supernatural asset warranted every indulgence.

Within moments, a sealed chamber stood ready. Upon velvet cushion lay a sterilized needle, its cruel point glinting in lamplight.

“This ancient coin has two sides—one embodying truth, and the other honoring Mother Earth,” Waylin explained while seated at the bedside, her voice measured and clear.

Merlinka studied the surface etched with crisscrossing lines, an inexplicable sense of recognition tugging at her memory, while the opposite side bore only the faint outline Waylin called Mother Earth’s silhouette.

“Magical beings hold sacred the belief that Mother Earth shaped their existence,” Waylin continued, “thus her visage was engraved upon this relic.”

“Now, let your blood grace its surface.”

Merlinka pressed the needle to her fingertip. A fleeting sting faded instantly—the needle’s tip had been coated with a trace of anesthetic. They both watched as the crimson droplet splashed against the coin’s surface.

The golden patina drank the blood hungrily. Before their eyes, the Mother Earth engraving shimmered and transformed rapidly, cycling through countless forms until crystallizing into a maiden of ethereal beauty—slender ears crowned by blossoms, features carved from moonlight.

_Elf._ The thought pierced Merlinka’s mind unbidden.

Before she could process this, the coin’s outer layer crackled and flaked away like autumn leaves. What remained gleamed argent, hovering briefly before dissolving into spectral flames that arrowed toward Merlinka’s brow.

She gasped as the coldfire kissed her skin—no searing heat, only glacial clarity flooding her senses. The moment it seeped into her forehead, darkness claimed her.

To ordinary eyes, the room remained undisturbed. But Waylin perceived the gathering storm—magical currents coiling tighter since the blood’s first touch. Now unleashed, the tempest whirled violently, levitating furnishings before dashing them to splinters. At its vortex, Merlinka lay serene as a moonlit lake, oblivious to the chaos.

Azure light bloomed within the maelstrom, deepening to sapphire waves that cascaded over the unconscious girl.

“So this is lineage awakening,” Waylin breathed, half-reaching toward the glow before clenching her withdrawn fist. “Yours now. Not mine.” Her whispered confession curled into a bittersweet smile.

A chrysalis moment.

Beyond the sealed chamber, Myers paced before the shattered camera feed. Five hours since the surveillance died—five hours of muffled crashes and his own gnawing dread. “We should intervene,” he growled, though his boots remained rooted. Waylin’s warning echoed: _Disturbance risks catastrophe._

Inside the eye of magic’s hurricane, Waylin witnessed the metamorphosis—wild energies refining themselves, purging impurities until only crystalline streams remained. The cerulean shroud around Merlinka dissolved like morning mist under sunlight.

Merlinka stirred, vitality thrumming beneath her skin. Her gasp echoed through the wreckage as she discovered her ravaged garments.

Waylin approached, laughter dancing in her eyes as she offered a crumpled bedsheet. “Success suits you,” she said, fingers brushing Merlinka’s newly tapered ear. “Shall we behold the transformation?”

At the mirror’s edge, Merlinka froze. The elven stranger staring back wore her memories but none of her scars.

“Meet your true self,” Waylin whispered.

The mirror, securely embedded in the dressing table, had survived the earlier storm unscathed. Merlinka stood transfixed before the glass, her breath catching at the reflection gazing back.

Could this truly be herself?

A waterfall of silver-red hair cascaded down her shoulders, its gradient hues blending precious argent with ruby depths in seamless harmony. Eyes once emerald now shimmered with the azure intensity of flame cores, while delicately pointed ears—like those from elven legends—peeked through the luminous strands.

Her alabaster skin now seemed ethereal, flawless as polished jade without a trace of imperfection. Though the face remained recognizably hers, some ineffable transformation radiated through every feature.

Was it the dancing cobalt flame sigil between her brows? Perhaps not entirely.

"Stunning, isn’t she?" Waylin remarked, gathering the lustrous tresses with practiced fingers before fastening them with a crimson ribbon salvaged nearby.

Still entranced, Merlinka barely registered the styling. Her heightened senses detected invisible energies swirling in the air, awaiting her slightest whim.

She willed them into motion.

Magical elements coalesced into cerulean streams that wove around her form, transmuting the plain bedsheet into perfectly tailored garments.

"Remarkable," she breathed, watching the metamorphosis.

"Truly," Waylin agreed, her smile widening. "That ancient coin dissolved into your forehead rather elegantly—the resulting patterns suit you."

"Coin?" Merlinka echoed. With crystalline clarity, a silvery relic materialized mid-air before clinking onto the dressing table.

When she opened the door, security guards instinctively reached for firearms—only to freeze mid-motion, weapons forgotten as they gaped at her transformed visage.

"Where’s Myers?" Merlinka inquired, suppressing amusement at their speechless reaction. This new appearance’s arresting power far surpassed her former looks.

Waylin hovered nearby with knowing amusement.

"Director Myers… his office…" The lead guard managed, throat bobbing nervously. "Shall I… announce your arrival?"

"Please do," Merlinka smiled.

The man flushed crimson, nearly tripping in his haste to comply.

In their familiar meeting room, Myers’ jaw went slack upon her entrance—a full three seconds passing before he blinked rapidly.

"Am I truly so alarming now?" Merlinka arched an eyebrow, having endured similar reactions throughout the facility.

The director coughed into his fist. "My apologies. The transformation is… rather more profound than anticipated." His gaze flicked to her elfin ears. "Does this mean…"

"Half-elf, I suppose," she conceded. "Though my humanity remains at the core—this awakening merely reveals latent heritage."

"A bona fide elf witch!" Myers’ weathered face lit with genuine relief. "After today’s calamities, this might be our first hopeful development."

"Today’s events?"

"Global anomalies since dawn—identical phenomena across Western countries, that celestial web you witnessed. Then came reports of Avalon sighted at Glassdon Castle…"

His expression darkened. "During Vatican City’s festivities, phantoms of the Nine Sacred Mountains appeared—with video evidence of archangel Michael descending. Our Atlantic fleet reports unexplainable marine disturbances…"

"Meanwhile Eastern countries face their own upheavals—deities from ancient pantheons manifesting…" Myers massaged his temples. "All within eighteen hours."

"Eighteen hours?" Merlinka’s enhanced senses couldn’t soften the shock. The world had unraveled faster than spellfire.

"Some of these phenomena emerged this morning, while others appeared earlier—we simply hadn’t noticed before. Peculiar incidents are manifesting globally with varying intensity," Myers sighed.

"What should be done?"

"Our immediate course is thorough investigation. Speaking of which, Merlinka, I’d recommend another comprehensive medical evaluation. Regular checkups would help us monitor your physiological changes."

"Modern science might provide valuable insights," Myers added.

Merlinka inclined her head in acquiescence. Having undergone prior examinations involving blood drawing and hair sampling—harmless procedures all—she saw no reason for refusal.

As the Kingdom of England’s sole confirmed special power user, harming Merlinka would constitute treason against the crown… The perceptive already sensed tectonic shifts reshaping their reality.

When Waylin requested to depart with Merlinka, Myers rubbed his temple. "This requires higher authorization," he demurred, exceeding his mandate.

"Awaiting approval poses no inconvenience," Merlinka replied with serene composure.

After bureaucratic deliberations, officials sanctioned Waylin’s petition—trivial resistance wasn’t worth straining relations with either woman.

*

Within the Kingdom’s grandest library,

Towering shelves housed the nation’s most exhaustive collection, including pilfered manuscripts from eastern conquests and Age of Exploration acquisitions.

Donald’s obsession had consumed him since glimpsing the castle’s arcane library—its incomplete perusal haunting his waking hours. For two days he’d haunted the restricted archives, hunting texts about the Shining Light referenced in those ancient notes.

The deserted manuscript vault required special access permits, its crumbling folios seldom disturbed. Facing his fruitless bookstack, Donald’s shoulders slumped.

"Not one tangible clue?" His murmur echoed off parchment as he gingerly opened another codex. Within pages, revelation struck.

"Eureka! This is the missing link!"

The disintegrating tome’s illegible cover and foxed pages explained its neglected state. Yet there it lay—ancient glyphs describing arcane mechanisms beside an ink-faded key diagram.

Donald’s trembling hand transcribed the fragile pages onto modern paper, preserving secrets for expert deciphering.

Departing at moonless hours, he startled the librarian.

"Professor Brighton! Have you truly dwelled here forty-eight hours?"

"Research materials can be enthralling," Brighton smiled, footsteps echoing through the vaulted hall.

As clocktowers chimed the witching hour,

Donald froze beneath the courtyard’s arch—where no dawn should break, aurora-like radiance wove celestial patterns across the firmament.

The shimmering net’s cosmological dance held him spellbound, its vanishing leaving cosmic truths half-glimpsed. A blaring horn shattered his trance as tires screeched past.

"Transcendent…" he breathed, trembling with epiphany’s aftermath. Common sense anchored him against chasing phantoms—for now, earthly mysteries demanded his attention.

Donald drove to a suburban villa where his close friend resided—a celebrated collector and expert researcher in the antique world.

"Donald, my old friend! What brings you by today?" The quintessential English gentleman greeted him with appropriately warm enthusiasm, offering a welcoming embrace.

"Fres, I require your assistance with a matter. Apologies for the untimely visit," Donald responded, reciprocating the hug.

"Not at all! Come inside. I’ve recently acquired several curiosities you’ll find intriguing. Besides, you know I seldom retire early," Fres quipped with characteristic humor, ushering him through the doorway.

In the drawing room, Fres began preparing coffee. Unable to contain himself, Donald abruptly approached, extracting a meticulously sketched diagram from his briefcase. "Fres, have you encountered this before?"

Though accustomed to Donald’s occasional intensity, Fres noted his friend’s unprecedented urgency—even foregoing the customary coffee ritual. Setting aside the brewing apparatus, he accepted the parchment.

"This seems vaguely familiar… I believe I’ve glimpsed it somewhere," Fres murmured, brows knitted in concentration. His annual exposure to countless antiques—through auctions and private collections—rendered instant recollection challenging.

"Keys of this distinctive form must be uncommon," Donald pressed.

"Ah!" Fres snapped his fingers. "Mrs. Nolan’s collection! She specializes in historical keys. About a year past, I observed a similar specimen among her treasures."

"An exact match?"

"Impossible to confirm without examination, but the resemblance is striking," Fres admitted after deliberate consideration.

"Could you arrange an introduction? I must inspect it personally. I realize this imposition…" Donald’s hopeful disappointment hung between them.

"Consider it done," affirmed the chiseled-featured scholar, clasping his companion’s shoulder. "Though I never imagined you’d court human company over dusty relics. Have you finally tired of wedding ancient tomes?"

"Merely pursuing academic interest," Donald retorted dryly.

Fres chuckled, flashing an OK sign. "Peace, my friend. Let me savor this brew before contacting Mrs. Nolan’s household. Protocol demands we spare the lady’s beauty sleep."

"Thus my coffee becomes obligatory?"

"Judge whether my barista skills merit your patronage," Fres countered with a roguish grin.

Post-consumption rituals observed, Fres produced Mrs. Nolan’s engraved card. The subsequent call to her assistant involved requisite pleasantries before culminating in a triumphant gesture.

"Tomorrow afternoon. She’s particularly eager to host distinguished guests—especially those of scholarly charm." Fres’s eyes twinkled. "Your academic austerity might finally prove fashionable."

"My profound gratitude, Fres. This means everything."

"Now satisfy my curiosity," Fres pressed, gesturing at the simplistic sketch. "This unadorned key—barring these cipher-like engravings—hardly warrants such fervor."

"The inscriptions require specialist interpretation. My own expertise in mystical knowledge provides limited insight," Donald confessed, carefully rehousing the drawing. "Though I suspect deeper connections…"

"Ah! Your recent television symposium?" Fres interjected, recognition dawning. "The debate about arcane symbols in pre-modern artifacts?"

Donald’s briefcase clicked shut with finality. "Precisely. This key emerged during archival research for that program. Its implications could…"

Fres raised an interrupting palm, already dialing another number. "Save the lecture for our hostess tomorrow. Let’s ensure you actually sleep before upending academic paradigms."

"Remember that live broadcast which caused a global sensation? Honestly, the media’s been nonstop about it – trending everywhere online. One would have to live under a rock not to know."

"I was shocked when I saw you there," Fres arched an eyebrow mockingly. "Never thought you’d stoop to joining what you’d call a ‘trivial’ show."

Donald gave a resigned smile. "They made an offer I couldn’t refuse."

"What was it?" Fres leaned forward, curiosity piqued.

"A substantial research fund. You know how niche my field is – investors aren’t exactly lining up."

"You should’ve come to me! Since when is asking me harder than humoring TV producers?" Fres huffed, settling beside him. "I told you ages ago – full financial backing, no questions asked."

"Actually," Donald’s fist playfully connected with Fres’ shoulder, "I’m grateful I did that show."

"Otherwise I’d have missed… well, everything."

"Everything?" Fres scoffed. "Thought you said reality TV’s all scripted and fabricated."

"Seems I stumbled upon the one authentic moment in broadcast history."

"Authentic?"

"You didn’t look outside earlier, did you?"

"Been cataloguing relics in the vault since dawn. Would still be there if you hadn’t called." Fres gestured at his dust-smudged shirt.

"Then you missed it," Donald said softly, pulling out his phone. The screen lit up with news alerts. "The auroras… the seismic readings… look."

Fres scrolled through footage of shimmering skies and trembling cities. When he finally looked up, his hands shook slightly. "This… changes everything."

"Already has," Donald adjusted his glasses, the blue light reflecting in his lenses. "What we witnessed during that broadcast? All real. The official statements? Damage control."

"In the castle library – I found manuscripts in Elder Futhark runes. This," he produced a weathered sketch, "was drawn beside diagrams of a mechanism. A lock needing this specific key."

"Runic studies aren’t my forte, but cross-referencing modern decryptions…" Donald’s voice quickened. "Two sleepless nights, but I’ve traced it to–"

"–To looking like death warmed over," Fres finished dryly. "My guest room’s made up. You’re staying."

"Mrs. Nolan expects us tomorrow afternoon. Her estate’s near Bordeaux – I’ll book dawn flights."

Four timezones away, dawn’s first light gilded the vineyards of a French manor.

"Tell me about the pendant, Grandfather." Augustus steadied the wheelchair as gravel crunched beneath them.

The nonagenarian chuckled, sunlight catching his milky eyes. "Odd request. You screamed when we tried putting it on you as a babe."

Augustus’ thumb brushed the amber talisman at his throat. That morning’s madness flashed before him – the Vatican’s spires glowing like molten gold, the… things… he’d seen in the catacombs.

"A miracle happened," he said carefully. "It made me reconsider… family stories."

"The sunrise? Lovely hues indeed."

"No. A true divine intervention." Augustus knelt, pressing the pendant into papery hands. "Our ancestral tales – the ones I mocked – they’re real. Please. Tell me again."

The old man’s gnarled fingers traced the winged symbol. "This belonged to your thrice-great grandfather, crusader-knight under Baldwin II. They say…" His voice dropped conspiratorially. "Shall we continue this by the lake? The water helps an old man’s memory."