RAVENNA

Part 14

Inside the private chamber, the noise of the museum faded into silence as a soft, magical hum sealed the door behind them. The room was lit in a dim purple hue, cast by floating crystal sconces embedded into the curved walls. Velvet drapes in deep violet and indigo framed the tall arched windows, and the carpet beneath their feet bore ancient sigils woven in silver thread. A long table stood in the center, with high-backed chairs carved from darkwood—meant for formal negotiations, or interrogations.

Sybbyl took her place at the head of the table, posture immaculate. Minerva, with all her dramatic flair, sank into the chair opposite her, legs crossed, rings clicking as she adjusted her gown. Nieve stood awkwardly at the end of the table, trying to remain composed as the shadows flickered across her face.

Sybbyl began, her tone cold and businesslike. "The school will arrange compensation for the damages—on behalf of Miss Nieve Winston."

Minerva arched a perfectly sculpted brow.

"Winston?" she repeated, lips curling. " you're witch? nieve nodded. "There are no Winston bloodlines in any known witch clan. That's not a coven name."

Nieve straightened her back. "My grandmother is a witch. My grandfather isn't. I carry both names."

Minerva's curiosity piqued instantly, though her tone stayed mocking.

"And who might your grandmother be, child?"

"Debolina Winston. And my grandfather is Bronwen Winston."

The name struck Minerva like a slap, her expression faltering before twisting into something sour and sharp.

"Debolina..." she hissed, then laughed bitterly. "Well. That explains the clumsiness. And the lack of refinement." She leaned forward with theatrical flair, her voice thick with contempt. "No wonder the school has to compensate on your behalf. Of course it does. The Winston boy—Bronwen, was it?—never could earn enough to feed his family, let alone raise a witch worth anything.""

Nieve's brows furrowed, but she held her tongue.Minerva leaned back in her chair, her eyes gleaming with disdain.

"Debolina was my sister. A disgrace to the coven. She threw away everything—everything—to run off with that mudblood warlock Bronwen. Left behind legacy, power, a seat in the inner council. For what? Love?" Her nose wrinkled in disgust. "She polluted her line and vanished like a coward."

"That's enough," Nieve said quietly, her voice low and tense. "You don't get to insult them. You don't even know them."

Minerva waved her hand dismissively. "I knew her before she ruined herself."

Before Sybbyl could interject, the side door creaked open—and in swaggered a new presence.

Muriel Sia, Minerva's husband, ambled into the room, holding a half-empty crystal glass sloshing with amber liquor. His presence instantly thickened the air. He reeked of drink, and something acrid—like smoke and old bitterness.

His long, wavy black hair hung past his shoulders, unkempt. His broad nose and deeply scarred face gave him the look of someone who'd seen one too many curses up close. His hands bore multiple faded burns and cuts, some likely never healed properly by magic.He grinned when he saw Nieve, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"Debolina's brat, is she?" he muttered, leaning against a column. "Tsk. I was supposed to marry that woman, you know." He took another swig, then smirked at the stunned girl.