His father dying without any warning was a farfetched thought, too ridiculous even to think about in the first place, until it was not.

Ronan's eyes fluttered onto the horizon. The sable sky stretching to miles his vision could not reach was filled with flickers of light painting the evening into a colorful artwork— taking away the hums of eeriness of its surroundings where the silence could be peaceful and not a sign of macabre.

The damp ground moistened his palm as an unexplainable stench clung to his nostrils. His heart lurched, forming a lump in his throat, from the unfamiliar scene and the looming demise he was about to face.

Looking down beside him, a person slept peacefully as if she was in paradise. Strangely enough, it soothed his pounding pulse.

Her face was devoid of the harshness of reality; she exuded the breath of innocence, untainted by the world. Her thick lashes caressed the high bones of her cheeks dyed in the color of freshly picked rose.

Recalling the enthuastic glow of her golden irises made him ponder if they were hiring minors for the coven.

Compared to warlocks, witches often manifested their talent at a much younger age, so it would not be a surprise if she was a child, around fifteen, he supposed.

He tried to nudge her, but there was nothing. He had been trying to rouse her up since he had awoken, but it was fruitless. If not for her steady breathing, he would have assumed she was dead.

Or the appropriate musing would be— 'Did we die?'

His life was never eventful, just like how he wanted it to be. The days lurking in the tower as the resident ghost was enough for him, but he never envisioned taking it literally.

He let out a shaky breath. Ronan had read countless spells and could conclude its effects and impact, but the spell still caught him off-guard. Truth be told, it required simple casting, contrary to what he was expecting.

Yet when things were simple, it was always inevitable to be more complex when magic was concerned.

He should have known that. There might be better options if he was patient enough, knowing there were plenty of books about resurrcution that existed. Regardless, why would he doubt a book that was recommended by the one and only High Priestess of the coven who had a deep connection to the late Tower Lord?

He could not think of a reason why she would play a trick on him when it came to the revival of the most significant person in their lives.

Even the protective barrier he had was nullified when the chant was over. As soon as the ground collapsed, his body was paralyzed, and he succumbed to whatever impending doom awaited him.

He remembered how his soul was ripped off his body, creating a rift between reality and the extraterrestrial, concluding in his current dilemma if he was alive at an unknown part of the kingdom or was he dead with his consciousness intact.

He gave the girl another bump, but a hiss made him jerk. A snake glided to her arm, and he was met with yellow-colored irises complimenting the monochromatic golden scales that glimmered as it caught the scarce light from this place.

Noticing its familiarity to her body with no apparent sense of malice, one thought crossed his mind. 'A Critter.'

They were the witches' familiars, bound to them for life and death. Seeing that it was awake meant its master would wake up soon.

It did not take long for the girl to wake up from her slumber. She stretched her arms, yawned, and rubbed her eyes.

His lips tilted on one side upon her lack of awareness.

"Rise and shine, Miss Witch," he greeted.

Upon hearing his voice, her movement froze as her mouth remained open from her second yawn.

"Oh my!" She covered her lips as she frantically swiped their surroundings. "I thought I was having a nightmare!"

"Well, you might consider this as a continuation. It's either we're trapped or worse, we're dead."

His words fell on deaf ears as she mumbled to herself. "I know I shouldn't have cast the spell."

"We cannot do anything about that anymore. What I wanted to know is where we are and how do we get out of here," he said, but again, she paid no attention to him as her fingers twiddled with her chest rapidly rising and falling. The air of tranquility when she was asleep completely disappeared, replaced with beads of sweat forming on her face.

She swallowed hard before her mouth pried open, but there was no sound, only a sharp intake.

Sensing the irregularity of her reaction, he grabbed her shoulders, staring directly into her unblinking eyes.

"I'm sorry. It's my fault. It's my fault. It's my fault."

He snapped his fingers right in front of her face. "Hey, don't fret. One spell, too many disasters is a norm."

When it comes to magic, a person could never have guarantees of its effect. It was a common saying between witches and warlocks when uncertainties always happen during casting.

She wracked in tremor while he was at a loss. He had never seen someone react as strongly as this, as if they would forget to breathe at any moment.

Her Critter slithered on her body until it reached her bag. A vial fell, which he caught out of instinct. The crystal container contained an azure liquid. A witch's potion contained unidentifiable ingredients, and he had no idea what it contained to produce such cerculean elixir.

The snake's head pointed toward her trembling body before looking at him again.

"Are you telling me to feed her this?"

It hissed, nodding.

He opened the vial and poured all its contents for a good measure. Gradually, she came out from her stupor. Her clouded topaz irises became more focused until she stopped quivering. Her pale skin flushed with warmth as pink hues crept to her cheeks.  Her erratic breaths steadied, signifying the effectivity of the medicine. 

"Are you alright now?" he said.

"Yes. I'm sorry. You've seen such an embarssing side of me." She scratched her head, lips curving as if the situation earlier was an illusion caused by the unfamiliar land they were in.

The air hummed between them just when he realized their proximity. She was sitting while he was kneeling at her eye level with only a foot separating them.

He stood up before speaking, "So what should we do? Any suggestions?"

"As you can see, I'm not the best in giving help," she replied and pulled herself up.

The moment she did, a book plopped on her feet.

Instead of the black cover he had seen earlier, it now resembled the description that the High Priestess had told him: leather dyed in ruby with carved thorns all around it and an intricate rose delicately etched at the center.

She picked it up, opening the grimoire. Right there and then, a light burst out as it slipped from her hands and hovered in the air.

The runes where extracted from the book and floated with a faint glow. It swirled and swirled, becoming denser and forming a distinct shape as seconds passed.

A woman's half-body emerged from the pages. Its hollow eyes were where a pupil was supposed to be were empty. Its transluscent body was an apparition almost similar to a warlock's phantasm.

'But it came from a grimoire... Perhaps it is?'

Phantasms were the warlock's familiar bounded into a contract with an inanimate object, so his conclusion must not be too far from the truth.

"I am Mawar. Welcome to the land of the dead, Isolde, Ronan," she spoke, carrying the wisdom of age despite its youthful appearance, yet his thoughts hung on her statement.

"We really died?" Isolde was stricken as she voiced out his thoughts.

This would be the best time to counter his father's reproach every time he wanted to stay in his chamber. Ronan preferred to call himself a dedicated and hardworking warlock of the tower, but his father would have used the term 'shut-in'.

If only he could talk to him and say how the rare times he went outside, he ended up dead.

Unfortunately, the main reason he was here was because he could not talk to his father anymore. He did not even let him know he was approaching death and just left him with a letter that appointed him as the new the Tower Lord.

He never aspired to become one, no matter how many times he had been persuaded in the past. He wanted the answers to why he left. He wanted his normalcy. He wanted his father alive. He was his only family when he was abandoned on the streets.

As long as he was alive, his father should be there to accompany him. He had not even accomplished a great feat that would make him proud.

"The land of the dead is vast, boundless, and beyond a mortal comprehension. However, fear not, for I shall be your guide to achieve your deepest wish." She paused, and with a wave of her hand, the book closed.

The rose engraved on the cover was replaced with velvet petals unfurling into full bloom. Each layer gleamed with pristineness, like a human would never be deserving to touch it.

"This rose bears twenty petals, and in each passing day, a petal shall wither and fall. You must seek the soul before the flower perishes, or else you will be trapped in this eternity with no chance of reincarnation. When life and death are at stake, a greater bargain shall take place to defy the fate set in stone."

The words rang in his mind. The path may be full of apprehension, but he chose this. For all the sacrifice his father made to raise him, an anomaly born out of wedlock and jinx, he was willing to do the same, whatever the price it cost. 

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chapter word count: 1642
total word count: 4672